Maggie scrunched her nose. “Dunder? Sounds like the noise my brother makes when clearing his throat.”
Henry chuckled and gave Maggie a wink, causing her stomach to uncomfortably whirl. “Dunder is the Dutch word for thunder.”
“Well then, Mr. Dunder,” Maggie said, patting the horse’s side and trying not to think about Henry’s striking eyes. “Since you’re a Dutch horse, does that mean you wear wooden clogs on your hooves?”
Maggie hoped Henry would appreciate her rather witty quip, but the Poughkeepsie man appeared lost in thought as he stroked Dunder’s mane.
“Tell me, Maggie,” Henry finally said and Maggie’s ears perked up. “How are you related to Clement Clarke Moore?”
Disappointed that the conversation had turned back to her family, Maggie indifferently replied, “He’s my grandfather.”
There was a pause before Henry asked, “Well, what do you think of him?”
Maggie slid closer to Henry as she rubbed the horse’s neck. “He’s beautiful.”
Henry appeared perplexed at her response, but then he gave an amused smile. “No, not the horse. What do you think of your grandfather?”
Maggie furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, is Clement Clarke Moore the man his writing makes him out to be?” Henry uneasily stared out toward the river. “Would you say he’s, uh, full of the Christmas spirit?”
Maggie eyed Henry inquisitively. “You mean to ask about his poem?”
It was no secret that even though Grandfather Clement had led a successful life as a professor and scholar, most people associated him with his famous poem.
Something Grandfather Clement severely resented.
“He is the writer of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas,” Henry remarked dryly. “Is he not?”
“What about it?”
“Does he talk about the poem often?”
Maggie shrugged. “He never really mentions it.”
“Not at all?”
Maggie shook her head.
“Don’t you find that curious?” Henry arched an eyebrow.
Maggie shrugged again, still petting Dunder’s mane. “Grandfather Clement is like other old men. He mostly sleeps and reads, occasionally mumbling to himself from time to time.”
Maggie had spoken seriously, so she was surprised when Henry laughed. His broad lips drew into a childlike grin, curving his cheeks that were rosy in the cool morning air.
Realizing that she was staring, Maggie looked off toward Chelsea Manor. They were standing in the avenue on the west side of the estate, but the rising sun was beginning to peek through the trees on the opposite end.
“Thank you for your assistance, Henry,” Maggie said, reluctantly offering back the handkerchief, which was now just a soggy cloth. “I should return to the Manor.”
Henry nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Maggie. And do be careful sledding.”
She touched her forehead lightly. “I don’t believe that I’ll be sledding again for a while.”
Maggie walked back to the stone wall. After retrieving her sled, she turned around to wave goodbye to Henry, but he had already left with Dunder and the carriage. Her heart dropped low in her chest at the sight of his abrupt departure.
Maggie’s warm tongue traced her mouth, grazing the bruise on the bottom lip. Her thick hair had come undone and Maggie tried to pull it back with the remaining pins that hadn’t been tossed from her head during the crash. But since there weren’t many left, long strands of brown hair freely hung over her face.
As she stared down at Louis’ soaked trousers, Maggie imagined what her appearance looked like to Henry, and she was embarrassed that the Poughkeepsie man had witnessed her in such a state of disarray. But she concluded that it didn’t much matter since she would likely never see the handsome stranger again. And her insides burned at the thought.
“I really must need breakfast,” Maggie mumbled to herself, rationalizing the unusual sensation in her stomach.
Maggie walked to the back of Chelsea Manor. It took only a second after entering the kitchen before she heard, “Good Lord, Miss Margaret. What happened to you?” With her dark plump arms braced on her hips, the older house servant, Ann, scanned Maggie from head to toe.
“Miss Margaret!” Hester had been cutting a loaf of bread, but stopped mid-slice when she saw Maggie. “What in the world?”
Maggie realized that her haggard appearance was shocking to the servants since no one knew of the sledding accident, and she hurriedly explained.
“An accident?” Thomas stood up from the kitchen table where he had been eating a buttered roll. His back was partially hunched and white stubble peppered his face. “Why, you look like you’ve been through battle, Miss Margaret.”
“I am quite all right,” Maggie insisted. “I promise.” Maggie said goodbye to Ann, Hester, and Thomas, claiming she just needed to get cleaned up.
While leaving the kitchen, Maggie snatched a cinnamon stick from the table. Catharine taught her years ago that chewing cinnamon was like being able to taste Christmas Day before it even arrived. But it just reminded Maggie of Chelsea Manor and all the times she had hidden from Grandfather Clement behind the curtains in the music room.
Maggie had barely walked into the round hall to go upstairs when she heard her brother’s voice.
“Margaret Van Cortlandt Ogden!”
Clemmie leaned over the second floor banister, and after getting Maggie’s attention he straightened up and whipped down the steps.
“Did you pilfer my shirt?”
A long, red robe hid Clemmie’s form-fitting long johns while his wavy, black hair was tousled like he had just woken up. His solemn face was handsome like their father’s, except Clemmie was quite vain about it―always stealing prolonged glances in passing mirrors, dark windows, recently polished soup spoons, and all other reflective surfaces.
“I went to get dressed and it had mysteriously vanished.”
Clemmie paused in front of Maggie with arms folded across his chest. He stared at his younger sister expectantly, and she blankly stared back, casually munching on the cinnamon stick. Their sibling relationship often teetered between marked indifference and casual annoyance.
“Well,” Clemmie pressed. His pointy nose and searching eyes tensed as he waited for an answer.
Maggie sighed and unbuttoned her coat, revealing the oversized shirt underneath.
Clemmie threw up his hands in a halfhearted celebration.
“Maggie, I’ve repeatedly instructed you to stop taking my belongings.”
Rolling her eyes, Maggie quickly pulled off the shirt and tossed it to Clemmie. “Are you pleased now?”
Clemmie looked at his sister who was now just wearing wet trousers with a wispy nightgown tucked into the waist. Her hair was coming undone while the bruises on her forehead and lip glistened in the hall’s light. Leaning forward, Clemmie examined the injuries. He often pretended to have a passion for medicine, but the actual sincerity was sometimes hard to find. But Clemmie certainly was sincere about people thinking he was interested in the medical field, especially their father, Dr. John Ogden.
Feeling content with the inspection, Clemmie relaxed his shoulders, stared at the shirt in hand and then back at Maggie.
“You look dreadful,” he said dully before walking back up the stairs. “Kindly refrain from touching my property again.”
Maggie remained standing in the middle of the hall, a puddle pooling under her dripping trousers. But when she heard the Chelsea Manor front door open, Maggie quickly covered her nightgown with the coat she had been absentmindedly holding.
A servant, Charles, walked out of the foyer, carrying a pile of wood. “Miss Margaret,” he said, startled by her presence. Even on his dark skin, Maggie saw a red tint begin to burn his cheeks. “You surprised me.”
Charles didn’t ask about Maggie’s battered face or point out that her coat was on backward. Instead he just nervously stood between the
two staircases.
“I didn’t think anyone in the household would be awake yet,” he stammered.
“I was sledding,” Maggie replied simply.
“Ah, I see,” Charles said and then hurriedly added, “Oh, please, Miss Margaret, don’t say anything to your grandfather.”
Maggie raised her eyebrows. “What about?”
Charles nodded to the stack in his arms. “I ain’t supposed to be bringing wood through the front door, Miss Margaret. Mr. Moore wants Thomas and me to bring it through the kitchen. I get yelled at if I don’t. But when I got the wood this morning, the front door was mighty easier. Please don’t say anything to Mr. Moore.” Charles’ wide eyes pleaded to her.
“I won’t tell anyone, Charles.”
Charles gave a relaxed smile. “Ah, thank you, Miss Margaret.” Then finally noticing Maggie’s appearance, his mouth shifted into a frown and he added, “You all right, Miss Margaret?”
Maggie sighed. “Yes, Charles, I’m fine. Thank you.”
She pulled some pins out of her knotted hair and attempted to run fingers through the clumpy strands. But they got lodged within the dense tangles and she struggled to free her hand.
Charles looked at the girl and shook his head doubtfully, but continued toward the kitchen. However, catching sight of the hall’s grandfather clock, he stopped in his tracks. The three weights were resting against the bottom of the clock.
“Ah ha!” Charles exclaimed, setting down the wood next to the grandfather clock.
“What is it, Charles?”
“Oh, nothing to worry about, Miss Margaret,” Charles replied, reaching between the split pediment on top of the clock. “It just needs some winding.”
Charles pulled down a brass crank. Maggie watched with interest as he opened the panel, placed the crank inside one of the clock’s tiny holes and began turning. One by one, he wound all three weights until they were swaying together at the top.
“Do you have to do that often?”
“About once a week, Miss Margaret.”
“That seems rather tedious.”
“Oh, it’s quite fine,” Charles smiled. “You know, my father used to work at the home of your great-grandmother, Elizabeth Van Cortlandt Taylor.”
Maggie nodded in acknowledgment. Grandfather Clement’s late wife, Catharine, had been a direct descendant of the Van Cortlandt family, one of the most prominent names in all of New York. When Chelsea Manor was in need of another house servant long ago, Grandmother Catharine had looked toward her mother’s childhood home. There she discovered a young Charles and offered him a position at Chelsea estate.
“Well, there was a key for winding them old clocks that never worked. My father would stick it in the holes, and it’d fit just fine, but when he turned it, it’d never wind them weights. Peculiar thing.” Charles then looked at Maggie with growing eyes. “But my father never got rid of the bad key. You see, he believed that everything’s got a rightful place. And he planned on finding where the key belonged. Don’t think he ever did though. As far as I know, it’s still on top of one of them clocks in that old house, not being used.” Charles chuckled and picked up the wood again. “Yes, sir. Just lying around. A worthless tool.”
The kitchen door swung behind Charles as he left the hall.
Maggie headed up to the third floor, but as she was about to open the door to her room, Louis exclaimed, “Maggie, what happened to you?”
Louis leaned out his bedroom doorway. A green nightshirt came down over his knees, making his arms and legs even lankier. His droopy eyes observed Maggie closely.
“Are you wearing my trousers?” Louis asked with a suppressed chuckle.
“I went sledding.”
“Oh, is that why you look so beaten?” Louis scratched his curly chestnut hair, which matched the faint freckles on his nose and cheeks. “For a moment, I worried my mother was making her ghastly fruitcake again, and that you had been assaulted by precarious walnuts and currants.” Louis studied Maggie again. “Are you badly hurt?”
Maggie shook her head. “Just a small accident.”
“Does sledding require much ability?” Louis smirked. “I was under the notion that the sled and hill did most of the work.”
“If you must know, some of us more gifted individuals are capable of sledding beyond the hill,” Maggie responded, placing a hand on her hip and blowing a strand of hair away from her face. “Unfortunately, it just happens that there’s a bit of a drop after the hill ends.”
Louis nodded, still grinning. “Well, you should change before Grandfather Clement sees you.” And then raising his eyebrows dramatically, he added, “Or we’ll have to lie and say you were involved in some great knitting catastrophe in the music room.”
Maggie rolled her eyes as Louis disappeared back into the bedroom, but she knew her cousin was right. Grandfather Clement believed that trousers and sledding were strictly meant for boys along with most other things.
Although Maggie enjoyed challenging antiquated ideals, during the holiday season, she surrendered to hiding books within the folds of her dresses and staying mum while Grandfather Clement and Uncle William discussed the nuisance of the suffrage movement.
As far as the Moore family was concerned, Christmas at Chelsea Manor was a sacred event best left undisturbed. And even Maggie had no intention of changing that.
hristmas Eve dinner that evening was the finest one ever observed at Chelsea Manor. The turkey had never been bigger. The wine had never been redder. The flame on the brandy-drenched plum pudding had never glowed so long. And the Christmas crackers had never popped so loudly.
Bright paper crowns adorned the heads around the dining room as tiny trinkets were whistled and twirled. Even Grandfather Clement at the head of the table sat rosy-cheeked in a green crown. Maggie could have sworn she caught the ends of his mouth twitching into a smile.
But it was merely for a moment.
The merriment continued as the family gathered in the Great Room of Chelsea Manor. Maggie took a seat near the Christmas tree while presents were passed out. Soon piles of wrapping paper were scattered around the sparkling evergreen. But Maggie quickly became distracted from the happenings of the room.
Henry.
Maggie thought she saw the face of the Poughkeepsie man peering through the window near the fireplace. But when she looked again, nothing but a few feathery snowflakes floated in the night.
Maggie shook her head. It wasn’t the first time that had happened. While attending Christmas service earlier that evening just down the road at Saint Peter’s Church, Maggie swore she had spotted Henry.
During the final stanza of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, Aunt Maria had been belting to the heavens. Louis–Aunt Maria’s own son–once compared his mother’s voice to a dying crow with a cold. And if Catharine or Clemmie weren’t nearby to deliver elbow jabs to Maggie’s ribcage, she would be sent into a fit of giggles.
Trying especially hard to hide her laughter on Christmas Eve, Maggie spun around in the pew, and that’s when she saw the familiar bronze-haired man standing in the mezzanine, looking down at her with his bright blue eyes. Her knees had nearly buckled at the sight. But then the mezzanine crowd shifted and Maggie lost him.
Before Maggie could continue to ponder these visions of Henry, something unexpected pushed her thoughts away.
“Dear family,” Grandfather Clement declared, standing next to the fireplace with one hand gripping the mantel and the other holding a small book. “If you would be such a willing audience, I would like to share with you a Christmas poem.”
The entire Moore family looked at Grandfather Clement with surprise. They could not believe that after all these years Grandfather Clement would finally read his most beloved poem.
“Old Santeclaus,” Grandfather Clement announced.
Maggie sensed the disappointment sweep across the room. The poem Old Santeclaus was written years before ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, but came nowhere close to the lat
ter’s popularity―and for good reason.
Although the poem started on a light-hearted note…
Old Santeclaus with much delight
His reindeer drives this frosty night,
O’er chimney-tops, and tracks of snow,
To bring his yearly gifts to you.
It eventually took a grim turn.
But where I found the children naughty,
In manners rude, in temper haughty,
Thankless to parents, liars, swearers,
Boxers, or cheats, or base tale-bearers,
I left a long, black, birchen rod,
Such as the dread command of God
Directs a Parent’s hand to use
When virtue’s path his sons refuse.
The Great Room was silent as Grandfather Clement came to the end of the poem. But after a few long seconds ticked by, Aunt Emily finally spoke, “Oh, Father, that was lovely!” She clapped her hands together with feigned enthusiasm. “How I do enjoy that poem. Perhaps you could continue the reading by giving us a bit of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.”
The request was made by varying family members every Christmas Eve. And each year, Grandfather Clement gave the same pithy response.
The poem was a trifle.
That’s what Grandfather Clement would say. “No, it’s nothing but a trifle.”
“Then why did you write it?” Francis’ deep voice grumbled.
Francis was sitting in front of the Christmas tree, one knee perched up for his chin to rest on while his middle finger and thumb flicked a round, red ornament hanging on a low bough. His white sleeves were rolled up to the elbows as his shiny vest stood unbuttoned. A general look of boredom washed over his face and he let out a wobbly yawn.
Francis was sixteen―just two years older than Maggie. But she liked him the least of all the cousins. And Maggie had quite a few―Louis, Francis, and the twins, Gardiner and Gertrude. Catharine and Clemmie were also not to be forgotten, since in addition to being her siblings, they were Maggie’s cousins as well.
Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1) Page 2
