Coming Home for Christmas

by Carla Kelly

  “A strand here, a strand there. Soon it will be complete, and my Habiba will have lovely red hair,” he told her. He sighed. “Her own hair is so brittle. Now she will not cry when she looks in a mirror.”

  Lily felt a warm glow for the first time since her horror of early morning. “She will be lovely.” She could see no point in telling the sultan what had happened to the tree. For all she knew of imperial wrath, heads would roll, and she didn’t want that on her conscience.

  After a brief visit with Habiba, Lily and the sultan sat in the antechamber off the entrance. He had sent for her pony cart again, and it was time to say goodbye.

  It was also time to apologize. The sultan only nodded, his eyes bright, and tugged at his handsome goatee when she confessed that she thought he had proposed to her months ago.

  “I think now that you were only trying to find a way to ask for my hair and I didn’t understand,” she confessed, feeling relief as she unburdened herself.

  “It is true,” he told her with a slight smile. “I do not think you would be happy in my harem.” He looked at her, his eyes shrewd now. “Besides, I do not think Major Wharton would have ever allowed such a thing, not the way he feels.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, mystified. “What do you mean?”

  The sultan made a grand gesture. “He told me one late night over cards how much he loves you, Mrs Nicholls.”

  Lily held her breath. The sultan watched her, then kindly suggested that she breathe. He tugged at his goatee again. “It was not your imagination that you feared I wanted you for my fourth and final wife.” He shrugged, the gesture almost as grand. “Perhaps it is the devious mind of the east, my dear. I thought if I made enough overtures to you, he would find this a good excuse to advance his own cause.” His eyes seemed to fill with sympathy then. “It is not so?”

  You sly fox, Lily thought, amused in spite of her heartache. “I fear our major is simply too shy to find out how I really feel, your Highness. May…maybe he thinks I might not like his country.”

  “He should at least ask,” the sultan suggested. “I think he is a brave man.”

  “He is, when he is fighting for his hospital,” Lily said. “He is so used to helping others that I think he forgets about himself.”

  They were both silent for a long while. A servant crawled toward them to whisper that the pony cart was ready. The sultan dismissed him with a single finger and looked at Lily.

  “Perhaps it is up to you to tip the balance,” he said. “This is not something I would recommend for any female of my acquaintance, but you, Madame Nicholls, are a modern woman from a country with steamships, railways and matches that light with the flick of a fingernail.”

  Lily smiled at the image. “Proposing is not something that ladies do,” she told him.

  Another massive shrug. “Could you make an exception for an exceptional man?”

  It had been a good question. She mulled it around that evening as she finished her own records and wrote her last detailed instructions in a journal. Steeling herself, she knocked on the hospital administrator’s door, wanting to leave the documents with him. Perhaps also to say goodbye and take a long, last look.

  He wasn’t there, but it was late. He had probably decided to ward walk earlier, since it would be Christmas Eve tomorrow. She couldn’t bring herself to go into the main hall, with its sad little box of tin ornaments and paper chains. She could say goodbye in the morning, provided Major Wharton was up. She knew the wounded were leaving early; Captain Penrose had prepared them for departure. Lily propped her report against the closed door and quietly went to bed.

  It was still full dark when she woke. Lily washed in cold water and dressed quickly in her new green dress, determined to keep her mind on the business of the day. There were the wounded to shepherd to the steamer waiting in the harbor. In another day she would be in Constantinople, the storied gateway to Europe. She had not managed to make it home in time for Christmas, but then, neither had Mama and Papa, all those years ago. Christmas would keep. Next year, she and Will would have a tree, and the Crimea would be on its way to becoming a distant memory.

  She couldn’t say Major Wharton would ever be a distant memory, not when she planned to keep him fresh in her mind for as long as she lived.

  She left her almost-empty valise by the front steps, then walked around to the administrator’s office. She frowned to see her report still leaning against the door. Where are you, Major Wharton? she asked herself.

  Lily debated a long moment, then told herself she was being foolish to avoid the main hall. After all, she was responsible for the dozen or so men she was to accompany to Constantinople; Captain Penrose, finally sober, would be hard pressed to get them ready all by himself. Besides, she couldn’t let the mockery of an empty hall keep her from one last walk through the wards she had tended so well. If she was never useful again in her future life of leisure and ease, at least she could remember this time when people needed her.

  She went into the main hall, gasped and stood there, stunned beyond words.

  “What on earth…?” she managed to say at last, as her eyes took in the startling sight of Christmas ornaments suspended like magic in the air.

  No, it couldn’t be. Openmouthed, she stared at the space where the Christmas tree would have been, if the coachmen had not burned it. As her eyes became accustomed, she became aware that the ornaments were aligned in triangle shape, as though they hung on an invisible tree. She looked closer. The ornaments were hanging from the ceiling, each on its own string, every string aligned to foster the illusion of an invisible tree. There was even a pot of water for the invisible trunk.

  She came closer and touched one of the strings. Up close they were visible, but just barely.

  “It’s surgical catgut, Lily. Amazing how it disappears from a distance.”

  She whirled around to see Major Wharton standing in the shadow by a ladder. She looked closer. His eyes were squinting and his shoulders slumped; she had not seen him so exhausted since the earlier days when the siege guns had boomed and the wounded had poured in. He must have been working all night on the tree. Or the non-tree—she had no idea what to call this little miracle of illusion in the main hall.

  “I have decided to call it The One, The Only, The Famous Air Tree,” he told her. “I must admit it was pleasant to put my West Point training to good use! I am an engineer. Here is your tree, my dear Lily Nicholls.”

  He leaned toward her, but did not touch her; he was still too shy. She knew if she did not make a move, she would regret it bitterly all her life. Without a word, she came close to the major, put a tentative hand on his cheek, then wrapped her arms around him. His arms went around her, but she kissed him first, her lips soft on his, and then firmer as he kissed her back with enough fervor and skill to suggest that she might be on to a good thing. Her hands were in his hair, which she couldn’t help noticing was now longer than her own. He felt so good pressed against her body that she felt warm in places that hadn’t been stimulated in years. Good riddance to barren widowhood.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered into his lips. “I won’t. Send the assistant surgeon with the men. I—what is that you said once?—double dog dare you to keep me out of your bed.”

  He nodded, his hands firm on her back, then straying lower. She had no objection.

  To her surprise, he held her off and reached into his uniform pocket. He pulled out a few dusty leaves and berries.

  “Mistletoe,” he said, then started to laugh. “The sultan gave it to me yesterday afternoon. He summoned me to the palace after dinner and told me to take the mistletoe and make it work.” He shrugged and tossed the dusty bundle over his shoulder. “Guess we don’t need it.”

  They kissed again more decorously this time, considering that the men were starting to move about in the closest unit. He put his arm around her shoulders and walked her to the front of the Famous Air Tree. “You know, my dearest, it appears that our
sultan does not miss a trick. Nearly a year ago, I spent one evening beating him at poker and unburdening myself to him. He was actually listening! I fear we have misjudged the mystical men of the Middle East. Maybe I should put in my report that we would be wise not to do so in future.”

  Lily cleared her throat, pleased to watch the Famous Air Tree shimmer in the breeze caused by Captain Penrose opening the main door. “I kissed you first, but I am relying on you to propose,” she reminded her major.

  He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Then I had better be about it. Lily Nicholls, I love you.”

  He paused and, in the growing light of Christmas Eve morning, she saw him turn predictably red.

  “I should continue the momentum, of course—another lesson from engineering school—but first, I have a confession.”

  She waited, amused.

  “I have had your departure papers since that first requisition for a tree was turned down.”

  “You are a dirty dog!” Lily declared, softening her words with another kiss.

  “Not at all, my love,” he continued, more short of breath now. “I…I just couldn’t let you go. Not then, and not ever.”

  He said it so simply. Lily kissed him again. “Still waters run deep,” she murmured into his uniform front. “I do wish you would propose, Trey.”

  He laughed. “Marry me, Lily. I’ll take extraordinarily good care of you and Will. Do you think he will like me?”

  “He will love you,” she assured him. “And my answer is aye.”

  “Then I suggest we find a minister—I know there is one in that hospital closer to Scutari—have him splice us, then wait back here for my marching papers. I’ll give my report to Major Mordecai when we get to Constantinople and you and I will go to Scotland.”

  Captain Penrose was coming toward them now. He barely glanced at the magnificent, splendid, one-of-a-kind, Famous Air Tree. He looked even more tightly wound than usual.

  “I think he has a bone to pick with one of us,” Lily said. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in her major’s ear. “What do you intend to observe in Scotland?”

  “Lots of you,” the major replied without a blush.

  NO CRIB FOR A BED

  Prologue

  Away in a Manger

  Away in a manger, no crib for a bed

  The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head

  The stars in the heavens looked down where he lay

  The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania—December 1, 1877

  Dear Will,

  To say that we are eager to see this Christmas would be an understatement. We had thought to see you last year at this time, but apparently man proposes and Sitting Bull disposes. Well, now he and his people are in Canada and others of his confederate tribes are surrendering there near you.

  As much as you shake your head when I do this, I was happy to pull a string or two on your behalf, to get your furlough restored. Your fiancée was even more delighted, as I am certain she has communicated to you. The plan for last December’s wedding—certain to have been the social event of the Main Line—will now become this year’s wedding, complete with an Indian Wars hero, for so the Inquirer has crowned you. Tedious, eh? (I was never a hero in the Crimea—what administrator is?—but that’s the Inquirer for you.) Barring national emergency or Indian uprising, you and Maddy will do us proud.

  But we already are proud of you. May I be candid? It has always been a sorrow of your dear mother and mine that we were never to have children together. This, and your own kind nature, have made you especially dear to me. Indeed, I have never really thought of you as my adopted son. You were always more, happy to let me be your father and guide you as best I could. I recall those early, disorganized days in 1861, days when you dropped everything—friends, studies, your youth—and served as the best scribe I could have had, as we organized hospitals around the District of Columbia. Many was the midnight hour when I would look over at you sitting at the next desk, taking my dictation, and have to remind myself that you were only sixteen. You have long been an unsung blessing to this nation, even longer a blessing to me. I understand your willingness to serve now in the U.S. Army Medical Corps.

  I know I am becoming maudlin. I suppose that happens, when one contemplates retirement. This gives you an idea of my eagerness to have you home for Christmas, and then for your wedding.

  Your mother sends her love, too. If any couple should understand what it is to wait and work and worry during war, it would be Lily and Trey Wharton. Come home soon, dear son.

  Lovingly,

  Papa

  Chapter One

  Captain Wilkie Wharton, Third Cavalry regimental surgeon, wasn’t surprised when Mary Frances Coughlin refused his best efforts to carry her carpetbag. She did it in her usual good-humored way, though, which left him smiling.

  “Captain, you know how my father feels about baggage,” Frannie reminded him as she sat beside him on the Union Pacific platform in Cheyenne. “You’ve been six years, off and on, at Fort Laramie, so you should know.”

  Will grinned at her. “I know too well— ‘Never pack more than you can carry yourself.’ But that doesn’t mean I cannot be a gentleman and offer.”

  “You have offered and that will do,” Frannie assured him with that easy nature he had come to appreciate. During the past year, she had taught the enlisted men’s children at the fort. Now she was returning home to Brooklyn, New York. Because her father was probably the fort’s best hospital steward ever, Will had no qualms about leaving his green-as-grass assistant surgeon to doctor alone for six weeks, since he knew Paddy Coughlin was there to ward off ruin.

  Mary Frances Coughlin was as sensible as she was pretty. He had long relied on her to read to patients in the hospital, or write letters for the illiterate. She never flinched from illness. He had commented on that once to Paddy, during one of their late-night efforts, when diphtheria was taking its toll on the fort’s young ones. Paddy had merely raised his tired eyes to Will’s tired eyes and commented, “She hasn’t a flinching bone in her body, sir.”

  Although Will never mentioned the fact to anyone, Frannie’s best skill in his hospital on the hill was probably her fine looks. Amazing what a sweet-faced woman could do to brighten a glum group of invalids. He couldn’t call her a true beauty—his own fiancée, Madeline Radnor, took the palm there—but there was something so unfettered about Frannie’s curly red hair that never seemed to remain subdued into a bun. Or maybe it was her snapping green eyes that could appear so interested in whatever sad story a soldier might choose to unravel. He couldn’t have called her figure trim—again, Maddy won that contest. Will had decided Frannie’s shape was what should appropriately be called generous.

  Frannie Coughlin had always been so willing to listen to his patients that, in a weak moment, he had almost—but not quite—confided in her about Maddy and something that troubled him. Reason had triumphed at the eleventh hour and Will had kept his doubts to himself. Still, he had considered talking to Frannie.

  Will checked his timepiece. The Union Pacific train from the west was late, but he wasn’t too surprised, considering recent snowfalls. He had allowed himself plenty of time to get home to Philadelphia for Christmas, and then his wedding midway between Christmas and New Year’s Day. He had brought along plenty of reading matter—medical journals and even a novel—and he intended to do nothing more than read and eat and watch the boredom of the Nebraska plains go clickety-clack past the window.

  That had been the original plan, but he hadn’t objected when Paddy Coughlin had asked him to keep half an eye on Frannie, who was sensible and good company, and would give him no grief. There would still be time to read and maybe reflect on his upcoming wedding, which was still troubling him in certain respects.

  Will had begun feeling a bit ill-used when he’d received a letter from Lieutenant Ed Hunsaker, acting post surgeon at nearby Camp Robinson, with the news that he would be t
raveling east, too, with Nora Powell, a captive white woman being returned to relatives in Iowa. Ed’s letter had seemed a bit testy to Will, as he complained about having to travel in the company of Nora Powell. Well, who do you think would get that duty, the adjutant? Will had asked himself, at the time.

  Still, Ed would be in charge of Nora Powell, poor woman. Will remembered how talkative the man was and predicted this would cut into Will’s reading and leisure time on the journey. Knowing Frannie as he did, Will thought she might just distract Ed and keep him company, to spare “her Captain Wharton,” as her father had once called Will in her presence. He had made her blush; Will thought the camaraderie between father and daughter was charming.

  He glanced over at Frannie, smiling to himself because she always looked so fresh: eyes lively and a smile on her face. Will blushed a little, remembering a dislocated shoulder—also known as Private Jewkes, the Third Cav’s worst malingerer—who had once made the cheeky observation that if Captain Wharton, with his downturned mouth, had ever married Miss Coughlin, with her perpetually upturned mouth, their children could be happy and sad at the same time. He had laughed about it later, but not in Jewkes’s presence. The private was incorrigible, but observant, Will had to admit.

  “Do you think he’s coming, Captain?” Frannie asked.

  “I don’t know. If they come, it’ll have to be on the double-quick.”

  Man of medicine, he never would have admitted to Frannie that he almost hoped Ed Hunsaker didn’t arrive with his patient. Not that Nora Powell was a patient, not really. She was more a prisoner, but even that wasn’t accurate. Victim? Possibly, except that a true victim wouldn’t have fought like a mother tiger to remain precisely where she was, in an Indian camp, with her little half-Indian children, assumed to be the product of rape.