'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  In the dining room, the long table had been polished and laid with a thin protective mat, then a snowy linen cloth upon which were arranged two candelabra and a centerpiece of red apples that Grace had dipped in egg white, then frosted with sugar, so that they now resembled the jewels of a king instead of mere fruit. Grace checked to see that the china had been set out on the sideboard alongside the freshly pressed linen napkins and the gleaming silver. Around the room, Mary Kate and Enid had arranged holly and greenery, and vases of long, graceful branches that bore bright red berries.

  “’Tis beautiful,” Grace complimented her daughter. “You and Enid did a fine job in here, and aren’t I proud of the both of you?”

  Mary Kate glowed with pleasure.

  “Me and Mister Litton rounded up the holly,” Jack quickly informed his mother. “See?” He offered his hands, pricked and scraped, for her examination and sympathy.

  “What a tough little man you are,” Grace praised, giving each hand a light kiss. “You did a fine job, as well.”

  Now it was his turn to glow with pleasure.

  “Can we see the library, Mam?” Mary Kate asked hopefully.

  Grace nodded and led the way, closing the dining room doors behind her. The fire was laid, though not yet lit, a basket of logs to one side and to the other, a basket of pinecones—these would be tossed into the fire tonight when all could enjoy their show of colored flames. The room was filled with the heady scent of pine from the tall, grand tree that stood in one corner, and she breathed in deeply through her nose, enjoying the sharp, clean scent. Liam and Mack had delivered a box of gifts for Lily and her family, and had brought back a number of trees from Oregon, which they sold for a great profit, though they held one back for the captain’s house and another for the Wakefields’. The children had strung popcorn, then draped the tree in gentle swoops from top to bottom; interspersed were dark red bows tied from ribbon Grace had gotten in the Chinese market. At the very top, they’d placed a star Mister Litton had cut for them out of tin. Wakefield himself had returned from town with a box of small white candles and their holders, made in Germany, which could be clipped to the tree. These were in place now and would be lit tonight after supper, Wakefield had promised.

  Grace realized the children hadn’t said a word, and she looked at them now, smiling at the rapture on their faces as they stood stock-still, admiring the tree.

  “Wait ’til you see it all lit up. ’Twill be the most beautiful sight.”

  “Won’t it catch on fire?” Jack asked, concerned and excited both. “And burn us all to death?”

  Grace bit the inside of her cheek. “Well, it could, and you’re right about that. But we’ll only light it when we’re all here and we’ll be sure to put it out when we go to bed.”

  Reassured, Jack turned his attention to the far corner of the room where a piece of furniture appeared to be draped by a sheet, though a ribbon had been attached to the top, indicating that it was a gift of some sort.

  “What’s under there, then?” he whispered.

  Grace put her finger to her lips to show him it was a secret, then tiptoed over to close the library doors. She crossed the room and motioned them over, then lifted a corner of the sheet.

  “Oh!” Mary Kate put her hand over her mouth. “’Tis a piano, is it not, Mam? Oh, ’tis fine!” She touched the beautiful wood tentatively with one fingertip.

  “’Tis a special present for Miss Wakefield,” Grace confided. “The doctor says she used to play all the time before she fell ill. You mustn’t breathe a word of it, now,” she warned. “Not to anyone, lest she get wind of it and the surprise be ruined.”

  Both children nodded solemnly.

  “And now we’d best get back to the kitchen—it’ll be suppertime soon, and then we’ll sit in here for a while before bed as a special treat.”

  “Mam.” Jack tugged at her sleeve. “When will I give my present to Mister Litton and them?”

  “You already gave a present to Mister Hewitt,” she reminded him. “Because you won’t see him ’til the New Year now.”

  Jack frowned, disappointed, and Grace was glad to see it; he liked his lessons with the young master. Mister Hewitt was lighthearted and kind and knew how to interest a little boy who preferred horses and dogs to letters and numbers.

  “We gave him a Christmas basket,” she said. “You and Mary Kate put in a nice writing pen and a bottle of ink, and I added a loaf of oat bread and a jar of that apple butter he liked so well.”

  Jack’s face relaxed and he nodded. “What about the others?”

  “Well, you can put the doctor’s gift under the tree tonight, if you like, and Enid and Mister Litton can have theirs anytime.” She took his hand. “Let’s go now, and you can show me what you have.”

  She led the children back to the kitchen and opened a window, as it felt overly warm after the cool library. Hopkins was still upstairs helping Abigail with her bath, and Enid was … Grace bit her lip and looked out the window, then grinned—aye, there she was, standing by the garden gate, having a word with Mister Litton, presumably about the ham Grace wanted from the smokehouse for Christmas dinner, but really about anything at all that would keep the girl in his presence. They made a handsome couple, Grace thought—Litton was tall and narrow, with long arms and large hands; Enid was shorter, but of the same sturdy build and long limbs. She was surprised that George had remained to talk; usually, he was out of there in a flash, but now he seemed to be in no hurry, nodding at the girl’s chatter while he coiled a long hank of rope. Perhaps it was his present to Enid—this bit of his time, the thing she wanted most of all.

  “All right, then.” Grace tore herself away from the sight and tidied her own hair. “Tell me what you’ve got and whether it needs tying up a’tall.”

  Mary Kate disappeared into their quarters, then returned with the large basket that held their gifts for other people, which she set on the table with a heavy clunk.

  “I knit these for the doctor, but they might be too big.” She pulled out a nicely made pair of dark gray socks that did indeed look too big, but then again, Grace had never actually measured Wakefield’s feet.

  “And this scarf for Mister Litton.”

  Grace fingered it, pleased with her daughter’s effort. “’Tis fine work, Mary Kate. The red’ll suit him what with all the gray and brown he wears. And did you knit one for Enid, as well?”

  Mary Kate frowned and bit her lip, then looked up cautiously at her mother. “I made her a drawing instead,” she revealed. “But I’ll have to give it to her in secret.”

  “And why would you have to do such a thing?” Grace asked. “Bring it out; let’s have a look at it.”

  Mary Kate scampered back to their own quarters again, and Grace could hear her rummaging around the bottom drawer of the chest, which was where she kept her schoolwork. She returned quickly but held the paper behind her back, reluctant to show it. Grace and Jack exchanged a glance and shrugged their shoulders, neither having any idea what the girl was up to.

  “It can’t be that bad,” Grace encouraged. “You’ve a fine hand for capturing likenesses.”

  “Well, that’s the problem, you see.” Mary Kate set the small square of paper on the table.

  “It’s Mister Litton feeding the horses!” Jack exclaimed, crowding next to his mother to have a closer look. “And there’s Enid with her basket of eggs! ’Tis grand, Mary Kate, grand!”

  “Aye, ’tis,” Grace agreed. “But I see what you mean—Enid’ll be delighted, but her mother might twist her ear off over it.”

  Mary Kate nodded grimly.

  “Why would she?” Jack demanded.

  Grace and Mary Kate shared a knowing look.

  “Missus Hopkins doesn’t care for Mister Litton,” Grace explained carefully. “But Enid does.”

  “Well, sure she does,” Jack said, as if it were obvious to the whole world. “He’s grand, is Mister Litton. Hopkins is just an old hen.”

  A laugh burst
from Grace before she could stop it. “Jack. Don’t speak about your elders that way,” she admonished, though she agreed with him completely. “What we mean is that Enid has special feelings for Mister Litton.”

  “Why doesn’t she marry him, then?”

  “’Tisn’t that simple. Mister Litton is a quiet man. He …” She hesitated, thinking. “Maybe he doesn’t know how Enid feels, or maybe he does, but he doesn’t feel the same way and doesn’t want to hurt her.”

  “I’ll take it up with him,” Jack assured them confidently, reaching for his hat. “We’ll get it all worked out.”

  “No, Jack!” Grace sat him down and looked him squarely in the eye. “You mustn’t say a word to Mister Litton about Enid nor the other way round. ’Tis not our business and they wouldn’t want you talking about it.”

  “If it’s not our business, then why’d she do the drawing, then?”

  Grace looked at Mary Kate, not sure how to answer.

  “Enid is always nice to us, Jack,” Mary Kate reasoned. “She brings us sweets from town, and warns us when her mother’s coming so we can get out of the way. I only wanted to do something nice for her, as well.”

  “Are we both giving it to her?” Jack inquired.

  “Aye. And maybe we’ll put it in the back of a book so ’tis not out in the open for anyone to see. What do you think?” she asked her brother.

  He nodded. “’Tis a good plan, that,” he allowed. “I’ve a feather for her. A gull’s feather,” he clarified proudly. “All white and pretty. To put in her hat. And, Mam”—he hesitated—“Mam, can I give my gun to Mister Litton? The gun Jimbo gave me in Kansas? Please, Mam, ’tis the best thing I have.”

  Grace looked down into his earnest little face and smoothed the hair out of his eyes. “Mister Litton has his own guns for hunting,” she told him gently. “I don’t think he’d be wanting any others. He was in the war, remember, and sometimes soldiers don’t like to think of all the shooting they did.”

  “Oh.” Jack’s face fell. “I don’t have anything else.”

  She thought for a moment. “I made a new pillowcase—you could stuff that and give it to him. He’d like that, Jack, he really would.”

  The boy brightened considerably. “Maybe he’ll dream of Enid,” he suggested hopefully.

  Grace and Mary Kate laughed. Upstairs a door opened and closed, and their happy faces fell.

  “Run outside, Jack, and tell Enid that her mother will want the bath water emptied. Mary Kate, you take the presents back to our room and finish tying them up, will you, now?”

  “Aye, Mam,” both children answered at once and went their separate ways, while Grace turned her attention to supper and the night ahead, her head filled with thoughts of Christmases past.

  Her Irish Christmases had been simple but warm, and always there had been good things to eat, things Granna had prepared in the summer and put away so that they would be a bright treat on that special day. Not a churchgoing family after Grace’s mother died, they still sang hymns on Christmas Eve and again in the morning after they’d exchanged their homemade gifts. Her brother Ryan always gave their da new tobacco, and so he always smoked an extra pipe on that day, sitting outside the cabin door on the bench he’d made from a fallen log. Grace always received new ribbons for her hair, and this tradition she’d kept up, giving the same to Mary Kate every year. The only time she had not was the year they came across on the Eliza J; she had not been prepared for Christmas in any way that year, let alone a Christmas in the middle of the vast sea. She shuddered now to think of that voyage and shook her head at the miracle that they’d survived it when so many had not.

  Christmas in New York with Dugan and Tara had also brought a miracle, though not the one Grace had been looking for; she would never forget seeing Peter come into the saloon with two young people behind him, and Lily rising from her place at the table upon realizing that those two were the children left behind in the South, the children she’d been trying to rescue for years. Aye, Grace thought; despite what had happened later in the night, that one single moment had been truly wondrous.

  Grace’s first Christmas in Boston was also her first Christmas with Jack, and so—another miracle, now she thought about it. The Christmases in Kansas were brutally cold, and yet it was always cozy in their one-room cabin, with the fire blazing and something roasting over it. One Christmas, however, the ice was so fierce that Grace’s employer had insisted they not try to get back to their cabin, but take a room in the almost-empty hotel, where they would be warm and safe; there she’d had a bath on Christmas Eve and a fine meal—though she’d cooked it herself—in the hotel dining room with the children.

  She had expected to celebrate this Christmas in another cabin, this one beside the river in Oregon Territory; perhaps she and the children would have put the oxen to a sledge and gone through the snowy wood to visit Lily and the family. Did they have snow now? she wondered. She didn’t remember Liam saying anything about that, and surely he would have. But instead of Christmas in Oregon, she was spending Christmas in California, here in this lovely, warm house with plenty of food and more money in her pocket than she knew what to do with. The Lord was good, she told herself—mysterious and unpredictable, to be sure, but always good.

  There was no snow here, either, nor the promise of it. The climate in this part of the world reminded her a bit of Ireland, with its steady, cool rain and mists, the temperate winds and occasional storms, the fog. She felt a peacefulness here she’d not felt since leaving Ireland, and that alone was present enough on this Christmas.

  It was nearing suppertime now, and the chickens were done. She mashed the potatoes and made a rich gravy with the doctor in mind, then quickly boiled the carrots until they were tender. This was one of his favorite meals, and she took extra care to make sure the chicken ran with juices and the gravy was smooth and flavorful. Aye, it was peace she felt as she went about these satisfying tasks, knowing that her family was secure and well provided for, and that she was appreciated for her skills by her employer.

  It occurred to her then that this was the only Christmas she would spend in this house; she would be married to Peter by next year, she and the children living with him in his house. She stopped working for a moment, leaning on flour-dusted hands upon the worktable, wondering at the emotion now rising within her, wondering that she should feel a wave of sadness instead of joy. An entirely new way of life lay before her, a better life for her and the children, with a man they loved and a brother Mary Kate and Jack adored. She sighed and shook her head, exasperated with herself, then returned to flouring the gravy. She would not let this be about Morgan, not when she’d nearly mastered the art of putting him away. There had never been any Christmases with Morgan, not one save those of her childhood, when he came tearing down the Black Hill to show Sean what his sisters had made for him or his da had brought back from those long voyages at sea. There had never been a Christmas with Morgan and so, she knew, Christmas should not have any sad memories tied to it. Would not. Not this year. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving a damp smear of flour, and turned her mind forcibly to the night ahead and the day to come. She would be with Peter—it was to be their second Christmas together and the first of many more for years to come. She would sit with him and feel the comforting warmth of his hand in hers, the reassurance of sitting beside her dearest friend. Aye, that was what she would turn her mind to now. Christmas with Peter, and the wonderful life that lay ahead.

  Twenty-two

  Doctor Wakefield and Mister Litton attended church with Grace and the children, while Enid and her mother stayed behind with Abigail. Wakefield had extracted a promise from his sister that she would come down in the morning for the exchange of presents and to enjoy the tree as long as her stamina allowed, and she had agreed, though Hopkins had expressed concern. Wakefield had then reassured the housekeeper—wasn’t he a doctor, after all? he reminded her. And wasn’t Abigail his own dear sister? She could cer
tainly join them for an hour without damage to either her spirit or her body. Hopkins had tried to protest further, but Wakefield had silenced her by insisting that not only would his sister come down, but Hopkins herself and her daughter would also join them in the drawing room for a glass of punch. Christmas bonuses would be handed round at that time, he added, clinching the deal.

  It was cold and breezy, but clear, and they all had red cheeks when they came back into the warm house. While Mister Litton put the horses away, Wakefield went directly to the drawing room to light the fire. He would not light the tree again this morning, as they’d burned out the candles the night before, but it had been a heavenly sight and the children had remained on their best behavior around it, enjoying the glow and scent of it tremendously.

  Grace sent them now into their room to change out of their coats and into the new sweaters left over the rocking chair near the hearth by St. Nicholas himself. There were new caps, as well, and mittens, which they’d worn to church, not to mention the small cache of chocolates, fruits, and nuts, which had made them practically delirious.

  While they changed—and most likely sampled some of their chocolate—Grace slipped out of her own coat and hat, and stoked the oven, which had died down a little more than she’d anticipated. She set the kettle to boil and added the sliced Christmas bread and butter to the tray she’d laid this morning. When the tea was made, she sent Jack out for Mister Litton, and though George appeared reluctant—twisting his cap in his hands—Grace put him in charge of carrying the tray, and then they all went together into the drawing room.

  “Ah, there you are!” Wakefield rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation, and Grace caught a glimpse of the merry boy he had surely been in his youth. “Set the tray down there, Mister Litton. Mary Kate, Jack—come and sit on the divan here by the tree. Missus Donnelly.” He offered a chair near the divan.