'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  “I’ll pour out first, sir, if you don’t mind.” Grace smiled despite herself at his gleeful enthusiasm. “Will Miss Abigail be joining us after all, then?”

  “Oh, yes.” He tipped his head toward the disguised piano. “She simply must come down, isn’t that right, children?”

  Jack and Mary Kate nodded vigorously and giggled, Wakefield laughing a bit himself. Grace had never seen him so excited. He left the room, and they heard him call from the foot of the stair.

  “Hopkins! Come down now! We’re ready for you!”

  He came back into the room, his eye falling on Mister Litton. “George!” he boomed. “You sit over here.” He pulled out a leather club chair, and Mister Litton glanced down at his trousers, then shook his head. “Oh, come, man. They were clean enough for church; they’re clean enough for the chair. You tell him, Missus Donnelly.”

  Grace laughed. “You’d best do as he says, Mister Litton, for he’s a man won’t hear ‘no’ today.”

  Litton nodded soberly, then crossed to the chair, took out a clean handkerchief from his pocket, spread it on the seat, and sat down. Settled, he seemed to relax just a little and began to glance around the room. Grace wished he could have been enticed to come in and enjoy it last night in the glow of firelight, but he’d stubbornly refused, mumbling with reddened cheeks about a washup and shave before coming into the house proper like that. He certainly looked very well this morning, Grace thought. Along with the stubble, the razor had shaved a good five years off the man’s face, and now Grace realized he was much younger than she’d first thought—thirty, if that. His face glowed from the scrubbing and his hair was combed back, his clothes were clean, and he’d even taken a brush to his fingernails. Grace was impressed, and she knew Enid would be nigh on swooning. Suddenly, Enid appeared, her eyes indeed opening wide at the sight of handsome Mister Litton. For his part, Litton acted the gentleman and rose immediately, bowing a little and offering a short speech.

  “Merry Christmas, Miss Enid,” he said formally. “I hope this day finds you well. And your mother.”

  Enid’s mouth fell open, but she quickly recovered and crossed the room to stand beside him.

  “Thank you, Mister Litton,” she said warmly, her eyes on his. “Happy Christmas to you, too. So good of you to join us.”

  “My pleasure, miss.” Again he made that funny little bow and then was silent, seemingly having used up all his available language.

  Enid didn’t mind. She was clearly happy just to be standing at his side, and her smile didn’t falter until her mother entered, supporting Miss Abigail on her arm, and shot her daughter a disapproving look.

  “Abigail!” Wakefield welcomed her warmly, taking her arm from Hopkins and helping her to a chair near the fire. “Merry Christmas, dear sister. My, you look lovely this morning.”

  And she did, Grace thought, though it was as if she were a faded picture of loveliness instead of the thing itself. Still, she was dressed in a proper gown with a pretty shawl around her shoulders; her hair was cleaned and brushed, and Hopkins had arranged it well enough, though it was heavier to one side and Grace had to stop herself from going over and repinning it. She wore the delicate silver-and-garnet earbobs her brother had given her on Christmas Eve, a simple gold cross at her throat, and a bracelet of charms on her wrist; there was color in her cheeks, thanks to the rouge box, and she’d also applied color to her lips. It heightened the very whiteness of her skin, but without it she would have faded into the color of her dress, which was a creamy white.

  “May I get you a cup of tea, Miss Wakefield?” Grace offered.

  Abigail nodded but did not look up.

  After everyone had been served, the doctor set his cup aside and went to the tree, extracting several small packages, which he handed to Grace, Hopkins, and Enid. He stood proudly by his sister, a hand on her shoulder, watching with pleasure as his domestics opened their gifts.

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you, miss.” Enid held up a handsome pair of light-colored kid gloves.

  Hopkins did the same, though her gloves were a size larger.

  “Very thoughtful, Miss Abigail, very kind of you. Thank you, Doctor,” the housekeeper enthused.

  Grace’s box took longer to untie, but when at last she opened the lid, she gasped in surprise, looking up at the doctor and his sister, then lifting out the silver-backed ivory mirror, brush, and comb that lay within.

  “’Tis beautiful,” she said softly, caught completely unaware by the generous gift. “I’ve nothing like it a’tall.”

  Hopkins sniffed audibly as if to say ‘Of course you don’t,’ but no one paid any attention to her.

  “I enlisted the help of a special little girl to ascertain that very fact,” Wakefield said with smug delight. “She remembered that you had a pretty brush in Ireland, but that it was left behind with so many of your things, and that you had never replaced it.”

  Grace looked at Mary Kate, who was smiling shyly and blushing, and was moved to think the child held such memories.

  “Thank you so very much, Doctor,” Grace offered. “Miss Wakefield, thank you. Blessed Christmas to you both.”

  “We’re so pleased you like it,” Wakefield responded graciously. “And now—George.” He handed over a large box to his outside man.

  Litton fumbled awkwardly with the ribbon for a moment, then lifted off the lid and eyed the garment within, rubbing the heavy tweed between his fingers. “That’s a fine jacket, sir,” he managed, red-faced with pleasure and embarrassment. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And, of course, Abigail and I have a Christmas envelope for each of you along with our thanks for yet another year of good service.”

  They spoke at once, expressing their gratitude, until Wakefield raised his hand.

  “It seems we’ve forgotten the children!” he exclaimed, pretending shock. “How terrible! Whatever will we do?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Mary Kate and Jack said quickly. “That’s quite all right, sir. We don’t mind.”

  He grinned and waved them over to his side.

  “I’m afraid your gift was rather difficult to wrap up,” he explained. “As you know, Scout has been delivered of her puppies and, while they are in great demand around here”—he paused dramatically and leaned down—“you may each choose one to keep as your own.”

  Mary Kate and Jack turned to one another, their mouths hanging open, their eyes wild with delight. They shrieked and hugged one another, then threw their arms around Wakefield, nearly knocking him over like puppies themselves.

  He laughed and extricated himself, then said, “Go on out with Mister Litton now, and he’ll help you choose. They’re still too young to leave their mother, but at least you’ll know which ones are yours.”

  They ran to Litton, each taking a hand, and practically dragged him out of the room, shouting delirious thanks as they left. Grace noted that although George put on a face of apprehension, he moved quickly and was clearly relieved to escape the society of the room.

  “Delightful to have children in the house at Christmas,” Wakefield announced, rubbing his hands again. “Delightful day, just delightful. And now, my dear …” He turned toward his sister. “If you’ll allow me, I have a special gift for you.”

  “But, Rowen,” she demurred, and Grace noted the slur of her syllables, “you gave me my gift last night.” She fingered the stones that dangled from her ears. “That’s quite enough.”

  “Merely a decoy, my dear. To throw you off the scent, as it were.”

  Abigail’s eyes followed him as he crossed the room, then widened when he swept off the dustcover and revealed the glowing instrument that lay beneath. He turned to her, beaming with triumph, and then his grin faltered.

  “Rowen.” Abigail’s voice was hoarse. “How could you?” She pushed herself up on shaky arms, then stood, eyes swimming with dark anger and confusion.

  “It’s a piano!” He stood aside to give her a better view of the beautiful instrument, thinking she ha
dn’t understood. “You love the piano,” he insisted. “You played endlessly at home! With such pleasure, I thought, and so I wanted to …”

  “I will never play again, Rowen. Ever,” she told him fiercely, her body trembling. “You know how I feel about such things. Oh, Rowen.” She began to weep, then crumpled into her chair. “How could you do this to me?”

  “Abigail!” He rushed to her side, stricken. “Abby,” he said softly, falling to his knees, his hands on her arm.

  Hopkins moved in immediately. “She’s overwrought, sir, as I said. Too much excitement for her poor nerves. Enid,” she called the girl sharply. “Help me get Miss Abigail back to her room.”

  “No.” Wakefield shielded his sister. “I’ll take her back up in a moment. That’s all, Hopkins. You may go.”

  The housekeeper frowned in disapproval.

  “I said, you may go,” Wakefield repeated firmly.

  Hopkins pinched her lips together, then grabbed Enid by the arm and left the room.

  “I don’t want her,” Abigail whispered. “The cook. Send her out.”

  Wakefield kept his eyes on his sister’s face. “Thank you, Missus Donnelly,” he said, excusing her. “Close the door behind you, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Grace left immediately, though she stood for a moment behind the closed doors, listening to the low murmur of the doctor’s voice and Abigail’s quiet sobbing.

  “Get away from there,” Hopkins hissed behind her. “That’s private. Go back to the kitchen.”

  “After you.” Grace gestured toward the hall.

  In a huff, but unsure about what else to do, Hopkins pushed past her and led the way.

  “Well, this is a fine state for a Christmas Day,” she announced, sitting heavily at the table. “I warned him. I said it would be too much.”

  “I think we all need a cup of tea.” Grace took the kettle off the stovetop. “Thank goodness the children went out. Poor Doctor Wakefield. Poor Miss Wakefield.”

  “Poor nothing,” Hopkins spat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Enid, get me a slice of bread.”

  Enid darted from the doorway where she’d been standing, twisting her hands and eyeing her mother anxiously.

  “Sit yourself down, Enid.” Grace waved her back to the table. “’Tis Christmas, after all, and you’ve got the whole lunch to serve.”

  Enid sat timidly, her back to her mother.

  Grace set the teapot and a plate of buttered bread slices down on the table. “There, now, we’ll have a bite to calm ourselves.” She sat beside Enid and patted the girl on the shoulder. “Turn around, now. You’ve done nothing wrong today.”

  “Yet,” her mother added, spewing bread crumbs on the tablecloth.

  “That’s enough, Missus Hopkins,” Grace rebuked wearily. “Let’s set our sights on the gift of the Lord, and quit squabbling among ourselves.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Hopkins scoffed. “You’ll be out of this house all afternoon, fraternizing with that captain friend of yours. Got him all lined up, don’t you?” she accused bitterly. “Husband number three, is he? Going to get a child by him, as well, I suppose. Maybe it’s already on the way, just to make sure he doesn’t sail off again.”

  “Mother!” Enid set down her cup. “Don’t say that!”

  “Your mother’s bad manners are no reflection on you, Enid.” Grace put down her cup. “And besides, I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh, you’ve made that clear enough,” Hopkins said scornfully. “Married for money, married for lust … what’s the captain, then—married for convenience? Wormed your way in here, meddling where you don’t belong, stirring up all kinds of trouble. A piano, bah!” she spat. “You put that ridiculous idea into his head, and don’t try telling me otherwise. You Irish got no sense. None.”

  Grace said nothing, trying not to let the words pierce her like the poison darts they were intended to be.

  “Stop it, Mother.” Enid’s eyes had filled with tears.

  “And look at you,” her mother demanded. “Look at you! Two minutes around her and you forget your place. Don’t forget what I’ve sacrificed for you, girl. What I’ve done for you.”

  Enid hung her head, instantly contrite. “No, Mother. I’m sorry, Mother.” Tears fell onto the hands in her lap.

  “I forgive you. Because I am a good, decent Christian woman. Now, go to your room and wait for me there.”

  Enid got up from the table and left without so much as a glance at Grace, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Hopkins leaned across the table. “You’re a bad influence on that girl, Missus Donnelly. You keep your nose out of our business.”

  “Keep your business out of my kitchen, then,” Grace replied, leaning forward to meet her. “And when you’re on your knees at night, Missus Hopkins, try thanking the Lord for the child you’ve got instead of hating Him for the one you lost.”

  “How dare you.” Hopkins glared, spittle foaming in the corner of her mouth, her hands balled into tight fists.

  “You keep asking me that.” Grace rose from the table. “So I’ll be as clear as I can: You don’t frighten me, Missus Hopkins. Not a whit. Not now. Not ever. You’re a kitten compared to the lions I’ve faced in my life—something you know nothing about, by the way.”

  Hopkins’ mouth fell open in outrage, but before she could reply, Grace disappeared into the mudroom. She reappeared a moment later, a great cloak slung over her shoulders.

  “I’m going out to see to the children, and then we’ll be away for the afternoon. Time’s a-wasting and I’ve got to get the captain all sewn up, don’t you know.”

  Closing the door firmly behind her, Grace stepped out into the cold, damp air and breathed deeply, willing her anger to subside. She was sorry for all of them back there, for the Wakefields and the Hopkinses, for the misery in their lives, whether by their own means or the means of others, and she asked herself if it was worth it. Should she remain in a house with a person as angry as Agnes Hopkins, with a person as troubled as Abigail Wakefield? Were the children affected by it?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by laughter from the stable, and she crossed the yard, lingering in the doorway to watch her children unobserved for a moment. Mister Litton stood off to one side, looking down at the two youngsters, who sat in the corner of the stall and laughed with delight as puppies tumbled in and out of their laps, and on his face was an expression Grace had never seen him wear; she could hardly believe it, but it appeared to be true—George Litton was smiling.

  For the sake of the children, Grace refused to let the unsettling morning ruin her festive mood, and so she led them both in the loud and off-key singing of Christmas carols all the way to the Darmstadt home, where Captain Reinders and Liam waited eagerly for their arrival.

  They sat now in the great room, a fire blazing and trays of food and drink put out on the sideboard. Warm greetings and gifts had been exchanged—a fine leather-bound diary and pen for Mary Kate, a fishing pole for Jack, and for Liam a sextant from Peter and a small illustration of Dublin from Grace—and now Jack was asleep, curled up in front of the fire with melted chocolate in the corners of his mouth, while Mary Kate taught Liam how to play chess on the set she’d gotten especially for him. Mary Kate was lovely, Grace thought, in her pretty blue dress with a matching ribbon in her hair, on her finger the ring her auntie Aislinn had given her in Liverpool; Liam looked fine, as well, in his clean white shirt and dark trousers, his hair slicked back for the occasion. She was proud of them, both of them, and so happy that they were still close. Lars and Detra had retired earlier to their rooms for a rest after dinner, so Grace and Peter were alone with the young people.

  “I love my present.” Reinders thanked her again, picking up the handsomely framed daguerreotype Grace had given him. “He captured you perfectly—your beautiful eyes, that tilt to your chin. The light around your head and shoulders is …” He nodded admiringly. “It’s a work of art, really.” He looked from the portrait to t
he woman. “And I’m not even going to comment on the fact that obviously you sat for this alone and half-dressed in a room with a talented, charming man. No, I’ve decided not to say a word about that at all.”

  Grace laughed. “I admit I didn’t know what he had in mind at first, and I was mortified, but he was always a gentleman and his work is so good. I hoped it would make a fine present for you,” she added shyly.

  “Thank you,” he repeated. “I am honored to accept it. And thank you for my book, as well.” He picked up the heavy, leather-bound biography of Lord Admiral Nelson. “I shall begin it at once.”

  “I thought it might keep your mind occupied while you convalesce. You’re looking better, though, and you’ve put on more weight. I’m happy for that.”

  “You should be. It’s all your doing,” he scolded playfully, “that steady stream of fresh bread, pies, cakes, soups, stews, etcetera, etcetera, that finds its way here from Wakefield Heights nearly every day. Not to mention the flowers, drawings by the children, notes from you … I’m expecting a band of choral singers and a pretty pony any day now.”

  “Ah, go on with you.” She blushed. “Liam and Detra both said you’ve no kind of cook about the place to tempt your appetite and, well, if I can’t be here every day myself, the least I can do is send on a bit of cheer.”

  “You could be here every day,” he pointed out. “If that’s what you really wanted.”

  Grace bit her lip and looked down. “I do. Only you need your rest. And I’ve been thinking you’re crowded here already, let alone my lot coming to live!” She raised her eyes earnestly to his. “And of course, the children are settled in up on the hill and I don’t like to move them yet, especially at Christmastime. Not to mention the wage I’m making. ’Tis madness on their end, but I’m putting by. And then, Mary Kate gets her schooling up there, and Jack, and they like it—did I tell you how well Jack’s doing, and who would’ve thought? But he likes that Mister Hewitt. Mary Kate, as well. He comes up three mornings a week …” Her voice trailed off as she ran out of steam.

  Reinders had been nodding his head as he listened, and now he pretended to tally up on his fingers. “Rest, crowded, Christmas, wages, school … that’s at least five good reasons why you can’t marry me.”