An Old-Fashioned Christmas Romance Collection

by DiAnn Mills

  He couldn’t halt the laughter that rose in his throat, and when it escaped, Livy’s face blanched, then she glowered. “I don’t think you should laugh at me, Andrew. I’m being sincere in my—”

  His heart soared at her willingness to share the family responsibilities. “I’m not laughing at you, dearest, dearest Livy. I’m not a lumberjack.”

  She gaped at his statement.

  “I own the logging company, my love. You’ll be a wealthy woman one day, I’m certain. But please, teach music if you’d enjoy it. I’ll never ask you to give up something you love. I’m not that proud.”

  She covered her face. “I’m mortified. I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I thank God for your generosity. And Livy, this will be my last full winter at the camp. Now, with three years experience, I’ll hire a competent manager, and most of the cold winter nights I’ll be at your side. I love you, Livy.”

  Livy’s face shone with a radiance, he’d never seen before. “We can marry in June,” Andrew said. “Would you like that?”

  “I’d love that.” She pulled her warm hand from the furry muff and caressed his icy cheek.

  “Then let’s hurry home,” he said. “Our announcement will be another gift to my parents. ‘Olivia Schuler has consented to give me her hand in marriage.’ ”

  With Livy nestled to his side, Andrew cracked the whip, moving the bays back to the roadway and hurrying home to share the news.

  Epilogue

  On a warm Tuesday evening in early June, the bridal party gathered inside Christ Church. As the organ’s rich tones filled the sanctuary, the bridesmaids and groomsmen marched with measured steps down the aisle.

  To Livy’s great joy, Ruth’s recuperation was amazing, and today, in the place of Livy’s mother, Ruth followed the attendants on Andrew’s arm. Livy caught her breath at his striking appearance in an elegant morning coat and sky-blue cravat.

  With her arm linked to John’s, Livy waited. Her wedding dress, an exquisite Paris gown of ivory tulle and lace with its fitted bodice, was a gift from Helen and Charles. Behind a fashionable bustle, the skirt draped to an extensive train.

  On her dark curls, Livy wore a lace veil belonging to Helen. Earlier as she dressed, Livy had stared in the glass, amazed at the extraordinary woman who peered back at her.

  On John’s arm, his loving smile echoed her own happiness. As the organ swelled and pealed the bride’s processional, she took her first step toward the altar. John pressed her hand covered with a lace glove, and Livy’s heart lifted with a joy she knew they both felt.

  In her left arm, she carried a lovely bouquet of lilies, stephanotis, and orange blossoms, a gift from Andrew. Inside the bouquet, she had attached the tiny carved angel, the keepsake Andrew had given her at Christmas. As she made her way past family and friends, the flowers’ sweet fragrance surrounded her.

  On a Sunday before the wedding, Andrew had surprised her with a wedding gift—a lovely teardrop diamond pendant that today hung around her neck on a gold chain. She’d never known such luxury or such love.

  When they reached the altar, John presented her to Andrew, then joined Ruth in the front pew. With Andrew’s hand on hers, the pastor’s words filled her heart with assurance. “‘Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.’

  “‘Charity never faileth.’”

  Andrew riveted to the pastor’s words. “‘When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.’” He recalled his past foolish behavior and the foolish notion that Livy was plain and demure.

  Today, her dark hair, crowned by the fragile veil, highlighted her delicacy. She was a woman of beauty, spirit, and deep affection. She completed his life with joy and love.

  The pastor’s voice rose, “And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three.’” Andrew sought Livy’s face, and at that moment, the Word of God wrapped them in complete oneness. “‘But the greatest of these is charity.’” Looking into each other’s eyes, Andrew desired no other treasure in his life, only their vows of steadfast and undying love.

  For the Love of a Child

  Sally Laity

  Chapter 1

  Philadelphia, 1878

  Angelina Matthews closed the back door of Mistress Haversham’s Dress Shop behind her and stepped cautiously out onto Front Street. A frigid December wind, fraught with dampness from the Delaware River a stone’s throw away, flung icy shards of falling snow mercilessly against her face. Switching her lantern to her other hand, she gave her scarf an extra wrap and buried her nose deeper into its confines. Then she set off through the growing darkness toward her rented house on Elfreth’s Alley.

  On either side, the shops and warehouses lay dark and silent. No doubt the other businesses had closed early, at the very onset of the storm, she surmised with irritation. If only Mistress Haversham afforded her employees the same consideration! But with the Christmas festivities fast approaching, there were endless orders for new party frocks. And unless Angelina and Ruby, the other hired seamstress, toiled until closing time every day, the gowns would never be finished on schedule.

  Angelina sought the likeliest route through the gathering drifts, bolstering herself against the pain in her withered leg as she limped over the uneven cobbles. Once she reached home, a grand fire in the hearth and a pot of hot tea would erase the misery of this blizzard from her mind for the night. Tomorrow, thankfully, was Saturday, and she wouldn’t have to be at work until noon. If it weren’t December, she would have had the entire day free.

  The wind howled over the narrow street—an eerie, almost human whine that whistled around the brick and stone buildings, leaving snow in its wake. Angelina shivered and pressed on.

  The wind wailed louder—but another sound mixed with the storm’s ghostly moan, and she paused to listen. What was that? A cry?

  Holding her breath, she raised her lantern high, peering beyond the scant circles of light cast by the gas lamps. Perhaps a kitten had gotten lost, she mused, straining to hear over the fury of the elements.

  The sound came again, stronger…and almost sounded like a plaintive “Mama…” She shook her head. It had to be her imagination.

  But as each step brought her closer to the source of the cries, they became all the more recognizable. All the more wrenching. Ahead, Angelina made out a small shape huddled between the bare branches of a shrub and a vacant warehouse. She moved toward it as quickly as her weakened leg would allow and held the light aloft.

  Her breath caught in her throat. A child!

  She bent to touch the little one’s shoulder. “I’ll help you, dear,” she crooned.

  The young girl of about three started and looked up, then let out an ear-shattering wail.

  “Shh, shh,” Angelina coaxed. The child’s threadbare coat looked at least a size too small and did little to protect the spindly arms or legs. Setting down the lantern, Angelina bent down and gathered the shivering form close. “What on earth are you doing out in this storm?” she asked, as much to the heavens themselves as to the child.

  “C–c–cold!” the little girl chattered, swallowing a sob.

  Angelina removed her scarf and tied it about the short, damp curls, then unbuttoned her long wool coat and picked up the urchin. Tucking her against the warmth of her own body, she wrapped the thin little legs as best she could. She couldn’t imagine from whence the youngster had come, or what circumstances might have cast her alone in this dark business district. But she had far more urgent matters to consider, like getting help. Now. But from where?

  St. Joseph’s Church was known around the city for providing refuge to the downtrodden and dispossessed…but even if
Angelina left the lantern behind, she could not possibly carry the little girl all the way to Willing’s Alley. And Christ Church was also much too far to get to in a blizzard.

  Then she recalled a smaller house of worship Ruby had mentioned one day, where occasional homeless souls had been given shelter. On Second, wasn’t it? Just the next street over and not really out of her way. Once the little girl had been deposited in the care of the person in charge, Angelina could continue up the street and enter Elfreth’s Alley the back way.

  Thus decided, she tightened her hold on the little one and started toward the church, the wind whipping her own dark tresses in every direction as she went.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asked, trying to keep the child calm as she labored toward Second Street.

  “N–Noely.” The breathless voice was almost a whisper.

  “Noely?” Angelina repeated, and felt the small head nod against her shoulder. “My, that’s a pretty name. I’m Angelina.” She paused. “Does your mama know you’re outside in the dark, Noely?”

  A leftover sob racked the tiny frame.

  “Well, I’ll take you to some nice people who can help you find her, dear.”

  Noely sniffed.

  For such a little thing, she was surprisingly heavy, and Angelina tired by the minute. Surely it couldn’t be too much farther.

  At last the brick structure loomed into view. With renewed strength she trudged across the intersection separating them. The church sat in darkness, but warm lamplight glowed from the appealing two-story house next door. She hoped it was the parsonage. Shifting Noely’s weight to her right arm, Angelina lifted the brass knocker and rapped.

  Astounded that anyone could be out on such a night, Gabe Winters laid aside his Bible and sermon notes and hurried to answer the summons, ill-prepared for the arctic blast that stole his breath. On the stoop stood a fragile, dark-haired young woman with the most exquisite features he had ever seen. Her luminous brown eyes peered up at him through a fringe of long lashes. In her arms she carried a young child…and both of them were flocked head to toe with snow. Realizing he was gawking, Gabe quickly yanked the door wide and stepped back. “Please come inside. Warm yourselves by the fire.”

  “Thank you,” the woman breathed. She entered, setting the little one down.

  As they gravitated to the hearth, Gabe closed the door, then went to the hall. “Aunt Clara,” he called up the staircase. “Any of that hot cocoa still left?”

  “Sure an’ there is,” came her reply, the r’s rolling smoothly from her Irish brogue. “I’ll be fetchin’ it right away.”

  When he returned to the parlor, he found the pair kneeling before the blazing warmth. The little one’s wet outerwear had already been shed, and now she extended her hands toward the heat. He switched his attention to the woman. “What might I do for you and your little girl?”

  “Oh!” she gasped. “She isn’t mine. I only just found her shivering outside in the storm. I thought perhaps you might help her. You are a minister, are you not?”

  He nodded. “Gabe Winters. I pastor the Baptist church here. And you’re—”

  “Forgive me, Reverend,” she murmured, rosy patches heightening those the fire had already called forth on her fine cheekbones. “Angelina Matthews. I’m a seamstress on Front Street. And this is Noely,” she added, turning the little girl to face him. “But I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

  Gabe had no reason to doubt her word, but even if he had, the uncertainty would have evaporated as he compared her and the child. Noely’s complexion was fair, nowhere near the rich olive tones of Miss Matthews. Nor were her huge blue eyes in the slightest way similar to the expressive doe-like ones of her rescuer. The girl’s features—far from being delicately feminine—were stark, almost too mature for her little face, yet Gabe had no doubt she would grow into them one day.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t help wondering why someone as fetching as Angelina Matthews would find necessity to be employed, rather than married and a mother herself.

  Her voice cut across his contemplations. “The child hasn’t told me about her parents. She cried when I inquired after them.”

  “Well now, little Noely,” he said, sinking to one knee beside her. “Once we’ve managed to get you all warm and dry, perhaps you’ll tell us a few things about yourself.”

  She tucked her chin and inched shyly against Miss Matthews.

  Aunt Clara bustled in just then, bearing a tray. She set it on a lamp table, then passed steaming mugs around. “This has got extra milk, darlin’,” she said, giving one to the child, “so it’ll not be burnin’ your tongue. Are ye hungry?”

  Noely gave a slow nod.

  “Well then, we’ll be settin’ that problem to rights. Come see what we can find, will ye now?” She held out a hand.

  Huge wary eyes sought those of Miss Matthews for encouragement, then she hesitantly put her small fingers inside the older woman’s plump ones. The two of them ambled toward the kitchen, with Noely intent upon not spilling the cocoa she clutched in her other hand.

  Gabe caught the furtive glance the youngster cast over her shoulder before exiting the parlor with his motherly aunt. He switched his attention to the dark-haired woman a few feet away. Her long, loose waves, held back at each side in pearl combs, were already beginning to dry. “So the little thing hasn’t told you how or why she happened to be caught out in the weather.”

  “Not a word.” She drank the remainder of the warm drink, then rose stiffly to her feet. “And since she’ll be in such good hands, there is no reason for me to stay longer. In fact, it might be best if she didn’t see me leave. I shall trust her to your care and be on my way. Thank you for your hospitality—and your aunt’s of course.”

  “But the storm—”

  The young woman leaned over to retrieve the short cape and the scarf from the braided rug, then she deftly put them on. “I’ll be fine. I live not far from here.” She hobbled across the room.

  Gabe’s heart caught at the sight of her ungainly walk. He easily beat her to the door. “I do thank you, Miss Matthews, for bringing the child to us. We’ll do our best to discover the whereabouts of her parents. And until then, we’ll take very good care of her, be assured of that.”

  “I have no doubt of it. Goodnight, Reverend.”

  “God be with you, miss.”

  Leaving the comfortably furnished brick home behind, Angelina realized her last comment had been made in all honesty. The warmth she had found at the parsonage had every bit as much to do with the loving atmosphere as it did the burning logs in the fireplace. The sandy-haired pastor—she smiled to herself recalling the giant he had seemed, towering over her and Noely—probably had to duck his head to go out the door! But his kindly face had a certain openness about it, a gentle appeal, especially with the merry twinkle radiating from his clear blue eyes.

  And something about his aunt Clara reminded Angelina of her own mother. Not so much the woman’s stature, but her manner and bearing, her soothing voice. They awakened memories Angelina only remembered in hazy snatches. Noely should be fine there until her parents could be contacted. Thus comforted, she picked her way carefully through the snowdrifts.

  Finally turning onto Elfreth, where simple row houses appeared to nestle against one another for warmth, she used the glow from the windows to get her bearing as she made her way to her own residence, the second from the end. It was nowhere near as grand as the homey abode she had so recently left, she conceded, and it would be cold and dark after sitting empty all day, but at least the wind would be kept at bay while a fire took hold. She unlocked the door and entered, lit the lamps, then disposed quickly of her wet clothes. Once she had replaced them with a warm nightgown and flannel wrapper, she padded to the small, plain parlor to start the fire.

  Heat from the crackling logs soon eradicated the chill. Angelina unwrapped the heavy blanket with which she had enshrouded herself and poured a cup of tea to have with her bread and
cheese. No doubt little Noely had enjoyed a grand feast, but no one could begrudge her that…poor little thing. What could her parents have been thinking, to allow such a young child to wander about on her own? She only hoped the Reverend Winters would give them a sound talking-to when he found them.

  Angelina’s thoughts lingered for a time on the pastor as she contemplated his sensitive manner. Curious, she thought, such a nice-looking man without a wife—or the woman surely would have been home on a night such as this! But at least his aunt was there to take charge of a child’s welfare. Angelina could almost picture the older woman fussing over Noely, tucking her into a feather bed piled with quilts, tending to her every need.

  Yes, she surmised with a yawn, the little girl would probably have the time of her life at the parsonage, then be reunited with her own family. In time she wouldn’t even remember getting lost in a blizzard. No reason Angelina shouldn’t forget the whole affair herself, really.

  But warm thoughts of a nice pastor—and even more disturbing ones of a heart-stealing little girl—weren’t so easily turned away.

  Chapter 2

  A shaft of sunlight slanted across Angelina’s bed, right into her eyes. Turning her head away, she yawned and stretched, flung the patchwork quilt aside and rose, slipping into her warm wrapper and knitted slippers. Then she padded to the window.

  Beneath the clear blue sky, a two-foot blanket of downy snow glistened as if studded with millions of diamonds. It was hard to believe the elements had put on such a wild show last night—or that she had slept until ten. Now long icicles hung from the eaves of every building, dripping in the blazing sun. Most of the goodwives in the neighborhood had already swept their stoops, Angelina noticed, and bundled children frolicked in the snowdrifts. Undoubtedly their white wonderland would diminish with each hour, turning quickly into dreary slush and mud. But in the meanwhile, the little ones would take full advantage.