My First Noel

by Danelle Harmon

  “Who are you?”

  It’s never too late to change the way you look at the world and the way you see others. It’s never too late to let your heart be softened, to forgive those who have wronged you, to try to understand and empathize instead of clinging to your anger, your resentment. What have they brought you, besides pain? Loneliness? You have a choice. And when you make that choice and follow the road that you struck out on tonight, you will see, Katharine, your life change in ways that will take your breath away.

  In the darkness, the face of Mr. O’ Flaherty began to take shape. He with the deep, dark eyes full of the wisdom of the ages even though his mouth carried the smile of a rogue, he who had the dignity of a prince but the clothes of a beggar.

  There, that voice again.

  It’s Christmas Eve. And what is Christmas but the celebration of a birth, not just my birth, but the birth of what my coming represents…peace and hope and love, not just for others and all of Creation, but for yourself. Perhaps it’s a birth for you, too. Follow me, Katharine, and you will find the peace that you’ve sought for so long. Follow me, and your life will bloom with hope instead of defeat and despair. Follow me, and I will show you the very deepest sort of joy.

  “Mr.…O’ Flaherty?” Confused, she stared into the darkness, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, hearing, as she trembled with awe and disbelief. “Are you…are you—?”

  “I was a stranger, and ye took me in…. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

  “What?”

  Hear me, Katharine. The voice surrounded her, permeating her like the cold had done but with a rich, abiding love, a love so deep and mysterious that she could only huddle in its presence and wipe frantically at the tears now streaming down her cheeks. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

  The least of my brethren.

  A highwayman. A robber. A stranger, from out of the cold.

  Ye have done it unto me.

  She threw off the dream and bolted upright in the darkness, her heart pounding her ribs like a hammer against glass, her breath rushing through her lungs in great silent gulps, the tears still wet upon her cheeks. The room lay in darkness around her, still and silent, the sleet still tinkling against the window outside. Frantically, her eyes searched the gloom. He’d been here. Right here! But that beautiful face with the eyes full of ancient love was not there. The room was empty. She had dreamed it all.

  Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

  Somewhere out in another part of the house, a clock began to toll out the hour. Twelve solemn strokes, one after another ringing through the darkness.

  It was Christmas morning.

  Chapter 6

  The pain woke him.

  That, and the sudden knowledge that he was no longer alone.

  Had Lady Katharine returned with something to bind his ribs? Was a servant in the room, tending to the fire? A dog or a cat, even?

  Grimacing with pain, Noel pushed himself toward the headboard, pulled the covers up over his chest to contain the warmth, and blinked away the sleep.

  It was Lady Katharine. She stood just inside the doorway, staring at him in an odd and frankly disturbing way. The candle she’d left for him had burned out, and the light from the hearth flickered against her face.

  Noel sat up a little straighter. She was so beautiful that he forgot how much pain he was in.

  “Are you…Him?” she asked in a breathy, awed, somewhat frightened whisper.

  He grinned. “Aye, last I checked.”

  “Oh, my God. I mean, Lord. That is to say, heavens. Oh! I don’t know how I’m supposed to talk to you!”

  Noel’s cocky smile faded just a little and he looked at her narrowly. “Well, you’ve made a good start, though I hope you know what time it is.”

  “It’s Christmas! Your birthday!”

  He stared at her. How the devil could she know that it was his birthday?

  “And here I thought I was dreaming. I’m not, though, am I? Oh, I’m so excited…that seems like such a trivial thing to say, but I really don’t know how to address you, how to comport myself, what to say to you.”

  “Lady Katharine, are you mad?”

  “No, but you’ve shown me things I was incapable of seeing and I don’t know how to thank you, and I can promise you right now that I’m going to turn my life around and make things right, that I’ll apologize to Charles’s wife for the things I said to her, the way I felt about her, and Gareth’s wife too, because you were correct, I mean of course you were correct! Living with such resentment is a prison in its own right, and I don’t want to live in that prison any longer, I want to be happy again and I have you to thank for that for finally showing me the truth.”

  Noel raised an eyebrow, trying to remember when he’d had this conversation with her.

  “Are you a dream, or is this really happening? Or are we both in a dream?”

  “With no disrespect to you, Lady Katharine, this is more of a nightmare. My ribs ache, my head hurts, I’m worried about the whereabouts of my horse—”

  “I thought you rode on a donkey.”

  “—and I’m hungry. A damnable position in which to find one’s self. Did you just say donkey?”

  “Dear heavens, you swore!” She looked horrified.

  “Did you just say donkey?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I can assure you, no self-respecting highwayman would ride on a donkey.”

  “But you’re not really a highwayman, are you?”

  Noel just looked at her, convinced that she was daft in the head. Such odd questions! “No, I’m not, though I have been for the last week and as for swearing, I tend to watch my words around ladies.”

  “I would have thought that someone like you would watch your words around everyone.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Well, since you’re…Him, that is.”

  Noel rubbed at the side of his temple with two fingers. His stomach gave a long, impatient growl and he wondered if this strange, beautiful woman would be inclined to give him something to eat before he set out on his way at daybreak.

  “Are you Him?”

  “Well of course I’m him. Who else would I be? Didn’t we make introductions a few hours before?”

  “Yes, but…that was before I knew who you really are.”

  “How can you know who I really am?”

  “I had a dream in which it was revealed to me. A very realistic dream, more of a vision, really. There are so many questions I would like to ask you,” she said, moving further into the room and crossing her arms over her breasts. Her eyes were huge in the darkness. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  Noel blinked. She had seemed cold, spoiled, hopelessly haughty but otherwise quite ordinary when she’d gone off to find something to bind his ribs with, but now… He frowned, studying her. Maybe she was a sleepwalker. Maybe she had a crystal ball, a deck of cards, and skills as a witch. Maybe she was a bit too addicted to the poppy. Maybe he was the one dreaming, not her, because this was getting more and more bizarre by the moment. Yes, that was it. It had to be.

  I’m dreaming.

  “I mean, what does it feel like to be nearly two thousand years old? To have seen the face of God himself? To be able to raise people from the dead, turn water into wine, heal the sick, the lame, the paralyzed?”

  Noel stared at her.

  “I cried myself to sleep tonight,” she continued, her eyes pleading. “I cried myself to sleep because I felt sorry for myself. My fiance jilted me, and he was just the third of three and will no doubt be the last.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “I guess he thought me a shrew.”

  “Are you?”

  She looked down at her toes which,
he noticed, were bare beneath the hem of her skirts. They were very pretty toes belonging to very pretty feet, and he wished her hem wasn’t quite so long because he would bet anything she had very pretty ankles, too. She dug at the rug with one of those toes, hugged herself a little tighter and looking down with great interest at the floor. “I suppose there have been times when I’ve been…less than kind to others.”

  “Why?”

  She still wouldn’t meet his eye. “Didn’t we already discuss this?”

  “Tell me again,” he said, distracted by that pretty foot and the way her breasts were bunching up beneath her crossed arms.

  “I was jealous. I was betrothed to Lord Charles de Montforte since we were both children, but he cast me aside, jilted me in favor of someone else and yes, it hurt…it hurt my pride and my feelings and the heart that everyone seems to think I don’t have. So I lashed out. I hit back, taking pleasure in bringing doubt and pain to his new wife because I wanted what she had.” She looked up then, her eyes luminous in the darkness, almost haunted. “But you already know all that. Why are we going all over it, again? Is this part of the repentance part?”

  Repentance part? He tore his gaze from her foot. “I can assure you, Lady Katharine, that I do not share whatever gifts of prophecy you appear to possess.” He smiled. “You give me far too much credit.”

  She looked back at the floor. “I wish I hadn’t been so unkind.”

  “Did you ever apologize?”

  “No, and I was beastly when Lord Charles’s younger brother Gareth also rejected me in favor of another.”

  “I see.” He did not, of course. “And besides husbands, what did these two ladies have, that you did not?”

  “They are kind-hearted and good.”

  “And you are not?”

  “You know that I’m not.”

  “I know,” he said softly, “that you opened the door to an injured man tonight, a man covered in mud, soaking wet and freezing cold and wanted for a crime, and that you took him into your house.”

  In the darkness, he heard a strange, hitching sound and saw her wipe furiously at her eye. She was weeping.

  “I know this same woman who claims to be a shrew, who says she lacks a kind heart and a good soul, took that same brigand not only into her house, but installed him in her bedroom at great risk to her reputation.”

  “Please stop, I am not a nice person.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “I am selfish and spoiled, angry and resentful, and I know that the only reason you’re here is for my redemption and I’m not worthy of so great a gift.”

  “Your redemption?”

  “Yes! Don’t you remember? You came to me in a dream!”

  “No, Lady Katharine. I came to you on all fours, dragging myself through mud and snow while your neighbor scoured the countryside looking to finish a job he started.”

  “But you’re Him!” she all but wailed.

  “Yes, I’m him. Nollaig O’ Flaherty, your humble servant, forever grateful to you for your kindness.”

  “Stop pretending to be someone you’re not. I know who you are!”

  He gave her a quiet, level stare and said gently. “I think, Lady Katharine, that I know better than you do, who I am.”

  “You’re not…Him, then?”

  “I am, him.”

  Her eyes widened yet again. “You said, ‘I Am.’”

  “I did.”

  “So you are Him, then.”

  “Lady Katharine…you are a beautiful woman, and I quite enjoy your company, but you speak in riddles and I don’t think I’ve ever been as confused as I find myself to be right now.”

  “Your name is Nollaig. It means Christmas, does it not?”

  “I was born on the twenty-fifth of December, so it was the name my mother gave me.”

  “I knew it! You are Him!”

  Noel put his head in his hands and resisted the urge to gather his hair in fists of confusion and frustration. Even more maddening was the fact that there was a part of him, hidden beneath the coverlets, that was growing more and more aware of the fact that a beautiful woman stood in the nearby darkness, a daft woman, yes, but a woman nonetheless, and the state of that particular part of his anatomy was beginning to claim more of his attention than his attempts to follow her strange conversation.

  “You were born on Christmas,” she said passionately. “You are gentle and kind, you even look like Him. You said ‘I Am.’ You came to me in a dream and yet you deny it all, deny that you’re Him, when it’s obvious that you are. Please don’t disappear now, please don’t ascend up through the ceiling and through the clouds above, please, stay and tell me more about yourself.”

  Noel stared at her.

  And suddenly, he knew exactly who she thought he was.

  He, who was as much a sinner as the next man, no more holy than a footstool in a parson’s cottage. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Lady Katharine,” he said slowly, “I am not the Him that you’d have me be. I’m nothing but a down-on-his-luck Irish rogue who came to England to appeal to my relations for help, but who was denied recognition or mercy and thrown out on the street. Truly, I’m nothing more than that.”

  She stood looking down at him, blinking, her face stricken. “You’re not…the Lord?”

  He felt her pain and disappointment, mirrored there in huge, tragic eyes. “No. Honestly. I’m not.”

  He saw her face change. Saw it fill with raw humiliation and horror. Her lips trembled and she pressed her fingertips to her mouth, unable to speak.

  He lay there, looking quietly up at her.

  “You have made a fool of me,” she whispered in a broken little voice. “I believed in a miracle. I believed in something I desperately wanted to be true, and now I feel like an absolute fool.”

  “There’s no need to feel like a fool. And making you feel like one was never my intent. As for miracles, you gave me one tonight. You saved my life.”

  “I’m so…mortified!”

  “And I think you’re beautiful. In body, heart and soul.”

  Her eyes filled with tears and with a little cry she turned and ran from the room, the door slamming behind her.

  Outside, the sleet pinged against the glass like a thousand needles and wind whistled under the eaves, and Noel wondered if maybe, just maybe, he should have let her go on believing her outrageous conviction that he was the Christ.

  He’d be back out in the cold again, soon enough.

  He thought of a newborn baby in a manger while the breaths of stable animals frosted the air around Him.

  Maybe he had more in common with the Christ child than he’d thought.

  Chapter 7

  Oh, ohhh, the nerve of that horrible man, that pretender, that—that imposter!

  Katharine had never been so humiliated in her entire adult life, and probably not in her childhood, either. What kind of fool had she been to let a dream—as close and real as it had been, as vibrant as it still was in her memory—to make her think that an ordinary man was someone extra-ordinary? Divine?

  The only thing extraordinary and divine about Mr. Nollaig O’ Flaherty was the fact that Lucien de Montforte hadn’t yet found him, because when he did—

  There was a sudden pounding at the door.

  Katharine froze. One o’ clock in the morning, snow swirling against the windows, and for the second time this wretched night someone was outside and she, having given the footmen the evening off (she was a shrew, after all), was going to have to answer it yet again. Who would it be this time? Mother Mary? The three Magi? The angel Gabriel?

  She yanked open the door, throwing caution to the wind. It could have been anyone or anything on the other side of that door, and the anyone or anything that it turned out to be was none other than Lucien de Montforte.

  The duke stood out there on the steps, the reins of his savage stallion in one gloved hand, his eyes black and inscrutable beneath a tricorn that was crusted in wet snow. Behin
d him, a black-and-white mare stood tied to a nearby tree, ears flat and head drooping beneath the worsening weather.

  “Your Grace,” Katharine said with cold deference. “Rather an odd hour for you to be out paying a visit, don’t you think?” She did not step back to allow her neighbor into the house. “If you want Perry, he’s long abed and I’m certain he has no wish to see you tonight, tomorrow, or any other night, even if it is Christmas.”

  The duke looked pointedly down at the steps on which he stood, then back up to her. “This is not a social call. I’m looking for an injured man. Tall, dark-haired, scruffy. Irish accent. Have you seen him?” He focused that omniscient, all-seeing black gaze on her, and Katharine thought fleetingly that if Nollaig O’ Flaherty was the baby Jesus all grown up, then Lucien de Montforte was surely his Satanic counterpart.

  “An injured man?” She gave a derisive snort. “No, Your Grace, I have been safely in my bed and dreaming of sugar plums and roast beef and kisses under the mistletoe that I shall likely never get. Now please leave. It’s one o’ clock in the morning and I would like—”

  “Because there are tracks in the mud leading up to this house and blood on your steps.”

  To her credit, Katharine didn’t flinch before that penetrating black stare. “Well that’s news to me. Perhaps Perry will know something. Come back tomorrow and ask him.”

  “I would ask him now.”

  “No, you will not. He’s in bed sleeping off a bottle of spirits that your cunning machinations drove him to, and whatever insanity you’re pursuing, Blackheath, can wait until daylight. Good night.”

  She tried to close the door in his face.

  One booted toe prevented it.

  And in that moment, Katharine saw that Blackheath was looking up, past her shoulder, and beyond her to the stairs that led to the first floor where not only Perry slept, but where Nollaig O’ Flaherty, formerly and briefly known as Him, was supposed to be safely tucked in her bed.