by Speer, Flora
“You are being unfair,” Carol said, feeling more frustrated than ever. “One person alone cannot solve all of the world’s problems.”
“You are not expected to do so. What you are expected to do is care about those whom you know you could help. Begin with those around you and go on from there, always doing the best you can. The slightest change can make a bigger difference than you realize.”
“My best,” Carol repeated thoughtfully. “I haven’t always done my best in the past, have I?”
“Do it now. It is never too late to begin.” Lady Augusta rose, her garments floating around her. “Sleep now, Carol. The pain of this second parting from your love will ease, especially since you know that you have the means within yourself to save him a second time. And to save the life of Car.”
“Are you telling me that there will be a Car?” Carol stared at her. “A real Car?”
“I thought you were the real Car.” Head tilted to one side, Lady Augusta regarded her with a piercing look. “Didn’t Nik explain all of this to you when you first arrived in that future time? Surely he mentioned the dreams he had, foretelling your meeting?”
“Yes, he did.” Carol sighed, remembering. “I listened to his beautiful words, but I didn’t really understand them until this minute. Is it true, then? Nik and I will meet again in the future, and we might both live beyond those days when I was there? And Pen and the others, too?”
“Whether possibility becomes reality is up to you, Carol.” Lady Augusta raised one hand and Carol began to grow sleepy. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open. She yawned, too weary to lift her own hand to cover her mouth.
“Sleep will mend your present grief,” Lady Augusta said.
“Don’t go. Will I see you again? Didn’t you say… ?” Carol was so sleepy that she could no longer remember what Lady Augusta had said.
“I am heartened to learn that you now desire my company where once you despised it.” There was amusement in Lady Augusta’s fading voice, and a kindness and warmth Carol had not heard from her before. “I will return once more. For the moment, my presence is required Elsewhere. You have until Twelfth Night, Carol. Do your very best, child. Remember, I am depending upon you.”
The voice grew fainter and fainter, until Carol could just barely hear the last words.
She sighed and turned over, snuggling down beneath the bedcovers. Questions floated through her mind, but she was too tired to ask them just yet. Tomorrow would be soon enough. For the moment, her pillow was soft and the bed and her flannel nightgown were warm.
Pillow? Nightgown? Hadn’t she been sitting by the fire?
Chapter 19
Christmas Eve Day was Carol’s 27th birthday. She gave the fact only the briefest thought as she rose from her bed at an early hour. When she finished washing her face in the bathroom down the hall, she stared at herself in the mirror over the sink, expecting to see in her visage the marks of the great changes that had taken place in her. However, except for the faint hint of a smile lingering about her usually downturned lips, her face looked the same as it always did.
“After what I’ve just been through,” Carol said softly to herself, “I ought to be red-eyed from crying all night. But I slept better than I have for years, and I can’t see any outward signs of severe emotional conflict. Why not?”
It did not take much thought before she knew the answer to her question. Though they were real enough to her, the horrors of the future had not yet actually occurred, so they could not mark her. Nik was not yet born; thus, he had not died by order of Commander Drum. Nik, his sister, and his friends might never have to face the terrible deaths Carol had witnessed. She could make the difference for them.
“And I will,” Carol told her damp reflection. “I have the power to change the future. Lady Augusta said so, and I believe her. The only question is, exactly where to start.”
By the time she had applied her makeup and dressed, her plan of action was formulated. It was still early. Nell brought her breakfast on a tray every morning at 7:30, but today Carol did not wait to be served. She hastened below to the kitchen.
“Oh, miss,” cried Nell, catching sight of her, “I was just fixing your tray.”
“There’s no need for you to climb all those stairs,” Carol told her. “I will eat right here, at the kitchen table. Unless I’ll be in your way, Mrs. Marks? You look very busy.”
“Eat where you like,” said Mrs. Marks, somewhat ungraciously.
“Thank you, I will. I would like to talk to you, Mrs. Marks. And to you, too, Nell.”
“What about?” asked Mrs. Marks, slamming two pans of freshly baked bread down on the table.
“First,” said Carol, “if the invitation is still open, I would be very happy to join all of you for Christmas dinner tomorrow night.”
“I thought you had other plans.” Mrs. Marks was turning the hot loaves out of the baking pans onto racks to cool, but she paused to send a sharp glance in Carol’s direction.
“Well, my original plans have—um—they’ve fallen through,” Carol said. “Besides, it might be nice if the entire staff ate a meal together on what will almost certainly be our last Christmas at Marlowe House.”
“Oh, yes,” said Nell. “Oh, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Mrs. Marks?”
“If you want to eat with us,” Mrs. Marks said to Carol, “then you are welcome. It is Christmas, after all. But I still don’t understand why you want to.”
“She just told you why,” Nell cried.
“No, she didn’t.” Mrs. Marks frowned at Carol, who suddenly grinned at her. Mrs. Marks stared, too taken aback to say another word.
Carol had just recalled an old adage. If you want someone to be your friend, don’t do a favor for him. Instead, let him do a favor for you.
“Mrs. Marks, I have a great favor to ask of you,” Carol announced.
“Now we come to it,” said Mrs. Marks with another of her hard looks.
“Yes, indeed.” Carol was still smiling. “Do you know St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board?’
“Everyone in this part of London knows about St. Fiacre’s,” said Mrs. Marks. “The Reverend Mr. Kincaid and his wife do a lot of good there.”
“I agree.” Carol extended her smile to include not only Mrs. Marks and Nell, but also Crampton and Hettie, who had come into the kitchen while she spoke and who both looked very surprised to see her sitting there at the table. “I think we should help Lucius Kincaid and his wife in their efforts to feed the poor. I am sure they could use more food, and extra hands to help serve this evening’s meal would also be welcome.”
“Help them?” Mrs. Marks looked doubtful. “Well, I don’t know. I have so much work to do in preparation for our own Christmas dinner tomorrow.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Nell. “Only half an hour ago, you were bragging to me how you had preparations so well in hand that there would be nothing left for you to do from breakfast time today until late tomorrow morning. And just think of all the cookies you’ve been baking for days. Who you intended them for I’ll never know. The five of us can’t eat all of them before they go stale. We might as well donate them to St. Fiacre’s, where they’ll be appreciated.” When Nell paused for breath, Crampton cleared his throat.
“If I may make an additional suggestion,” said Crampton, “I believe canned goods are always acceptable at such establishments. If they are not used for tonight’s meal, they can be easily saved to be served at some future time. Hunger is not confined to the holiday season, and St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board serves meals all the year round. Now, the cellars below this kitchen are filled with food that will be useless if Marlowe House is soon to be closed. The executors of Lady Augusta’s estate will be forced to find a means of disposing of all of those cans. We could carry some of them to St. Fiacre’s today.”
“I don’t think Lady Augusta would approve of your idea, Crampton,” said Mrs. Marks in a stern tone of voice.
“Believe me,” Carol tol
d her, “the Lady Augusta I know would wholeheartedly endorse Crampton’s wonderful idea.”
“Do you really think so?” Mrs. Marks appeared to be puzzled by Carol’s assured tone, but after a moment she nodded, accepting the notion that Lady Augusta might have been more generous than her cook had ever realized. “Well, in that case, seeing that this is the holiday season, I could make another batch of bread and send it to the church.”
“Thank you.” Carol paused, then asked, “If I buy a turkey to contribute to the cause, could you have it cooked in time to take it to the church hall late this afternoon? I’m not certain what time the dinner is to be served. And, I confess, I wouldn’t know how to roast a bird on my own.”
“Here now, I’m not sure about all of this,” Mrs. Marks began, puzzled again and a bit upset by so many unexpected suggestions.
“The doors of the Bountiful Board open at five o’clock this afternoon,” Hettie stated. “Oh, Mrs. Marks, let’s do it. I know Lady Augusta was never one for charity work, but Mr. Kincaid has always been nice to me. I go to St. Fiacre’s every Sunday,” she confided to Carol.
“I suppose we could do our bit to help out, just this once, since it is Christmas Eve.” Mrs. Marks looked at the small, plain roll on Carol’s plate and at the cup of tea Nell was pouring for her. “That’s not much of a breakfast. I could cook an egg or two for you, if you’d like.”
“I would love it.” Carol sat back in her chair, well satisfied with the response of Lady Augusta’s staff to the first part of her plan to change the future. “Two eggs, scrambled, if you please. And thank you very much, Mrs. Marks.”
Carol spent the morning in a burst of last-minute Christmas shopping. The first order of business was the turkey. She bought the biggest, plumpest bird she could find and carried it back to Marlowe House herself.
“I wanted to be sure you would have enough time to cook it,” she said to Mrs. Marks, “so I didn’t wait for the delivery service.”
“Hah. At least you know how to shop for a crowd.” Mrs. Marks regarded the turkey with satisfaction. “That ought to feed a fair number of people. I’ll fire up the big oven, the one we used to use for great roasts in the days when Lady Augusta’s father was alive and still entertaining. Now, where are you going? I thought you were going to help us.” This last exclamation was addressed to Carol’s back.
“I never learned to cook,” said Carol, one hand on the door knob. “I leave that to experts like you, Mrs. Marks. I have more shopping to do. I will be back in time to assist in carrying everything to the church.” She did not add that she was feeling increasingly nervous about this charitable project of hers, or that she was comforted to know the servants would be with her so she would not have to meet the Kincaids on her own.
“While you are gone,” Crampton put in before Carol could leave the kitchen, “I shall call the Reverend Mr. Kincaid and inform him of our intentions. He should know of them in advance, for it may be that with our additions to his menu, he will be able to invite more hungry folk than he originally planned to feed.”
“That’s a good idea, Crampton. I’m glad you thought of it.” She was more relieved by his suggestion than Crampton could possibly guess. It was cowardly of her to let him smooth the way for her with the Kincaids, but Carol was afraid the rector and his wife might not be glad to see her after her rudeness to them on Monday afternoon. The episode after Lady Augusta’s funeral seemed years ago to Carol, but to the Kincaids it was only a few days in the past. They could not have forgotten it.
With a silent prayer that she would be forgiven her earlier sharp words and permitted to do what she could to help the good people of St. Fiacre’s, Carol let herself out the door before Mrs. Marks could think of any reason why she ought to stay and help with the cooking. Now, with the turkey in the cook’s capable hands, Carol could begin the rest of her errands. She headed toward Bond Street first and then to Regents’ Street.
Within a very short time she bought a bottle of toilet water and a jar of hand cream in the same scent for Nell, whose hands were often red and rough from housework and who Carol suspected often longed for feminine pleasures she could not afford. For Crampton, Carol purchased a book about the historic houses of England. Next she selected a pretty blouse for Mrs. Marks. Finding a gift for Hettie was a bit of a problem, since the scullery maid did not seem to have any interests beyond her work at Marlowe House and Carol knew from the vision of the servants’ holiday dinner shown to her by Lady Augusta that Hettie could not read very well. A book would not suit but, recalling Hettie’s remark that she went to St. Fiacre’s every Sunday, Carol at last settled on a felt hat decorated with a sprightly red feather.
It had been years since she had bought a gift for anyone, and in those earlier, youthful days Christmas shopping had always seemed like an unpleasant chore. It was not so today. Every present she bought represented in some way a gift of love, and the cheerful “Merry Christmas” that she regularly heard during those hours was music to her newly blossoming spirit, a sound almost as joyous as the Christmas carols being played in the stores she visited.
“This is fun,” Carol said to herself with a sense of wonder. “I never guessed that shopping for presents to give to someone else could make me feel so wonderfully happy.” She knew it would be even more fun if the man she loved could be with her, but she refused to think about her own longings. She was engaged in a project to ensure that same man a long and happy life. Knowing that she was succeeding would be enough for her.
Her arms filled with packages, she paused outside a confectioner’s shop. She thought Lady Penelope Hyde would have appreciated the gaily decorated and cleverly arranged boxes of chocolates and other sweets in the window. The Pen who lived in the far future loved sweets. Taking a chance that Abigail Penelope Kincaid also had a sweet tooth, Carol went into the store and selected a large box of assorted candies.
“A merry Christmas to you/’ the shopkeeper called after her as she left.
“Merry Christmas,” Carol replied, giving him a bright and totally sincere smile.
She stood outside the shop for a moment, trying to balance all her parcels and realizing that she could not possibly carry anything more. Hailing a taxi, she returned to Marlowe House a second time, to sneak in by the front door and carry everything up to her bedroom, there to hide the packages in her closet in case Nell should come into the room for some reason. Having deposited the gifts on the closet floor, she straightened to look at her wardrobe. It was not large, and all of her clothes were in shades of brown, black, or gray.
“Not very cheerful,” Carol noted. “I will have to do something about that. And I still need decorations for St. Fiacre’s hall and for the church. Do I have enough money left?”
After scraping together every pound note and coin she could find, she went out again. This time she bought a packet of pretty but inexpensive wrapping paper and some ribbon, then purchased a green silk scarf and a bright lipstick for herself, before ending her Christmas shopping at the florist’s shop where she had purchased roses and narcissus just a few days previously. There she selected an assortment of red and white flowers and holiday greenery for the altar at St. Fiacre’s Church, a table arrangement for the buffet, and three wreaths with red bows on them.
“We can deliver these,” said the shopkeeper when Carol explained why she wanted so many decorations. “I am closing the shop in half an hour, and I will be happy to take everything to St. Fiacre’s myself. In fact, I’m helping to serve the dinner tonight.”
“Then I’ll see you there,” Carol said.
“If you are working with Mrs. Kincaid, you certainly will.” The young woman smiled at her. “Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, merry Christmas!” Carol cried. “Until later, then.”
Back at Marlowe House, the kitchen was filled with the good smell of roasting turkey and sage and thyme. Hettie was packing cookies into large tins for transportation to St. Fiacre’s, Nell was wrapping loaves of still-warm bread,
Crampton was sharpening a carving knife, and a slightly frazzled-looking Mrs. Marks was bustling about giving orders to everyone.
“I don’t know how we will get that turkey to the hall,” Mrs. Marks fussed.
“I shall carry it,” Crampton told her, “and I shall carve it, too. You have done a lovely job on it, Mrs. Marks. The bird will provide the perfect centerpiece to the main course.”
“They already have two turkeys, you know,” said Hettie, closing the last tin of cookies. “There are people in the kitchen over at St. Fiacre’s carvin’ them right now.”
“Nonetheless, / shall carve this one where everyone can see it,” Crampton responded. “The sight of an entire bird beautifully roasted to a perfect shade of brown will add to the festive air of the meal.”
“Exactly right, Crampton,” said Mrs. Marks.
“I suggest that you ladies retire for twenty minutes or so, in order to prepare yourselves, and then we will leave,” Crampton said.
Smiling to herself at the way in which the formerly standoffish servants were warming to the plans she had instigated, Carol hurried to her room to hide the last batch of parcels in her closet. She pulled out a simple gray wool dress and changed into it, wrapping the new green scarf around her throat and fastening it with a gold pin in the shape of a leaf. It had once belonged to her grandmother and for sentimental reasons, Carol had refused to part with it when she gave up all other traces of past luxury.
