by Speer, Flora
The group from Marlowe House made a merry parade through the streets to St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board, where the rector greeted them at the door. Carol quickly discovered that she need not have worried over the way she would be received. Lucius Kincaid gave her the same friendly smile he bestowed on the others with her. Carol also found that his almost Victorian manner of speech no longer irritated her. Rather, knowing now the kind of person he really was, she thought his speech was charming.
“Good heavens,” Lucius Kincaid said, surveying the food they carried. “I knew you were coming to help us, but I never expected all of this. My friends, you have made Christmas immeasurably happier for many souls tonight.
“And please do notice,” he added, waving an arm to indicate the decorated front door and the interior of the hall, “that an anonymous donor has sent us wreaths and flowers. It’s quite remarkable, really, to find someone so sensitive and so generous. Few people remember that even those who live in the direst poverty can appreciate beauty when it is shown to them. Of course, we need food to nourish their bodies, but we ought not to forget to feed their spirits as well.”
“Amen to that.” The florist with whom Carol had dealt earlier in the day had spoken from behind Lucius Kincaid’s back, and she winked at Carol.
When the Reverend Mr. Kincaid moved away to show Crampton where to put down the turkey, Carol stepped closer to the florist. “Thank you for your discretion on the subject of the decorations,” Carol murmured. Looking around, she added, “But I never ordered this many flowers. There is a bouquet on every table, and there are wreaths on all the walls and even on the door into the kitchen.”
“Isn’t it amazing how much pleasure can be derived from giving a gift to someone who has no idea who sent it?” said the florist, laughing. “I wish I had discovered that simple fact of life before today.”
“Are you saying that you donated the extra bouquets?” Carol asked, wondering how she was going to pay for this largesse if the additional flowers were not a donation.
“You inspired me,” the florist answered. “My shop will be closed for the next two days. Anything left there this afternoon will surely be dead by Monday morning, so I thought, why not bring all the flowers here, for these people to enjoy? They are just leftovers, you know, but Lucius Kincaid was so happy to have them that I felt guilty for not doing this long ago. I think from now on I will send all of my unsold flowers here to St Fiacre’s. I’m sure Mr. Kincaid will know who would appreciate them. Perhaps I could donate bouquets for the altar each Sunday, too, if it’s agreeable to him.”
“I’m sure it will be. That’s very kind of you.”
“The idea was yours, Miss Simmons, and it was a good one. Will you excuse me? I am supposed to be helping in the kitchen.”
With moist eyes Carol looked after the young woman, astonished to discover how quickly her own modest gesture had affected someone else’s behavior. Surely, this was what Lady Augusta meant when she said that the smallest change in the present could make a major difference in the future. True, it was only a few flowers, yet the gesture might lighten someone’s heart enough to produce a correspondingly kind chain reaction in a more important area.
Then Carol spied Abigail Penelope Kincaid, in a bright red skirt and green turtleneck sweater, just as she had been dressed in Carol’s vision of this night. Clutching the box of candy she had brought along, Carol hurried forward to intercept the rector’s wife.
“Merry Christmas,” Carol said. Not knowing exactly what to say next, and still more than a bit embarrassed over her unkindness at their last meeting, she thrust the decorated box into Mrs. Kincaid’s hands. “This is for you. Please be just a little selfish and keep it for yourself. I want you to have it.”
“You and the others from Marlowe House have already been so generous,” Mrs. Kincaid said. “Lucius and I were quite surprised. Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that when we met the other day, you weren’t at all interested in what we are trying to do here.”
“I wasn’t myself the other day,” Carol said. “Not my true self, the self I am supposed to be. I’m not making much sense, am I?” She ended on a nervous little laugh.
“Perhaps more sense than you think.” Abigail Penelope Kincaid gave her a shrewd look. “You are different now. If you were to ask my opinion, I would say that you have had a revelation of some kind.”
“You would be very close to the mark,” Carol told her. “Perhaps one day, when we know each other better, I can tell you exactly what has happened to me since Monday and Lady Augusta’s funeral. You and your husband are among the few people who might believe me.”
“Of course we will believe you. And I have a feeling that we are going to become very good friends.” Abigail Kincaid linked her arm through Carol’s. “Now, come and help us serve this wonderful dinner that you and so many other generous people have helped to provide.”
Carol went with the rector’s wife and did her best to be useful. After serving up vegetables at the buffet table, she helped to clear off the empty dishes and then set out the donated pies, cakes, and cookies. Meanwhile, Mrs. Marks’s cooking skills and Crampton’s carving ability were much admired. Mrs. Marks’s cookies in particular were widely praised, and every last one of them was eaten, a fact which pleased the cook enormously.
Someone from Marlowe House—Carol never discovered who it was, but she suspected Nell— had whispered the secret of her birthday to Lucius Kincaid. At the end of the main course, and just before dessert was served, the Reverend Mr. Kincaid rapped a spoon against a glass and called for attention.
“We all know that this is a blessed night, the holiest night of all the year,” he said. “For one of our contributors here with us at this feast, December twenty-fourth also has a personal significance. It is her birthday. To the well-named Miss Carol Noelle Simmons, we wish the happiest of birthdays, and a joyous year ahead.”
The company did not sing “Happy Birthday.” Instead, they offered three cheers to her. As “Hip, hip, hurrah!” rang through the hall, Carol stood between Lucius and Abigail Kincaid and tried her best not to cry.
“Speech, speech,” called a voice from the crowd.
“They will expect you to say something,” Abigail Kincaid whispered to Carol.
“Thank you, and a merry Christmas to every one of you,” Carol responded to her audience. “This is easily the best birthday I have ever had. But there is a far more important Person whose birthday we will celebrate in just a few hours. I hope to see all of you in church.”
“I second that particular sentiment,” declared Lucius Kincaid, to general laughter. “Miss Simmons, why don’t you cut the largest cake? Symbolically, of course, since it is not, strictly speaking, a birthday cake.”
“It is the very best kind of cake,” Carol told him, “because it was made and carried here in a spirit of love and generosity.”
Following the serving of desserts, Carol, Mrs. Marks, the florist, and Abigail Kincaid took charge of pouring coffee or tea for the grownups and milk for the youngsters. Later, when the meal was over and most of the guests had left, there were dishes to wash and put away, while Hettie and Nell helped to sweep the floor and a few male volunteers folded up and stored the chairs and tables. Everyone worked with a cheerful will, but all the same, they just barely got to the church in time.
Carol had been standing for hours, and her feet were aching, she was tired—and she had rarely in her life been so contented or felt so completely possessed by the Christmas spirit. Nor was she alone in being affected by the evening and by the welcome they had received at St. Fiacre’s.
“Hettie isn’t the only one who comes here,” Mrs. Marks confided to Carol in a remarkably friendly way. “I try to sneak out for early service each Sunday.”
“It’s a lovely old church,” Carol whispered back, “but it needs a lot of work.”
“There’s little money in this parish,” said Mrs. Marks. “And what there is goes to meals like
the one you saw tonight. At one time I hoped that Lady Augusta would leave something to St. Fiacre’s in her will, but I should have known better.”
“Perhaps it’s not too late,” Carol murmured. She watched Abigail Kincaid and her three little children arrive and take their seats, a signal that the service was about to begin.
In the church Carol could see evidence of her own good intentions, for the flowers and greens she had ordered for the altar now filled the lovely old vases—and there were extra vases of white chrysanthemums, which she had not ordered, sitting on either side of the pulpit. She glanced toward the florist, now standing with a young man who had joined her during the course of the evening. The florist looked at Carol and smiled, letting Carol know that the white flowers were her contribution.
“There is hope,” Carol said aloud.
“Perhaps there is,” answered Mrs. Marks. “Every Christmas I believe that anew.”
Then they stopped talking because the choir began to march in and the strains of “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” filled the old church.
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning before the contingent from Marlowe House returned home.
“A most rewarding evening,” remarked Crampton, setting down the turkey platter and the carving set. “I am glad we participated.”
“So am I,” said Mrs. Marks. “Thank you for suggesting it, Miss Simmons.”
“Yes,” said Nell. “And the church service was beautiful, too.”
Hettie’s only comment was a long, noisy yawn.
Wishing each other some rather sleepy variations of “Merry Christmas,” they separated then, but Carol stayed up until well after two o’clock, wrapping the Christmas presents she had bought earlier in the day.
She slept long and well that night, entertaining no ghostly visitors and not plagued by visions of Christmases in the past, present, or future. When she wakened at mid-morning it was to the sweet scent of paperwhite narcissus. The red bowl of bulbs she had purchased three days earlier and set on the table beside her bed now presented flowers in full bloom, and the fragrance filled her chamber.
“No matter where I may be during the rest of my life,” Carol said, touching a petal with one gentle finger, “the smell of narcissus will always remind me of this incredible Christmas. Fresh, pure flowers blooming in the dead of winter to symbolize a new beginning. In fact, a whole new life.”
She swung her feet out of bed and hastened to dress, eager to meet whatever possibilities this special day might bring to her. She pulled on a beige skirt and matching sweater and slid her feet into low-heeled beige pumps. For a bit of cheerful color she-added the green silk scarf, once again fastening it at her throat with her grandmother’s pin.
“We all got up so late,” Nell whispered to Carol when she finally reached the kitchen, “that Mrs. Marks has decided to serve the Christmas feast in early afternoon, so she can skip making lunch. She says we can be satisfied with just tea later, instead of a regular dinner.”
“From what I have seen of her preparations for today’s big meal, a cup of tea will probably be all any of us will be able to swallow by nightfall,” Carol responded. Raising her voice, she added, “Mrs. Marks, can I help you in some way?”
“You can set the table,” came the prompt answer. “Crampton will show you where everything is. Make certain you do it right.” Hearing this admonition, Carol and Nell grinned at each other, smothering laughter.
Except for the addition of a small Christmas tree decorating the sideboard—a joint contribution from Nell and Hettie—the holiday meal that followed shortly after noontime appeared to be just as Carol had seen it when Lady Augusta showed it to her in the second of her remarkable nights with that ghostly apparition. However, there was a definite change in the spirits of those who gathered in the servants’ dining room.
“After last night I do feel much more in the spirit of the holiday,” Mrs. Marks declared. “This meal reminds me of the Christmas dinners my dear mother used to make when I was a child.”
“Indeed,” said Crampton. “This has been a most memorable Christmas. I no longer feel quite so useless as I once did when contemplating the retirement soon to be forced upon me. I had begun to believe that I would be put out to pasture, so to speak. I thought there was no place for a man of my years in today’s busy world. But last night the Reverend Mr. Kincaid asked if I would be interested in overseeing the production of meals at St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board. He says the meals have become so popular that he and his wife no longer have time to do the work involved and still keep up with parish affairs and their many other duties.”
“Crampton,” exclaimed Carol, “your experience as a butler should make you ideally suited to that job.”
“I told Mr. Kincaid I would seriously consider his offer,” Crampton responded. “However, since for lack of funds it must be a volunteer position rather than a paid one, I fear I cannot afford to accept it. My pension is too small to allow me to continue to live in London. It is a pity, for I would like to be of some use to my fellow man.” He ended on a sigh.
“Perhaps something can be done to enable you to take the job,” Carol murmured.
“I do not think so. But it is enormously cheering to discover that my services could still be of use despite my advancing age. Now, let us not dwell upon the uncertain future,” Crampton urged. “Let us instead enjoy this Christmas to the fullest. Allow me to propose a toast to the five of us who, most unexpectedly during the last few days, have, I believe, become friends.”
Crampton poured out the brandy—Lady Augusta’s finest stock, just as in Carol’s vision of this scene—and they drank the toast to themselves.
“And to Lady Augusta,” said Nell, lifting her glass a second time. When Mrs. Marks snorted her disapproval of the suggestion, exactly as Carol expected her to do, it was Carol who interceded.
“I have only recently begun to appreciate what a fascinating woman Lady Augusta was,” Carol said. “I never troubled myself to learn about her early personal life or to discover why she was so difficult and so miserly. I think now that she had a wounded heart and hid her pain beneath a shell of nastiness. Perhaps she wished for someone who would love her in spite of the unpleasant front she presented.”
“If anyone had tried,” Mrs. Marks stated bluntly, “Lady Augusta would have pushed that person away.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Carol said. “But we aren’t here to analyze her. Let us just drink to Lady Augusta’s memory and wish her spirit well, wherever she may be tonight.”
“Certainly,” said Crampton, refilling glasses all around. “In the spirit of Christmas, let us drink to Lady Augusta.”
With my very best brandy.
Carol could have sworn she heard the echo of a ghostly voice that no one else in the servants’ dining room discerned.
With the brandy glasses still half full and a fresh pot of tea steeping, Carol brought out the presents she had purchased the day before and gave them to her new friends.
“I never thought,” exclaimed Mrs. Marks, “I mean to say, we have never exchanged gifts before and I did not expect—Miss Simmons, I have nothing to give you in return, and I’m sure Nell and Hettie haven’t, either.”
“I don’t want anything in return,” Carol said. “I enjoyed choosing each gift. And the friendship you have given me is worth more than anything that comes in a package.”
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Marks tried to wipe her eyes without anyone noticing. “What a Christmas this has been. What a Christmas!”
“It ain’t over yet,” noted Hettie, who, upon opening the box from Carol, had immediately donned her smart new hat with the scarlet feather on it. “Mr. Kincaid says Christmas lasts till Twelfth Night.”
“He’s right about that,” Carol told her, thinking of Lady Augusta’s claim that she had been given until Twelfth Night to change Carol’s character.
“We shall make the most of the joyous season,” declared Crampton. “More brandy, anyone?”
“Who could we toast next?” asked Nell, holding out her glass to Crampton.
“Who needs a toast?” Hettie giggled. “Drink up. Drink up.”
“Now, now,” cautioned Crampton. “Moderation at all times, if you please.”
With amusement and genuine fondness Carol watched these new friends of hers. She still sorely missed both Nicholas and Nik, and she knew she always would. But she was not sorry she loved them, and she found that her emotional anguish had diminished somewhat as she tried to make the holiday a happy one for others. It scarcely mattered to her now what her own personal future might bring. She would continue to do the work she had set for herself and pray that in doing it she would improve the future for those she loved. Perhaps, some day, Lady Augusta would find a way to let her know if she was succeeding.
To Carol’s surprise, the dignified Crampton now produced a supply of Christmas crackers, those paper-wrapped party favors so beloved of the English for their holiday celebrations. The cardboard tubes were covered with red and green tissue paper and decorated with gilt. When a long strip of paper at one ruffled end was pulled, a loud pop could be heard, after which it was possible to extract tiny treasures from within—and a funny paper hat.
“We must all put them on,” declared Hettie, who, after imbibing a bit too readily during the toasts, could not seem to stop giggling. “0h, Mrs. Marks, yours is a crown.”
“How very appropriate,” said Nell, upon which the two younger women fell into fits of laughter. Unabashed, Mrs. Marks did place her crown upon her gray hair.
“I note that I am a dunce,” said Carol, unfurling a bright blue tissue-paper cap with a long point that stood straight up when she donned it. “Open yours, Crampton, and let us see what you are to be.”
“Did you hear something?” asked Crampton, holding up one hand. “Hush, please, and let me listen. I thought I heard someone at the front door.”
Into their startled silence fell the loud noise of the seldom-used door knocker.
