by Speer, Flora
“Lucius, my dear,” said Mrs. Kincaid, “we ought to be in the hall at this very minute. People are waiting for us.”
“Come with us, Nicholas.” The Reverend Mr. Kincaid gave his old friend a hearty shove on one shoulder to direct him into the churchyard and thence to the back entrance of the parish hall. Carol and the rector’s wife followed them. Inside the hall the Sunday morning edition of St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board was in full swing, with volunteers serving a breakfast of coffee, tea, or juice with sweet rolls.
“I wish it could be eggs and kippers and the occasional platter of bacon,” said the rector. “Unfortunately, this is the best we can afford, and I must say, we hear few complaints.”
“What, exactly, is this program?” Nicholas asked. The two men moved off, Lucius Kincaid talking rapidly as he explained the purpose of the Bountiful Board.
“Mr. Montfort seems to be a nice man,” Abigail Kincaid commented, watching carefully to see Carol’s reaction to her words.
“If he is your husband’s friend, then he must be a decent fellow,” Carol said as casually as she could manage. She was longing to tell Mrs. Kincaid all about her history with Nicholas Montfort, but she sensed that it was not yet the proper time to do so.
“Like Lucius, Mr. Montfort is apparently not without a sense of mischief.” Abigail Kincaid’s blue eyes were laughing. “By the way, Lucius has eaten at least half of that box of candy you gave me. He says he prefers the nuts and the tough, chewy ones.”
“Of course he does. I would expect nothing less.” Their eyes met. Suddenly, with an instinctive yet unspoken understanding of the mysterious connection between them, both women burst into laughter.
“Luc,” said Nicholas a short time later, “you cannot possibly continue this work on your own. You must agree to let me help.” Pulling out a checkbook, he began to write.
“My dear fellow, I did not bring you to this hall to solicit money from you,” cried Lucius Kincaid.
“No, you did not,” said Nicholas, smiling a little. “It was Miss Simmons who brought me to St. Fiacre’s, and I am grateful to her. Here you are. I believe I can also promise continuing support in the future.” He handed the check to his friend.
“Oh, I say!” Lucius Kincaid stared at the paper in his hand. “Nicholas, this is quite magnificent. Almost unbelievable, in fact.”
“Nonsense.” Nicholas’s hand rested on his friend’s shoulder for an instant. “You did me a good turn once. It is only fair for me to return the favor, and with interest, since it was so many years ago.
“Luc saved my life,” Nicholas told Mrs. Kincaid and Carol. “While we were at Oxford, he pulled me out of the river after a boating accident. Now, Luc, I do want something from you in return for this check. I would like you and Mrs. Kincaid to come to Marlowe House for dinner on Tuesday night. My assistant and his wife will be there, too. You do remember William Bascome?”
“Will? I wondered where he had gotten to. So, he has been working for you.” Lucius Kincaid grinned. “It will be a reunion of old school chums who have not seen each other for far too long.”
Later, walking back to Marlowe House from St. Fiacre’s, Carol filled Nicholas in on the Christmas Eve dinner at which she and the servants had assisted the Kincaids.
“Those good people are struggling to keep the Bountiful Board going,” she said. “I hope you can continue to help them.” When he did not answer, she was silent for a while before adding, “The church could use some restoration work, too.”
“A lot of restoration. I am capable of noticing such things on my own, Miss Simmons.” He spoke in a severe tone, but his eyes were dancing with green fire when he stopped to catch her shoulders and turn her around to face him directly. “I suppose you want me to restore Marlowe House to its former glory, too?” he teased.
“It would be lovely if you could. Such a beautiful old house should not be allowed to fall into ruin.”
“I have always been fond of the place. Perhaps I will keep it instead of selling it as I first planned to do.”
“I know Lady Augusta would be pleased to hear you say that.”
“Once again you pretend to know her thoughts and her wishes.” He looked distinctly skeptical.
“It is not pretense. I am telling you what I know about her.”
“Really?” From his amused expression Carol could not tell what he thought of her claims.
“Believe me or not, as you please,” she said. “It really doesn’t matter so long as you help Lucius Kincaid and also do something for the staff at Marlowe House.”
“Why, Miss Simmons?” he demanded. “Why is this so important to you? Is it because of something my aunt said or did? I am fairly good at reading character, and I think you are hiding something from me.”
He was still holding her by the shoulders and looking deep into her eyes. Carol gazed back at him, wishing she dared to move a step or two closer to him and lay her head upon his chest. The desire to feel his arms around her tore at her heart. But he was awaiting her response and she gave him the only one she could.
“I can’t get into this at the moment,” she said. “I don’t want you to imagine that I have lost my mind, which is what I am afraid will happen if I say too much before you know me well enough to believe my story. I promise, I will tell you when the time is right.”
“I thought at first that you might be a con artist, someone who was trying to get money for herself from my aunt’s estate, after having failed to convince her to write you into her will.” He continued to look at Carol as if he could read her very soul and he spoke as if he were talking to himself.
“I can’t blame you for thinking along those lines,” Carol said. “After all, you don’t know me. But Mr. Montfort, I assure you, I would not know how to begin to be dishonest.”
“You haven’t asked for anything for yourself,” he said. “It is all for other people. What is this mystery, then? What motivates you?” Still he did not remove his eyes from hers. Carol was only dimly aware of cars moving along the street and of people waking past them and glancing curiously at the couple who were gazing into each other’s eyes so intently.
Nicholas, her heart sang. Nik, Nicholas, Nik. My Love.
“Miss Simmons?” he prompted.
“Call it a spiritual renaissance,” she whispered.
“Yours, or my aunt’s?” he asked.
“Both,” she breathed. “Both of us have changed beyond recognition, beyond returning to what we once were.”
“You are real,” he said, his hands tightening and then loosening on her shoulders as if he wanted to reassure himself that his assessment of her was correct. “You are not a ghost, and something tells me that you are not an angel, either.”
“I am alive,” she responded. “As I have never been alive before.”
“You make it sound like a miracle.”
“It is,” she said. “Dear Mr. Montfort, it is a miracle. Now all I have to do is convince you of it.”
“Crampton said you wanted to see me.” Carol paused in the library doorway, looking around at the shelves crammed full of books, at the oriental rug on the floor and the polished desk. Nicholas raised his head from the papers he was working on. A pair of narrow reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose and his face was serious.
“Come in. I have a few more questions for you.” He waved a hand, indicating the chair placed directly across the desk from where he sat. “Tell me, Miss Simmons, what are your plans, now that your employer has died?”
“I don’t know,” Carol said. “I have been wondering what to do, but I haven’t decided yet.”
“You appear to be well acquainted with my aunt’s affairs. Would you consider staying on to assist me here at Marlowe House?”
I would stay anywhere, do anything, to be with you. Acknowledging to herself her fear that he might not find her work acceptable, Carol was completely honest when she answered him aloud.
“I did act as Lady Augusta’s secretar
y when she needed one, but I must warn you, Mr. Montfort, I do not have much in the way of office skills. I can barely type, and if you were to show me a computer, I would probably run away from it.”
“You won’t need to type, or to file. That is not the kind of job I meant. Perhaps Joanna Bascome can teach you to use a computer, but it won’t be absolutely essential.” He leaned back in his chair, watching her every reaction to his next words. “Miss Simmons, I detect in you a remarkable sensitivity to the needs of others. Having made a large fortune, I now feel duty-bound to distribute at least part of it in ways designed to do the most good for people who could use some help in getting their lives onto the right path. Would you be interested in acting as my assistant?”
“Oh, yes. It’s exactly what I want to do. To make people happier, to improve their futures and thus, perhaps, to change the future world for everyone who comes after us—I can’t think of anything more wonderful. But Mr. Montfort, how can you make such a hasty decision? You don’t know anything about me. I might be an embezzler who will steal your entire fortune.” Carol stopped when Nicholas began to laugh. The carefree sound made her heart leap with pleasure.
“Miss Simmons, if Aunt Augusta hired you to work for her, I am certain she ordered a complete security check done on you. The results are probably in her solicitors’ office. Of course, I will have you checked out again, just for my own records, but for work of this kind I do prefer to trust my own judgment— and my judgment tells me that you are exactly the person I need.
“Now,” he went on, apparently assuming that she was already hired, “tell me what you know about Aunt Augusta’s servants.”
Quickly, Carol sketched the situation for him, pointing out Hettie’s illiteracy and the desperate need of both Hettie and Nell to find new jobs when their present ones were terminated.
“I don’t think either girl has much chance of getting a well-paying job,” she said, repeating essentially what Lady Augusta had revealed to her during their invisible excursion into the servants’ quarters. “Crampton and Mrs. Marks are slightly better off because they do have small pensions, but I don’t think they will be able to live very well after they retire.” She went on to tell of the offer Lucius Kincaid had made to Crampton, and Crampton’s sorrowful comment that he would have to refuse it. As she spoke, an idea took shape.
“Mr. Montfort, this morning you told Lucius Kincaid that you wanted to continue to help his efforts at St. Fiacre’s. The poor man is much too busy. Could you set up a fund to pay a supervisor for the Bountiful Board? Then Crampton would be able to take the position, possibly with Mrs. Marks as his assistant. If they were in charge of the soup kitchen, Mr. Kincaid would be free to concentrate on his pastoral duties. All three of them would be relieved of a great deal of stress, and thus they would all be much happier people.
“As an added benefit, Abigail Kincaid wouldn’t have to work so hard, either. At the moment, she is the one who does most of the planning for those meals. And, if you fund the Bountiful Board, perhaps the Kincaids wouldn’t feel obligated to put so much of their own money into feeding the poor and Abigail could occasionally buy something brand-new for herself or her children to wear.” Carol finished in a rush of excitement.
“This is exactly the kind of creative thinking I want to hear from you.” Nicholas sounded enthusiastic. “Miss Simmons, I do believe that you and I are going to make a very good team.”
Later, Carol, Nicholas, and Crampton inspected Marlowe House from its attic to the sub-basement. Crampton pointed out repair work that needed to be done, and Carol made notes.
“It’s such a shame the original house was divided into two,” Carol said. “The old Marlowe House was so lovely and spacious.”
“So it must have been.” Nicholas was looking at her as if he was wondering how she could possibly know what kind of house it originally was.
“I have heard rumors,” said Crampton, “that the lease on the house next door, which once was part of Marlowe House, will soon become available. The information might be pertinent to your future plans, Mr. Montfort.”
“Thank you, Crampton.” Nicholas looked thoughtful.
That Sunday afternoon and again on Monday morning, Carol put her limited typing skills to the test. Under Nicholas’s direction she made up a list of necessary repairs for the house, and then typed a proposal for a fund to aid St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board.
“I believe Lady Augusta would want a portion of her estate to go into the fund,” Carol said to Nicholas.
“It will take quite a while to settle her estate,” Nicholas replied. “Therefore, we will begin with my money.”
“Could you set up the fund in her memory, then?” Carol asked.
“What a persistent woman you are, and how certain of what my aunt would have wanted. Very well, we shall call it the Lady Augusta Marlowe Memorial Trust Fund. Is that grand enough for you?”
“It sounds perfect. I know she will be pleased.”
“Wherever she may be,” Nicholas added in the dry tone she was coming to know well.
When Carol was finally freed of office duties she hurried down to the kitchen. She was afraid that Mrs. Marks, who could be temperamental, might be upset by the additional work involved in having three extra people living in the house after Nicholas’s associates arrived on Monday evening, and further annoyed by the festive meal for six that was scheduled for the following night. To Carol’s surprise, Mrs. Marks appeared to be energized by these challenges. In fact, she was in her glory, ordering Hettie around the kitchen until the poor girl was thoroughly confused, and driving Nell half mad by insisting that only the best china, silver, and crystal should be used but that every piece must be washed and polished first.
“I can see you have everything under control,” Carol said to the cook.
“It’s time this old house came to life again, if only for a little while,” Mrs. Marks responded. “Ill show Mr. Montfort some fireworks—culinary fireworks! I’m not ready for retirement just yet. Oh, we will have a grand feast tomorrow night. Hettie, where is that copper pan I wanted?”
William and Joanna Bascome were, as Carol expected, twentieth-century versions of the Bas and Jo whom she had known in the future. She recognized them at once, although like Nicholas, they did not know her. In Will Bascome, Carol also saw a resemblance to the Earl of Montfort’s butler who had unwillingly let her into the earl’s house on a December afternoon in the distant past.
I must remember to ask Lady Augusta about this, Carol thought. Does it always happen this way, with the same people coming together again and again over the centuries? If so, why was Penelope Hyde in love with Alwyn Simmons in the past and Pen with Al in the future, yet in this time, she is married to Lucius, who will one day be Luc? It’s very confusing.
To Carol’s delight, Will and Joanna Bascome were soon chatting with her as if they were all old friends. They enjoyed an early dinner and then the new arrivals retired, blaming the inevitable jet lag after their long trip from Hong Kong.
“By way of Majorca,” Joanna said. “We stopped to visit my parents, who are retired there, which is why we did not arrive with Nicholas.”
Some time later Carol mounted the steps from the kitchen, where she had been conferring with the servants on the schedule for the next day. Still smiling at Mrs. Marks’s bustling rejuvenation, she stepped into the main hall, then paused, listening. From the library at the back of the house came the strains of a well-remembered waltz. Carol hurried toward the sound.
Nicholas was sitting behind the desk, reading some papers. He had put on Lady Augusta’s stereo and was playing one of her old records. He glanced up as Carol came through the door.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, peering at her over the rims of his reading glasses.
Carol found his quizzical expression endearing. If only she dared to go to him, to put her arms around his shoulders, perhaps to sit on his lap and rest her head upon his broad chest. How wonderful it would be if he
would hold her in the tender embrace for which she longed. Telling herself not to forget that so far as Nicholas Montfort was concerned they were still strangers, she responded to his question as coolly as she could with a hauntingly familiar tune filling her ears.
“No problem at all,” she said. “I heard the music and I couldn’t resist coming in here so I could hear it better. I love that waltz.”
“So do I. It is odd, because I usually prefer something more modern, but that old song has always had the power to move me. I don’t know why.” Tossing down the papers he had been reading, he rose and came around the desk to her. “Since you like it, too, would you care to dance to it, Miss Simmons?”
Carol could not protest that a library was a peculiar place in which to dance, for she knew better. When Nicholas Montfort held out his arms, she went into them like a weary traveler who has finally returned home. His strength, his graceful movements, the sparkle in his green eyes, the touch of his left hand clasping hers, the way his right hand on her waist guided her easily around the room, all raised images in her mind of past and future moments with him that blended together into a few exquisite minutes in the present. It seemed to Carol as if the very walls of the library held music and tender memories.
Carol was not sure whether Nicholas felt the same breathtaking pleasure in the dance that she did. They moved perfectly together, as she had known they would, but when the music stopped, Nicholas dropped his arms at once and stepped away from her.
“You must excuse me now,” he said. “I have several hours of work still to do. Thank you for a charming diversion at the end of a busy day and evening.” He kissed her hand lightly before he went to the door, to hold it open for her. There could be no question that Carol was being dismissed—politely and kindly, but dismissed all the same.
“Good night, Mr. Montfort.” Hiding her hurt and disappointment, Carol left the library and made her way upstairs to her own room, there to contemplate a dismaying question.
What would she do if, in this lifetime, Nicholas Montfort was not for her? If Penelope-Abigail-Pen was not with the same man in every period in which she lived, could the same fate befall Carol?
