An Enchanted Christmas

by Barbara Metzger

Darkness was falling, yet the men stayed on, hoping for an invitation to dine, she supposed. She ordered another dish of tea sandwiches, so they would realize supper was not going to be served soon. It was not going to be served at all, if she had her way. She wanted a bath, a nap, and a tray in her room, with her feet up. Spinrod could do as he pleased. He usually did, she realized.

  The men ignored him for the most part, especially after he declined to give a preview of his coming performance. He merely told them he was planning a surprise, but that he was too tired now to exercise his skills. He pointed to the owl, asleep atop a portrait’s frame, lucky bird. “It has been a wearying day,” he hinted.

  Laurel smiled at him as she passed around the plate of sandwiches, silently thanking Spinrod for his efforts. She tried not to limp, lest her callers think she needed carrying or, worse, their sympathy. When she reached Spinrod’s chair in the far corner, she whispered, “Do something, for heaven’s sake.”

  “What, my lady wishes me to perform magic?” he said with a grin, showing a dimple she had never noticed before. “Horrors. Are you sure it would not be a sacrilege?”

  Laurel stepped on his foot, intentionally by accident. “Get rid of them and I might consider that kiss.”

  “Ah, a devil’s bargain indeed. I might forfeit my soul, or I might win it back.” He stroked his bearded chin in mock deliberation.

  Laurel felt like giving that beard a good tug, and his long hair, too. She’d been wanting to since she’d met him, in fact, to see if the snowy white locks were truly his own. Spinrod acted so much younger than his hair indicated, she suspected they were part of some intricate disguise, some convoluted plot. He was not going to confide in her until he was ready, she knew. She was ready to dump the remaining sandwiches in his lap if he did not get rid of the plaguesome trio. “Please,” she begged.

  He stood and waved his hand. Nothing happened. He mouthed some unintelligible words. Nothing happened. He sprinkled something into his tea: sugar. Then he said, “I wonder that you gentlemen are not in the village. I understand the circus performers are holding an impromptu rehearsal. The girls are trying on their new costumes.”

  Sir Percival stood.

  “And two of the men are to hold a marksmanship contest in the courtyard.”

  Major Gilmartin got up, with his cane.

  “A great deal of money is to be wagered, I suspect.”

  Mr. Boone bade Laurel good evening.

  “That was not magic,” Laurel said after they had all left. “That was a parcel of lies.”

  “But one believes what one wants to hear or see,” Spinrod answered. “And therefore it might be the truth. If they go to the village inn demanding a performance, they might get one.”

  That was too devious for Laurel, but she was grateful anyway. Not grateful enough to kiss an old man, though, so she hurried up the stairs to her bath and her bed. “You can dine in your room if you wish, or in the parlor. I will not be down, so you can have the company of my sister-in-law to yourself.”

  Bettina was not coming to Mumphrey Hall for the evening repast, though. She was too busy at home in the dower house, lamenting the mole on her chin.

  Her maid had put hot compresses on it, then lemon juice and vinegar, then strawberry jam, since there were no fresh strawberries at this time of year. She had sent over to the Hall’s kitchens for cucumbers, all to no avail. Bettina had a huge mole on her chin, with three black hairs in it, no matter how often they were cut away.

  “I am ugly!” Bettina moaned into her mirror. “I look like a hag. Oh, why did this have to happen now, just when that wretched woman is holding her cursed ball? What am I going to do? How could this happen to me?” The mirror did not answer. Wrong story.

  Chapter Seven

  Sometimes a bit of magic would not come amiss. Laurel would have been happy to sprinkle fairy dust and have her house left sparkling clean. She’d speak any number of arcane words, to have her home decorated with garlands and wreaths. She would have loved to wave a wand and have the kissing boughs woven.

  Her resident magician, though, had disappeared. Oh, he was not performing some marvelous trick with smoke and mirrors; Spinrod was in the library reading and resting, as if paltry matters like her party were beneath him. He was not going to expend his energy making ready for any harum-scarum gathering, his attitude seemed to say, although he never missed dinner. Aside from the danger to his own psyche, he explained to Laurel, magic begat magic. If he started using his powers over trivial matters, others would know. They would come, and they would fight to steal what power he had.

  So he stayed in the library except for taking the evening meal in the dining room with Laurel. He ate Cook’s meals with enthusiasm, and conversed with pleasure and intelligence and interest. He listened to Laurel recount her days, her plans, her hopes. He wanted to hear about her friends and neighbors and her dealings with the servants and tradesmen. No facet of her life was too unimportant, his smiles of encouragement seemed to say, because she was important. To him.

  Laurel found that talking with Spinrod about small things was far more enjoyable and entertaining than listening to any of her suitors—nay, than any other man of her experience—expound on weighty matters. Not that Spinrod could not converse about serious topics. They discussed the war and the Corn Laws, affairs of state, and the state of the poor king’s mind. He knew the current novels and poets, too, and laughed with her at the foibles of society as noted in the newspapers sent from London.

  Then he would disappear into the library again.

  Laurel missed him. She found herself waiting for the next day’s dinner. How peculiar, she thought, but how nice, to look forward to someone else’s company. She had dreaded her husband’s presence, and was too often bored among her neighbors. Spinrod was never boring, not even when they did not speak. Silence could be companionable, too, she was learning.

  Laurel thought she might try to convince Spinrod to stay on after the party. He could be a…what? Schoolmaster? Secretary? She could not hire him as a lady’s companion, to her regret. Such a fine man, however, should not live the rest of his life as a traveling peddler, giving demeaning performances at country fairs, living hand-to-mouth out in the elements.

  She would invite him to stay on as a guest, Laurel decided. She could do it without censure, for he was old enough not to cause gossip, and one could have any number of old relatives and connections in residence. If people did talk, so what? Laurel did not care for her sister-in-law’s opinion, nor the vicar’s. Her neighbors had ignored her while she was Mr. Mumphrey’s wife; she did not care if they ignored her now. She did care about Spinrod and his opinion.

  The more she thought of the notion, the better she liked it. She could have a congenial companion without hiring some Friday-faced woman to add countenance to her widowhood, and she would not have to give up her independence. She would not be so alone, trying to make important decisions on her own, decisions that affected so many other people’s lives. She could have a friend to share her little pleasures and big worries. Spinrod might even be able to shed light on that odd reference Cauthin had made about her future children. If such a thing were possible, then she ought to be looking around her for a husband. Spinrod could advise her, for if he could detect the presence of magic, surely he could tell when a man was honest.

  Yes, she would ask Spinrod to stay, as soon as Christmas was over. She was too busy now. She was active from morning until night, working alongside the staff to clean and decorate the house when she was not ordering the menus, selecting the music, arranging the flowers, or being fitted for her gown. She also had to see about the baskets of gifts for Boxing Day, after Christmas. Every family on her estate would have preserves and produce, coins and small toys for the children, dress lengths of fabric for the women, warm scarves for the men. All of her servants would have new uniforms and livery, handkerchiefs and perfume or cologne, plus bonuses. Her bailiff was getting a series of books, and Bettina had already select
ed her gift, a new black gown to wear to the party of which she disapproved—and which she was threatening not to attend unless the mysterious mole disappeared. Laurel offered to speak to a physician she knew. A metaphysician, perhaps, if he ever stirred himself from the book room.

  All of this took time, too much time to worry about a lazy lumpkin in the library who did not offer to help, with or without magic. She would have to think again about offering Spinrod a permanent place in her household if he could not bestir himself to tie a single red bow. Why, he ought to be happy if she gifted him with his paltry kiss, much less a Christmas present, after his lack of assistance.

  She did look into the library at first to make certain he had not suffered an apoplexy or a heart seizure, of which older men were often victims.

  He snored.

  He looked older in repose, with worry lines and weathered skin. She was no longer tempted to tug on his silvered beard or white hair. He was old, more the pity. She let him sleep and went back to her chores.

  At least the unwanted suitors left her alone once word went out that they would be put to work. The first time she set one of them to weaving evergreen boughs and wreaths—not even kissing balls—was the last time she saw any of the fortune-hunting fribbles.

  She had no more magicians apply for work either, thank goodness. Or thank Spinrod for putting up his safeguards before going to sleep.

  Somehow everything was getting done. Her house was looking more festive than it ever had while Mr. Mumphrey was alive, festooned with red ribbons, smelling of clove-studded oranges and pine. The indoor servants were happier than they had ever been under her husband’s employ, singing carols as they went about their duties. The stable boys whistled, looking forward to the tips they would earn from the guests. The farmers and shepherds tended their fields and flocks without incident, eager for the party and a day of rest. Even the weather cooperated, staying cold but not miring the roads with rain or hindering deliveries with snow and ice.

  By the day before the party, Laurel declared them ready, except for the last cooking preparations, of course, and the arrival of the musicians. Her gown was hanging in the wardrobe, the maids were giggling under the mistletoe, and Bettina’s mole had disappeared as mysteriously as it had arrived, leaving a tiny black spot. Bettina called it a beauty mark; Laurel thought it might be a reminder.

  Then Hubie Eckles disappeared. The orphaned grandson of Laurel’s housekeeper, Hubie had come to stay at Mumphrey Hall the past summer. He made himself useful helping the butler polish the silver, the cook knead her bread, and the gardeners rake the leaves when he was not at lessons in the village. The entire household liked the boy and tried to make him feel welcome, important, and not so abandoned.

  Hubie was six years old, and he was missing.

  Everyone went out on the search. How far could the lad have wandered, between school and the Hall? They walked the fields, rode the lanes, searched the attics. The bailiff went from cottage to cottage. Laurel herself asked every shopkeeper in the village if they had seen him. No one had.

  Mrs. Eckles was wringing her apron, the maids were weeping, and the footmen were muttering about Dark Doings.

  Laurel saw nothing for it but to enlist her slacking sorcerer. She went into the library without knocking. After all, it was her house, her library, her resident wizard. She shook his shoulder, feeling muscle beneath her hand. He was old, but he was strong enough to push his barrow. Strong enough to find Hubie Eckles for her.

  “He is not on your property,” Spinrod said after he rubbed his eyes and stretched.

  “How do you know?” Spinrod had not left the house once since their inspection as far as Laurel was aware.

  “What do you think I have been doing these past days? I have been keeping watch, maintaining the wards against magic. No wizard came to steal the boy, no evil befell anyone on your land.”

  Laurel believed him. She did not know why or how, but she had ceased questioning him, Spinrod simply followed other rules, outside her understanding. She would have to apologize for thinking him an idler, but the boy’s disappearance was more urgent. “If he is not here, where is he, then? We asked at every house and shop in the village.”

  Spinrod shrugged. “I do not know.”

  “But you can find out, can’t you? You have ways of knowing these things. I know you do. You could tell if someone had cast a spell on him or spirited him away. You could get him back for us. I know you can!”

  He did not answer, but turned his back on her to stare out the window.

  “What, is it money you want? I will pay you whatever it takes,” she begged. “Or that stupid kiss.”

  “A kiss in payment will not do,” he replied, turning to face her. “It must be heartfelt and free.”

  “Then what? What do you want, to help us?” Laurel was nearly in tears, and Spinrod was not much better off, ashen-faced and trembling, looking like an old, old man.

  His voice was a hoarse whisper, torn from his despair. “It is more magic than I can safely do. I will be lost.”

  “No, no, you won’t! We’ll save you, and save Hubie, too. I swear.”

  He gave her a fleeting smile. “But you have no understanding of the mystical realms such matters inhabit.”

  “I do understand that a little boy’s life might be at stake, a frightened, orphaned child.”

  “I am frightened, too,” he whispered, so softly that Laurel could barely hear the words, but then he opened the window and sent the white owl outside.

  “Can Merlin find the boy, then? He is small to fly any distance, isn’t he?”

  “He cannot fly far from me. And he cannot travel off the protected land or he would be preyed upon by larger raptors or rapacious wizards. But he can bring me what I need.”

  They waited silently then the bird returned with something clutched in his talons.

  “An acorn?” Laurel asked, dubious of Spinrod’s skills, now that he had seemingly agreed to help. She had supposed he would consult a crystal ball or wave a magic wand. That was what sorcerers did in the old stories. “An acorn?” she repeated.

  “Oaks are sacred to those who know all the secrets of the earth. What can be more miraculous than the tiny seeds of such majestic giants’ births?”

  He called for a kettle, wine, more wood for the fire, and a jar of water from the well, not from the pump in the kitchen.

  “Don’t you want a lock of Hubie’s hair or something?”

  “Hmm. An apple.”

  Laurel was relieved. This was more like it.

  When the first footman arrived with a tray, Spinrod poured the clear water into the kettle and set it on the fire to heat. Meanwhile he ground the acorn with his knife.

  “What is the wine for, then?” Laurel asked as she watched.

  “For you. You seem discomposed.”

  Of course she was discomposed. Her housekeeper’s grandson was missing on the day before her party, and her last hope was making acorn soup. She swallowed a glass of wine.

  “What about the apple?”

  He picked up the apple and polished it against his sleeve. “Oh, that is for me. I’m hungry.”

  At least he waited until the bits of acorn were simmering in the kettle before taking the first bite. Laurel watched and waited for something to happen. He took another bite, chewing loudly.

  “Nothing is happening,” she complained.

  “Of course it is. Even though you cannot see them, events occur. Mountains move, volcanoes erupt, puddles dry up in the sun. Things constantly happen that you cannot see.”

  Laurel kept still, rather than appear more foolish than she already felt. Who was she to be telling a wizard his business?

  When his apple was done, Spinrod tossed the core into the fire. Then he sat cross-legged in front of the hearth, staring. Laurel tried not to breathe out loud.

  She saw steam rising from the kettle, nothing more.

  Spinrod saw a graveyard.

  “But we checked. Hubie goes
to visit his parents’ graves in the churchyard every once in awhile, so we looked there first, after the house.”

  “There is an empty crypt.”

  “Yes, Lady Foggerty had one built for her eternal resting place when she turned seventy. She is eighty-four now. All the village children play around it, trying to frighten one another into nightmares. The door has always been propped open.”

  “It is closed now. I cannot tell if by accident or on purpose. Hurry. The boy is afraid.”

  Laurel was already halfway down the hall, shouting for horses. She turned back. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “You can make better time without me, but here, carry this in case neither the wind nor some other mischievous boys shut the door.” He took a white feather out of his pocket and held it out.

  Laurel recalled how the stables erupted in whinnies and hoof stompings when Spinrod walked by. On their circle of the estate, the sheepherders’ dogs had slunk away, and Mrs. Barnett’s cat had tried to hide under her skirts. No, he could not ride to the church.

  He seemed weak, besides, as if the effort to find the boy had drained all of his physical strength as well as his spirit. Laurel came back to his side and took the feather out of his cold hand. “You wait, then. I will hurry back. You’ll be fine.” She quickly placed a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

  She left, but Spinrod sat on the floor, stroking the limp body of his owl.

  Chapter Eight

  No, no, no. Only the evildoers die in fairy tales, not the heroes or their pets. Definitely not their pets.

  They found the boy, right where Spinrod had said he would be. Hubie was curled up and asleep, having exhausted himself with crying and shouting before anyone was looking for him.

  They carried him home, and everyone wanted to thank the man who had sent them in the right direction. Laurel thought it better not to admit to having a divinator in her drawing room, so she merely said Spinrod recalled seeing the door to the crypt loose when he passed through the village.

  Mrs. Eckles rushed in and threw herself into Spinrod’s arms. The boy bowed, but needed a hug so he clutched at Spinrod’s legs, nearly toppling the old man. The rest of the staff and half the villagers wanted to touch his hand for luck and to show gratitude. He seemed embarrassed by the attention, standing stiff and unsmiling.