“Have you ever been thrown from a horse?” Julian asked.
“I’ve never even ridden one,” I replied.
“But still, you’ve been thrown.” Julian lit the last candle, and knelt to pick up a gold-inlaid fountain pen that had skittered under the candle rack. He rolled it between his fingers, letting the gold catch the candlelight, before handing it to me. “Have you always been wealthy?”
“Are you kidding?” Julian’s questions made no sense to me, but I welcomed the distraction from my own turbulent thoughts. “My dad died just after I was born and my mom raised me by herself. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t even within shouting distance of wealthy.”
“But you grew up knowing what it was to do without,” Julian observed.
“Not really.” I sat back on my heels. “My mom was the one who did without, so that I could have pretty much everything I wanted. When I left my first husband, I had no idea how hard it’d be to start over again from scratch. I had nothing.”
“Apart from a fine mind,” Julian put in.
“I was too depressed to use it.” I retrieved a tortoise-shell brush from under the pew and slipped it into my bag. “Then my mom died and the depression got worse. I had no family left, no real home, and I was barely making ends meet. One night I began toying with the idea of giving my wrists a close shave.”
Julian paled. “Dear Lord…”
“I didn’t do it.” I pushed back the sleeves of my cashmere coat and held my unscarred wrists out to him.
“That you considered it is terrible enough.” Julian brushed his fingertips across my wrists. “What stopped you?”
I smiled sheepishly, the howling wind forgotten. “A letter from a rich lawyer,” I said. “From Bill, my husband, in fact. Little did I know when I set out for his office that night—” I caught my breath and sank back against the pew, dizzied by sudden revelation. It was as if a thousand candles had flickered to life, illuminating memories I’d tucked carefully in the darkest corner of my mind. “That night,” I repeated, gazing at a scene only I could see.
“What happened that night?” Julian’s voice seemed to come from somewhere up among the banded arches and the redbrick domes.
“The wind was howling.” I spoke slowly at first, then faster, as the vision became more vivid. “An April blizzard had blown in. The sleet hurt my face and the streets were covered with slush. I was weak-kneed with hunger, and by the time Bill opened the door, I couldn’t feel my toes. If he hadn’t opened the door …” My voice sank to a whisper. “It could have been me, Julian. Kit could have been me.”
I gazed into the middle distance, aware of the chill seeping up from the mosaic floor, of the crushing darkness just beyond the pool of candlelight. I knew how precarious the light was, how quickly the darkness could close in, and I knew, better than most, that it could happen to anyone, anyone at all.
Julian said nothing, but quietly gathered up the rest of my belongings, then drew me up to sit beside him on the hard wooden bench. “Is it any wonder that you dream of Kit instead of Bill?” he said finally. “You and Kit have shared experiences that your husband can never truly understand. Kit was a part of you before he ever stumbled up your drive.”
I nodded, acknowledging the truth of Julian’s words. Bill had grown up in a world of wealth and privilege. He’d never known what it was to be cold, hungry, and alone in the world. But I had.
“I’d forgotten,” I said, half to myself. “I tried to forget.”
“Evidently it’s time to remember,” said Julian.
I ran my palms along the sleeves of my cashmere coat and the fine tweed of my custom-tailored trousers. I thought of the overstuffed sofa in my living room and the overstocked pantry in my kitchen. The cottage was a snug nest, a comfortable cocoon in which bad things did not happen. Was it too comfortable, too snug?
I looked up at the face of the Virgin, hovering above us like a pale moon in a starless sky. “My mother used to say that too much comfort is as corrosive to the soul as too little.”
“Your mother,” Julian observed, “was a wise woman.”
And a good woman, I thought, which is more than can be said for her daughter. I bowed my head to avoid the Virgin’s gaze.
“Julian,” I said, a low-voiced confession, “the first time I saw Kit, I didn’t want to touch him. It wasn’t my idea to call out the RAF for him, and I wouldn’t have visited him at the Radcliffe if someone else hadn’t insisted on it. The truth is, I’m not at all like Kit. I’ve got a shriveled, selfish soul. The only reason I helped Kit was—”
“Because he landed in your front yard.” Julian nodded. “Hard to ignore something like that.”
“It should be,” I said miserably, “but it isn’t. I ignore men like Kit all the time. Sometimes I wish they were invisible. They’re so…” I left the sentence hanging, too ashamed to finish it.
“Repulsive?” Julian suggested. “I agree. They’re smelly, ugly, weak—they’re totally useless.” He put a comforting arm around my shoulders. “I can think of only one good reason why we should bother with them.”
I peeped up at him. I knew he was baiting me, and I thought I knew what he wanted me to say. “Because they’re human?” I ventured.
“No,” said Julian. “Because we are.”
In the silence that followed, the vicar’s voice seemed to ring out from the empty pulpit: Let us be thankful for blessings received and eager to share those blessings with others. I’d been thankful for Dimity’s many gifts, but I hadn’t done much sharing. I’d used her bounty to create a beautiful world in which no one hungered, froze, or sickened, and I’d turned my back on the sorrows that lay beyond its narrow borders. Perhaps Kit was an angel, I thought, sent to the cottage to shake me out of my smug complacency.
“I’ve a proposal to make, Lori.” Julian crossed his long legs and leaned back. “If, by some miracle, I manage to keep Saint Benedict’s going, why don’t you come along and lend me a hand once in a while? I could use your help in the kitchen, and the men you meet there will give that shriveled soul of yours a chance to blossom.” He inclined his head toward mine. “But it’ll still be up to you to do the real work.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
He raised an admonitory finger. “See to it that no one who crosses your path is invisible.” He extended his hand and I clasped it to seal the bargain. Far above us, strangely muted in the church’s cavernous reaches, Saint Joseph’s bells began to chime the hour.
“Ten o’clock.” Julian pursed his lips. “A bit late to set out for Belgravia.”
“I’m not leaving London before I speak with Kit’s sister,” I said stubbornly.
Julian shrugged. “Then we’ll stay here for the night and see her first thing tomorrow morning. Father Raywood said there are cots downstairs, and the kitchen’s warm enough for us to—”
“No.” I straightened slightly, but couldn’t bring myself to edge away from the warm circle of his arm. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
He gave me a playful shake. “Not afraid of spending the night in a church, are you? Don’t worry, you’ll be safe with me.”
“But you might not be safe with me.” Exasperation made me speak without thinking. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Julian, haven’t you figured out yet that I find you attractive?”
“You… what?” Julian’s look of blank astonishment told me plainly that the thought had never crossed his mind. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t possibly find me attractive.”
“Oh yeah?” I retorted. “Well, watch out for lightning bolts, because if the Virgin can read my mind at this moment, she’ll probably fry me.”
Julian carefully removed his arm from my shoulders and folded his hands in his lap. “I’d no idea.”
“Now you do.” My blush should have outshone the candles. “You know the old saying: I may be married, but I’m not dead.” I glanced heavenward. “Yet.”
Julian faced forward, clearly disconcerted. “I
could understand it if you harbored romantic notions about Kit,” he reasoned. “Kit’s a fine-looking man, but I’ve got a face like a… a…”
“A basset hound,” I offered.
“Precisely,” he agreed, unfazed. “I wouldn’t call a basset hound attractive, would you? Unless…” He raised a hand to his goatee. “Is it the beard? Perhaps I should shave it off.”
“It’s not the beard,” I said, coloring to my toes. “It’s nothing to do with your looks. It’s your passion, your tenderness, your humility. You’re a good man, Julian, and goodness is tremendously attractive.” I snatched a quick breath and thought: In for a penny, in for a pound. “And in case you think I’m being unbearably high-minded, let me just add that you’ve got a beautiful voice and exquisite hands, and let’s face it, Julian, you’ve got a body to die for.”
“Good Lord,” Julian said weakly. “Do I?”
I pressed my palms to my burning cheeks. “Take my word for it. It must come from hauling around all those vats of boiled cabbage.”
There was a nerve-racking pause, then a gust of laughter that ruffled the candle flames. Julian bent forward, clutching his sides, laughing until tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
I gave him a very dark look. “You must have a high old time in the confessional, Father Bright.”
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “It’s just… a basset hound… hauling vats of cabbage…” He gulped for air. “Perhaps I should make an exercise video?” And he was off again, holding his sides and rocking with hilarity.
I folded my arms. “It’s not funny,” I muttered, feeling more than a bit put out.
“No.” He wiped his eyes and took a few slow breaths. “It’s not funny. But it’s not a mortal sin, either.” He shifted sideways, rested his elbow on the pew, and regarded me thoughtfully. “I think I know what this is all about.”
I raised a clenched fist. “If you say one word about maternal instinct, I’ll clobber you.”
“The instinct I’m thinking of isn’t necessarily maternal,” Julian temporized. “I think you miss your husband, Lori. While Bill’s been away your natural, God-given appetites have been”—he stroked his goatee meditatively— “temporarily misdirected to another channel.”
I ducked my head, still too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “So this is a job for the Army Corps of Engineers, huh?”
“And what safer channel,” Julian continued, “than one you know to be absolutely inaccessible.”
His words seemed to echo, although he’d spoken softly, and when the last whisper of sound faded, I turned to face him.
“Because you don’t have God-given appetites?” I asked.
Something entirely human flickered briefly in the depths of Julian’s brown eyes, but he answered without hesitation. “Because I believe, as you do, in the sanctity of marriage.” He gazed at me steadily, then put out his hand. “You know you can trust me, Lori, even if you can’t trust yourself.”
I gazed up at the shadowy planes of his face, the glimmering, dark pools of his eyes, and slowly took his hand in mine. As we sat, fingers entwined, bathed in soft candlelight, I felt warmed from within, not by the fiery flames of passion, but by the unwavering glow of a far deeper and longer-lasting love.
“I do trust you, Julian,” I said, resting my head against his shoulder, “but if you think I’m going to spend the night sleeping on a cot in a soup kitchen, you’re insane as well as inaccessible.”
18
One of the nicest things about being filthy rich and married to a Willis was that I could always get a room at the Flamborough Hotel. In far less time than it took us to cross the frozen tundra between Stepney and Mayfair, Julian and I found ourselves wrapped in luxurious bathrobes, sipping large brandies, and toasting our slippered feet before a fire in the spacious living rooms of the three-bedroom suite assigned to us by the redoubtable Miss Kingsley.
“I can feel my soul corroding,” Julian said drowsily.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Ain’t it great?”
Julian gave muzzy chuckle. “It makes a change from Saint Benedict’s.”
“It’s the first part of your Christmas present,” I told him. “I’ll give you the rest as soon as I’ve sorted out the details.”
Julian slouched lazily in his oversized armchair. “If I weren’t so sleepy, I’d be intrigued by that comment.”
“I’ll tell you what intrigues me.” I tilted my head to one side and noted distantly that the room appeared to tilt along with it. “Did you notice the way Father Danos practically held his nose every time he mentioned Lady Havorford?”
“Perhaps she has an aversion to clerical garb,” Julian suggested. He lifted his head slightly and opened his eyes. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask: where, exactly, are our clothes?”
“They’re being cleaned,” I replied. “You’ll find them hanging in your closet tomorrow morning.”
Julian nestled back into his chair. “Delivered by the same elves who provided our pajamas, one presumes.”
“Naturally. They’re recharging my cell phone, too.”
“Clever elves,” Julian murmured.
A disturbing thought floated gently through the amber mist enveloping my brain. “What if Lady Havorford isn’t home tomorrow morning?”
“She will be,” said Julian. “Father Raywood told me she’s renowned for her Christmas Eve brunches. Speaking of which, has your husband arrived home yet?”
“My husband,” I said, with a deliberateness born of disbelief, “is in Iceland.” I’d telephoned the cottage as soon as we’d arrived at the Flamborough and Willis, Sr., had given me an update on Bill’s travels. “His plane landed in Reykjavik for refueling this morning and wasn’t allowed to take off again because of high winds.”
“Oh, Lori”—Julian heaved a sympathetic sigh—“I’m so sorry.”
I should have been, too. My family-round-the-hearth fantasy had turned into a family-round-the-world farce. I thought of Bill marooned in Iceland, of unthawed turkeys, unwrapped presents, and unhung wreaths, and began, unaccountably, to giggle.
“Ah, well,” I said airily. “Iceland’s not too far from the North Pole. Maybe Bill can hitch a ride with Santa Claus.”
“No more brandy for you, Ms. Shepherd.” Julian put his Waterford tumbler on the rosewood table beside his chair and yawned hugely. “No more for me, either. If I don’t go to bed this minute, I shall fall asleep sitting up.”
“You’ll regret it if you do,” I said. “The beds here are even cushier that the chairs.”
“I find that extremely hard to believe,” said Julian, “but I’m willing to put it to the test.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Good night, Lori.”
“Good night, Julian.” I watched him amble slowly to his bedroom, finished my drink, and went to mine.
Despite the brandy and the old-cotton softness of the embroidered bedclothes, I found it difficult to fall asleep. I’d telephoned the Radcliffe after I’d spoken with Willis, Sr., half hoping that a Christmas miracle had occurred and that Kit had finally awakened from his coma. But no miracle had taken place. If anything, Kit had weakened slightly. I said a silent prayer for him, pushed the covers aside, and climbed out of bed.
I stood before the window for a time, gazing down at the gusts of snow haloing the street lamps. The glass was too thick, the frame too solid to let in the wind’s howl, but I could hear it nonetheless, and no amount of brandy could chase away the chill it sent through my soul.
Somewhere out there, someone like Kit was slowly freezing to death. In a doorway, under a bridge, or in plain sight of shoppers hastening home with armloads of last-minute purchases, someone was cold, hungry, and alone. I pressed my palms to the glass and let the chill course though my body.
I needed the howling wind, needed it to remind me that I was part of a world stretching beyond the snug circle of my family and friends. There was work to be done in that world, and I was blessed beyond all reason with the means to do it.
/> “Let us see in the poorest among us the face of the Christ Child.” I whispered the vicar’s words as a promise to Kit, to Julian, and to myself, then turned toward bed.
Julian and I had nearly finished our room-service breakfast the next morning when a knock sounded at the door of the suite.
“Madam?” called a familiar voice. “Limo’s ready.”
I flew to the door and flung it open. “Paul!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were available. I was about to call down for snowshoes.”
The gray-haired little man in the navy-blue chauffeur’s uniform touched two fingers to his forehead, since he was holding his visored cap in his hand, and executed a formal half-bow. “No need for that, madam. Miss Kingsley said I was to take you round to Belgravia, then whisk you back to the cottage toot sweet.” His brow furrowed anxiously. “Your party’s still on, isn’t it, madam?”
Visions of unthawed turkeys danced through my head, but I smiled bravely and said, “It sure is.”
Paul relaxed. “Been looking forward to it, madam. Very kind of you to invite me, I’m sure.” He gripped his cap with both hands. “Don’t mean to rush you, but the storm’s left the city in a bit of shambles, and it may take some time for us to—”
“We’re on our way,” I said, and called for Julian to drop his toast and grab his jacket.
“Never seen nothing like it,” Paul muttered. The window separating driver from client in the long black limousine was never closed when I was Paul’s passenger. “Lived in London my whole life, madam, and I’ve never seen snow like this.”
The blizzard had indeed left Paul’s beloved birthplace in a bit of a shambles, but it was a peaceful shambles. The storm had forced many businesses to close, thereby reducing the number of harried, list-toting shoppers to near zero. Few pedestrians, it seemed, were willing to clamber over the vast mountain ranges of plowed snow piled at each intersection, and even fewer drivers trailed in the wake of the exhaust-belching snowplows that now ruled London’s streets.
As a wealthy residential district, Belgravia received priority treatment from the city’s fleet of plows. Paul had little trouble maneuvering the limousine through the snow-tunneled thoroughfares to the gates of Havorford House. While Julian spoke into a gatepost-mounted intercom, requesting an interview with Lady Havorford concerning her brother, I craned my neck to view the mansion Kit had fled on that cold February night four years earlier.
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