Little Shoes and Mistletoe

by Sally Laity

  She gave a doubtful shrug. “I only know that the church provides considerable aid to the unfortunates through prayer and contributions and our benevolent activities. That should be enough.”

  “Well, it isn’t enough, Ana. And it never will be. . .at least, not for me.” Draining his tea, he set the cup onto the tray and started to rise.

  Anabelle stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Oh, please don’t rush off, sweetheart. I haven’t even had a chance to tell you I met Mrs. Harper’s niece yesterday at service.”

  He sat back down. “Oh?”

  “Yes. She seems ever so nice. Even lonely. . .perhaps because she’s only recently arrived in the city.”

  “It’s fortunate that her aunt will now have someone around to look after her. But by the same token, I’m sure Miss Criswell could use a friend, if you happen to be so inclined.”

  “I do, actually. We can always use extra hands on quilting days at church, and I’m thrilled at the prospect of having someone my age there. Those old biddies are forever talking to me as if I’m a schoolgirl.”

  He had to smile. “Well, at twenty-two, you’re not all that far removed from being at Miss Witherspoon’s Academy, you know.”

  Anabelle smiled dryly.

  Micah brushed the curve of her fine cheekbone with his fingertips and gazed into her eyes—more gray than green in the subdued light. “Well, my dear, I am kind of tired. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll call it a night. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be better company.”

  “Whatever you say.” She took no offense from his early departure. “I’ll make some taffy for when you come. Would you like that?”

  “Sure. Sounds delicious.” Rising, he pulled her lightly into his arms and gave her an equally soft kiss, attributing his own lack of passion to bone-weariness from his long day. “Take care, Ana. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Sliding her arm about his waist, Anabelle rested her head against his shoulder and strolled with him to the door.

  Outside once more in the cold night wind, Micah willed aside his nagging disappointment that the woman he planned to marry cared so little about what was most important to him. Perhaps that would change after they wed.

  But what if it did not?

  ❧

  Clothed in her warmest nightgown, Eliza stood at the mirror and removed her hair net and hairpins, allowing her long tresses to fall free of their usual confinement. She took the silver-handled brush her grandmother had given her years ago and began the habitual one hundred strokes.

  Though this grand old mansion felt toasty during a sunny day, at night the wind’s cold breath filtered through tiny cracks and crevices around the windows and along the floorboards. She hoped the warming pan had chased the chill from the bedsheets.

  Finally reaching a hundred, Eliza set down the brush and padded to the fourposter. She removed the long-handled pan and climbed into the bed, arranging the fluffy quilts over herself before reaching for her Bible on the night table.

  Pastor Norman’s sermon still rang in her mind. And try as she might, she couldn’t justify the ill feelings she still bore in her heart toward Weston—whom she blamed for everything, even Melanie’s betrayal. After all, the girl had always been gullible to a fault. But determined to ease her own inner turmoil, Eliza read over the verses covered in the message, then clutched the Holy Book to her breast and bowed her head.

  Dear Heavenly Father, I thank You for this lovely day and for Your presence even in our trials. I know that eventually I must let go of my anger and humiliation. . .and perhaps in time, I’ll be able to do just that. But for now, I ask only that You stay close to me. Help me to remember that Your Son forgave even His murderers. Please don’t let me forget His example. And if You can change my heart to be more like His, I am willing.

  Even as that small admission came, Eliza realized she meant it and took that as an encouraging sign. She placed her Bible on the small table again and lay down with a sigh.

  She loved being here with Aunt Phoebe. She hadn’t particularly intended to seek out a new friend, yet it appeared the Lord was replacing Melanie with Anabelle Dumont. And Eliza was learning skills she had always coveted but somehow never found time to master.

  Nevertheless, the future stretched before her, a bleak and empty road to nowhere. One she would travel alone, thanks to Weston Elliot. The wedding which she’d been planning for such a long time—and one which should have taken place by now—would never be.

  She hoped her mother had returned all of the lovely gifts to which she was no longer entitled. And as for the pillowcases and other linens she’d so lovingly embroidered ever since girlhood for her married life, Eliza almost wished she had brought them along with her for the perverse pleasure of setting them ablaze!

  No. On second thought, she’d sell them to help the needy. . . sell off her own chest of hopes, stop feeling sorry for herself, and find another purpose for her life just as her aunt had done.

  But how, when she couldn’t even find all the pieces of her shattered heart?

  Hot tears she had long held back flooded her eyes, rolling down into her hair and onto her pillow. Eliza wept until she could weep no more.

  four

  “Utterly fascinating.” Eliza peered over her aunt’s shoulder at the exquisite lace collar being created by the aged fingers. Without missing a beat, Aunt Phoebe picked up a hand-carved bobbin from the myriad of wooden spools encircling her lace board. Then she wound the silk thread around and between the clusters of tiny pins positioned to form the intricate pattern she had designed. To Eliza, the finished portion appeared to be made of nothing but gossamer and air, and she felt reasonably certain she would never possess such skill.

  “It’s not really as difficult as it looks,” her aunt said, “though it does require considerable practice.”

  “Indeed.”

  “My grandmother taught me when I was just a young girl. But with these old eyes, I dare not attempt it except on a bright morning like this. And that’s one reason why I made this sunroom my work area.”

  “Still,” Eliza marveled, “I wouldn’t know where or how to start.”

  The white bun atop her aunt’s head jiggled as she nodded, and she paused in her work to meet Eliza’s gaze. “Making lace always reminds me of life,” she began thoughtfully. “We’re the pins on the board, and God is the great Weaver. He picks up a thread from some faraway corner and winds it around us. We might not feel a particular strand is so very comfortable as He first pulls it taut. But there’s no point in struggling against it. From His viewpoint, He’s fashioning a design that brings glory to every aspect of His handiwork. And one day, when we look back on our lives, we’ll see things of beauty even in the places we thought were dark and hard.”

  The lovely sentiments touched Eliza, and she mused over them momentarily before focusing again on her own task. “Well, I’ll be satisfied if I can master tatting.” With a critical grimace, she sank back into her chair in the workroom and held her own project at arm’s length to assess her stitches.

  “I wouldn’t fret overmuch,” Aunt Phoebe said kindly. “From what I’ve seen of your labors so far, I’d say those handkerchiefs will not remain in the shop very long before someone buys them.”

  As if on cue, the bell above the parlor door reverberated through the hall, signaling the arrival of a customer.

  The older woman stood. “I’ll tend to this one.”

  “And I’ll see about dinner. It’s nearly noon.” Laying her task aside, Eliza rose and headed for the kitchen. But she couldn’t dismiss the mental picture her aunt had painted. Could being rejected and cast aside like some unwanted, disdainful object ever be part of her own life’s beautiful pattern? She had her doubts. No matter how she attempted to distance herself from her circumstances, they would forever appear cruel and ugly.

  In the kitchen, Eliza opened the icebox, removed
a pair of eggs and set them to coddling, then sliced two thick chunks of bread to toast and butter. Small dishes of canned peaches with sweetened cream, ladyfingers, and a pot of tea topped off the light midday meal. Putting all the items on a large tray, she carried them to the parlor.

  Her aunt, she discovered upon her approach, had not as yet finished with the customer. Not wanting to intrude, Eliza hesitated before entering the room.

  “As always, we can only do our best,” came Micah Rich-mond’s familiar voice. “Things are going from bad to worse as winter settles in. Conditions at the tenements are deplor-able beyond words, as you know.”

  “Yes, and it’s such a pity,” her aunt replied. “Let us pray that the good ladies at Faith Community will be able to step up their provisions in the weeks to come. I’ve been saving material scraps left over from some of my own projects. I’ll add them to the quilt supplies at the church.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be much appreciated. You are a good friend.”

  Eliza surmised from the tone of the conversation that the young man was about to depart. She waited for the sound of the door. When it didn’t come directly, she sighed and propped the heavy serving tray against a hip.

  With her movement, a teaspoon fell over the edge and clattered noisily to the floor.

  “Is that you, Eliza, dear?” Aunt Phoebe called out.

  Eliza knew it would be pointless—and rude—not to respond. “Yes.” Forcing a smile, she gripped her burden more firmly and stepped into the room, heading for the nearest table.

  “Ah, Miss Criswell.” The young man gave a slight bow of his head as she moved into view. “Good day.”

  “And a good day to you, Mr. Richmond.” Eliza had all but convinced herself she had only imagined the resemblance between the man and her former fiancО, but to her dismay, the merest glance proved the opposite to be true. She caught her breath at the amazing similarities and purposely refrained from meeting his gaze as she turned away and put all her efforts into setting a proper table.

  “Oh, that reminds me, Micah,” her aunt said, “Eliza and I would love for Anabelle to come to tea. Tomorrow afternoon, if it’s convenient. Would you be kind enough to deliver this note to her?”

  “Delighted to be of service, Mrs. Harper. It’s not often I get to do something in return for your kindnesses. I shall take my leave so you ladies can enjoy your meal.” Plunking his hat on, he tipped his head politely and exited with a carefree wave of the hand.

  Last week’s snow had melted days ago, and the sound of his footfalls drifted from the front walk as he strode out to his carriage.

  “Such a nice, nice young man,” Aunt Phoebe said, coming to take a seat at the table. “Oh, this looks lovely, dear.”

  ❧

  A fairly steady stream of patrons, mindful of the approaching Christmas season, came to the shop the next morning. Aunt Phoebe had assigned kitchen duty to Eliza, and Eliza suspected that her aunt hoped the chore of providing an array of freshly baked treats for afternoon tea would help occupy her until their guest arrived. But she wondered if her aunt felt more nervous than she did. From bits of conversation, Eliza guessed that Aunt Phoebe didn’t want her niece being cut off with other young people simply because she was living with an older woman. With the exception of Micah’s brief visits, the afternoon tea with Anabelle would be the first time they had entertained someone Eliza’s age since she’d moved from Harrisburg.

  Finally four o’clock arrived, and with it, the carriage bringing Anabelle. Aunt Phoebe ushered the fair-haired beauty inside and turned the Closed sign outward.

  “Lovely to see you both again,” Anabelle said airily as she hung her fur-lined wrap on the hall tree beside the door and tucked her long gloves into its roomy hood. Her cheeks glowed pink from the brisk temperature, a fitting contrast to the rich emerald gown she wore. Its sleeves fairly dripped with rich ecru lace every bit as delicate as her soft skin.

  “We’re so pleased you could come,” Eliza answered, thankful that she’d taken the time to change into a dressier frock after the day’s baking was finished.

  “Why don’t we all be seated?” Aunt Phoebe motioned to the lace-draped table, and the three of them took chairs.

  Eliza felt her face flush with pride when Anabelle glanced appreciatively at the assortment of fancy cookies, fudge, and teacakes she had labored over most of the day. She had done her best to prepare something that Anabelle would enjoy, and she sighed with thankfulness that everything had turned out perfectly.

  Aunt Phoebe offered a brief prayer over the food, and then filled the floral-patterned teacups.

  “Everything is just exquisite,” Anabelle said, her tone completely sincere. “I’ve often envied your talents, Mrs. Harper.” Scooping two sweet cubes from the silver sugar scuttle, she stirred them into her tea before taking a sip.

  Aunt Phoebe smiled. “If you’re referring to the array of gifts about the room, I am happy to announce that my niece is acquiring some splendid proficiency along those lines already. If you’re speaking of our refreshments, however, I must confess they are all Eliza’s doing.”

  “You don’t say.” Anabelle turned a gracious smile on Eliza. “Well, music might come easily to me, Eliza, but I’m afraid my accomplishments in the kitchen lag far behind yours.”

  “Thank you,” she replied demurely.

  “Speaking of music,” Aunt Phoebe chimed in, “we’d love it if you would favor us with a piece when we’ve finished eating. Something from the classics, perhaps.”

  “As you wish.” Sampling one of the dainty cookies on her plate, Anabelle switched her attention to Eliza once more. “Are you enjoying your stay in New York?”

  “Very much. I’ve been quite busy and have met many friendly folk at the church and here at our shop. Of course, Auntie always makes me feel at home whenever I come to visit.”

  The honey-blond nodded in agreement. “All of us at Faith Community have basked in her hospitality on occasion. I’m pleased to hear you’re fitting in so well. In fact, it would be a boon to the sewing circle if you would consider joining us on Thursday afternoons. At present, we’re working on quilts for the unfortunates. Micah delivers them where they’re most needed.”

  “Why, I’d be delighted to help out, if Aunt Phoebe can spare me for a few hours each week.” She flashed a questioning glance at her aunt, who nodded.

  “Wonderful!” Anabelle exclaimed. “I’ll have my driver come by for you on Thursdays at one o’clock.” She laughed lightly. “At last, someone near my own age! You cannot imagine what it’s like to be among ladies who treat me as if I’m still in pigtails.”

  With a pointed look at the two of them, Aunt Phoebe finished the last of her tea and got up. “I hope you’ll both excuse me if I leave you two youngsters to visit while I do a bit of dusting and rearranging of goods on the store shelves.”

  “Not at all,” they both answered.

  Anabelle bit into a piece of fudge as the older woman left the room. When she spoke again, her tone was soft, almost conspiratorial. “I know quite a number of eligible bachelors who might enjoy your company also, Eliza. I’d be happy to introduce you around. Perhaps Micah and I could escort you and—”

  Eliza blanched. “Thank you, but no. I’m not at all interested in that sort of thing.”

  “Oh.” Her color heightening, Anabelle readjusted her napkin. “What a pity. Well, all the same, I shall be glad for your company at the sewing circle.”

  Sensing her guest’s discomfort, Eliza decided to change the subject. “So, what other interests do you have that occupy your time beside music and needlework?”

  The slender blond relaxed noticeably. “I’m an avid reader, absolutely devouring whatever new fiction comes into the bookseller’s. And, of course,” she added on a note of chagrin, “my mother insists I prepare supper at least twice every week. She’s bound and determined to marry
me off to Micah at the earliest opportunity.”

  The constant references to the young woman’s beau were oddly comforting to Eliza, instilling in her a deeper conviction that she need not be ill at ease in his presence. After all, he wasn’t Weston; he had no designs on her. And she truly did want to become friends with Anabelle. Seeing that the girl seemed to have finished eating, Eliza folded her own napkin. “Shall I show you to the piano now?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure that my fingers have finally thawed sufficiently.”

  Half an hour and a dozen etudes later, Eliza felt completely at ease with Anabelle Dumont. “I shall never cease coveting your talent,” she finally admitted. Resting against her aunt’s ebony satin upright, she watched the girl’s nimble fingers caressing the ivory keys. “When I think of how I detested all those dreary scales and tiresome arpeggios, it’s no wonder I drove many a music tutor mad.”

  Anabelle’s laugh sounded as fittingly musical as her ability. “And I, on the other hand, could not get enough of playing. My mother often threatened to put a leash around my neck so she could drag me away from the piano for meals.”

  At this, Eliza sputtered into a giggle, and Anabelle nearly doubled over with mirth.

  “Now that’s what’s been missing from this old house,” Aunt Phoebe murmured, coming into the room. “The sound of music and youth and laughter.”

  “I’ve just been trying to absorb a measure of Anabelle’s gift,” Eliza said, gathering her composure again. “It reminds me how foolish it is to waste one’s opportunities in life.”

  “So what is it you desire?” her new friend asked. “A second chance?”

  “Are you offering to teach me?” Eliza, only half jesting, sobered. “Because, if you’re serious, I think I truly would like to study the piano again. I’m older now. The thought of scales and practice aren’t nearly so unbearable as they seemed in my girlhood.”