Greetings of the Season and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  So the creatures agreed to help. Climbing past fallen stones in the walls or under the rotten floorboards or through the holes in the roof, they took up places around the little church and waited for the vicar to come. The horse poked his grizzled muzzle through a broken window.

  As was his wont, Vicar Althorpe came to pray after ringing the bells for twelve o’clock. Now the vicar was an old man who had seen his parish and his income decimated, despite his prayers. Tonight they were going to be answered. “Lord, is that you?” he cried in disbelief or awe. “Look to St. Francis,” he heard again from every corner of the dilapidated church. “Look to St. Francis.”

  He spun around to see where the voices were coming from, and to find the statue of the saint in its niche. Before he could take a step in that direction, though, he clutched his chest, fell to the floor, and breathed his last, with a smile upon his lips.

  The new vicar was a bitter young man, forced by his family into a profession clearly at odds with his predilection for gaming, wenching, and wine. Mr. Rudd was even more incensed when he realized what a meager living his family had found for him. His salary did not half cover his expenses, so he took to selling off the remaining stained glass windows, the last gold offering plate, and even an old hymnal or two. As was his wont, he entered the church one Christmas Eve after making sure the sexton rang the midnight bells, since they could be heard by his superior in Upper Winfrey. Rudd was not there to pray, but to see if by some chance some fool of a passerby had left a donation.

  “Look to St. Francis,” the animals called. The old horse was not among them, since Rudd would rather walk than be seen on such a decrepit beast, nor the rabbit, for Rudd had a rifle. “Look to St. Francis,” they all tried to shout louder.

  In their eagerness, the animals had forgotten a small technicality of the Christmas miracle: only a righteous man could hear and comprehend their speech. Rudd was so far from righteous he couldn’t have heard Gabriel’s trumpet.

  “Bugger this,” Dread Fred muttered. He leaped from the back of a pew onto the molding under St. Francis’s niche. Using his well-honed claws, he climbed to the base of the statue and arched his back, making sure the other animals had seen his prowess. “Now watch.”

  When the vicar turned from the empty poor box, considering whether he could fence the gold chalice, and for how much, Dread Fred nudged the statue so it fell. St. Francis did not, however, land at Rudd’s feet. The heavy statue hit the vicar on the head.

  “He’d have stolen the thing anyway,” the cat hissed as he slinked away.

  In the morning the sexton replaced the statue in its niche, then he sent to replace the vicar.

  Now the stone church was considered cursed, and was emptier than ever. Every one of the parishioners who could walk, ride, or drive the extra miles traveled to Most Holy Church in Upper Winfrey, with its choir loft and organ, its padded pews and charcoal braziers in winter. Only a few ancient villagers and farm folk came to St. Cecilia’s on a Sunday, and then more to visit with one another than to pay homage.

  Only two of the Churchmouse clan remained, old Exultemus Domine, who was too old to attract a mate, and young Passeth-All-Understanding, who had nothing to offer a wife, no rich cache of grains, no warm nest. Their prayer book was empty of pages to make a bridal bower, and they were reduced to eating the leather covers. They were out of paper, out of names, and nearly out of time. This would be the last Christmas for the clan, unless a miracle occurred. The other animals refused to help anymore, lest they be persecuted worse than they already were, so Pass and Ed could only huddle together and pray.

  “…Give us this day our daily bread crumbs.”

  *

  “And lead us not into temptation,” the Reverend Mr. Evan Merriweather prayed, with little hope of success. How, by all that was holy and a few things that were not, was he to avoid temptation at Squire Prescott’s Sunday dinner? He could easily resist second helpings, although the weekly meal was the only decent food he’d see all week. Compared to what he was served at the vicarage, Squire’s mutton was manna. According to Ned Cotter, Mrs. Sexton Cotter had trouble seeing the labels on the spice jars. Evan believed she must have trouble seeing the spice jars at all. Complaining did no good, since Mrs. Cotter heard as well as she saw. The old sexton and his wife had come with the vicarage, and Evan did not have the heart to replace them. He did not have the funds to replace them with more competent help, either.

  Still, he was easily able to refuse additional portions at Squire’s, knowing the leftovers would be bundled into baskets for him to take round to the parish poor. There were so many poor, and so few baskets, not a single belly would be full, less so if the new vicar stuffed himself at Squire’s board.

  Mr. Merriweather was not remotely tempted to blow a cloud with Squire after the meal—filthy habit that it was—nor partake of the cognac Prescott pressed on him. Spirits gave Evan the headache, for one, and he did not deem them quite proper for a parson, on a Sunday. He had to set an example for his parishioners, didn’t he? What if they saw him staggering back to the vicarage after an afternoon of imbibing?

  Lud, how much worse if they saw him lusting after Squire’s daughter? Evan ran his hands through his sandy hair and prayed harder, knowing how futile his efforts to avoid her attraction. He simply could not resist Alice Prescott. He was a man, by Heaven, not a monk, nor in his dotage, and she was a beautiful young woman, all rounded and soft, with silky golden curls. Beyond that, Miss Prescott was the sweetest, kindest creature ever put on God’s green earth. Evan knew it was she who packed the foodstuffs for the poor, and she who added jams and apples and eggs from Squire’s larder. She was the one who insisted the squire and his family attend little St. Cecilia’s, rather than join the other gentry at Most Holy, thus putting their pence on the collection plate where they would do most good. Of course the rector at Most Holy still demanded his share of the tithes, likely to gild the baptismal font there, while St. Cecilia’s used a chipped porcelain bowl.

  Alice—for that’s how Evan thought of Miss Prescott, although he would never presume to use her given name—brought flowers and greenery to the church, and embroidered new altar cloths. She visited the sick with broth and restoratives, and she helped teach the village girls skills and letters, so they might better themselves. Her mind and her morals everything admirable, Miss Prescott was as beautiful inside as out.

  In other words, words Evan tried not to admit, even to himself, Alice Prescott was everything he could ever want in a wife—a helpmate, the perfect mother to his children, and yes, an alluring lover. She was everything he wanted, and nothing he would ever have. He could never make her an honorable offer, for he honestly had nothing to offer her but a rundown vicarage, an impoverished parish, and a pittance of a salary. Miss Prescott deserved so much more, and her father would insist upon it.

  Mr. Merriweather had spent many hours since coming to Lower Winfrey and St. Cecilia’s in the Trees three months ago in thinking how he could improve the conditions for his congregation. He’d spent endless hours more once he’d met Miss Prescott in wondering how he could improve his own position enough to be considered an eligible parti. His birth was decent, with connections to the current Lord Whittendale, titleholder of note in this area of Sussex, but that would not count with the squire or his wife. It barely counted with Lord Whittendale, who had ignored all of Evan’s letters and all the messages sent through his land steward.

  Evan could shore up the fallen roof of his church, and he could share his meager rations with the poor, but he could not change a blessed thing for his parishioners. He could tutor the few boys whose parents could afford Latin lessons, and he could scribe letters for the occasional traveler, but he could never afford to take a wife, not while he stayed on at St. Cecilia’s.

  Sometimes, in the dark of night, Evan thought of leaving. Not of leaving the Church, for unlike many others in orders, he’d never wished to be anything but a cleric, like his own father, may he rest in peace
. But he could find another, better post somewhere, he was sure. Evan had taken honors at university, and had recommendations from the archbishop himself. Surely some wealthy parish needed a reverend ready to serve, although none could need him as much as St. Cecilia’s. Being needed, Mr. Merriweather was sadly finding, was not the same as being useful. Yet how could he leave, and leave Alice Prescott?

  Still on his knees there on the cold floor, making sure his trousers did not snag on any loose boards, for who knew how long before he could replace them, both the boards and the trousers, Evan pondered not going to Squire’s for dinner, thus sparing himself the pain of seeing what he could not have. That would mean denying the needy the baskets of food, though, and denying himself the joy of one of Alice’s smiles. He could no more stay away than the moth could stay away from the candle, but he could pray for inner peace and acceptance of his place in God’s Greater Plan. If He meant His minister to be celibate and sorrowful, well, Evan would do his best, despite pangs for a hunger no mutton could satisfy.

  2

  The Reverend Mr. Merriweather dressed with care for dinner at the Manor. One did, he told himself, to honor one’s hosts, to befit one’s position, and to make a good impression on any guests Squire might also have invited. He was not fussing like a belle at her first ball on account of hoping to find favor in a pair of heavenly blue eyes. Of course not. He might be a poor vicar, but he had his dignity.

  He had his pride, too. Evan could not help preening a bit in the mirror in the vicarage parlor, noting that all his work resetting the stone walls and sawing boards for the church roof had gained him muscles, as well as calluses. No scholarly stoop for this servant of the Lord. He smoothed his good coat over broader shoulders, and tried to flatten the cowlick at the back of his head.

  “What’s the lad doing, then, Ned?” Mrs. Cotter called to her husband. “Spitting on his hands?”

  “He’s trying to fix his hair, Emma, I think. I’ve got some pig grease I used on the church door, Reverend. Want I should fetch that? That’s what I used when I was a-courtin’ my Emma.” Ned guffawed, then repeated his offer loudly enough for Emma to hear, and the neighbors next door.

  “I am not going courting, and I do not wish to arrive at Squire’s smelling of bacon, thank you.”

  “Aye, smelling of April and May is enough.” Ned and Emma chuckled again.

  So much for his pride and his dignity and his prayers that no one knew of his impossible affection for Miss Alice Prescott. Evan crammed his beaver hat over the offending curl and set off to walk the two miles to Prescott Manor, forlorn hope his only companion.

  Squire, at least, was in a jovial mood, welcoming Evan with a glass of sherry before dinner. From his high color and booming voice, it appeared that Prescott had already welcomed the Naysmiths and Colonel Halsey, all of whom attended services at Most Holy Church, with similar glasses of spirits. Evan made his bows, pretending to sip at his wine, pretending not to be watching the door. Then she was there.

  Miss Prescott was wearing a blue gown embroidered with tiny flowers. Evan did not think it was the dress she’d worn to church that morning, but he could not be certain, since no one in St. Cecilia’s removed their cloaks, not in December. He thought he would have noticed if her eyes were even bluer than usual, though, reflecting the color of her frock. He certainly would have noticed the silk flowers twined in her neatly coiled hair, matching the sprigs on her skirt. Reverend Merriweather decided he did not need dinner if he could feast his eyes on such a delicacy. For sure he’d never manage to swallow, not past the foolish grin on his face. Alice smiled at him and held out her hand. Evan put his glass of sherry in it.

  His cheeks redder than Squire’s, the vicar took the glass back, recalling courtesy and the company. He bowed to Mrs. Prescott, thanking her for the kind invitation, and inquired after the health of Squire’s ancient auntie. Gratified, the antique relative latched onto his sleeve, which was already straining from his newly acquired muscles, and enumerated every ache and pain a person could suffer and still survive. Evan wondered whether his coat or his patience would expire first. Seated between Aunt Minerva and Mrs. Naysmith, whose husband owned the Winfrey Mercantile, Mr. Merriweather could look directly across the table, over a bowl of fruit, at Alice. He blessed Aunt Minerva and her megrims. Then he blessed the food, after Squire cleared his throat a few times and Alice kicked Evan’s ankle, under the table.

  As soon as grace was spoken, Squire raised his glass in a toast, to good food, good friends, and good news. “For Colonel Halsey has brought tidings of great import to our little neighborhood. Yes, and the Naysmiths have confirmed it. Lord Whittendale is coming home to White Oaks for Christmas.”

  “And about time,” Aunt Minerva seconded, taking a healthy swig of her wine for such a febrile female.

  Viscount Whittendale being Mr. Merriweather’s patron, as well as a distant cousin, Evan would never say anything derogatory about the man. There was, however, no denying that Randolph Whitmore was a feckless, reckless here-and-thereian. Bad enough he callously let St. Cecilia’s collapse, and the neighboring economy with it, but the viscount was a libertine, a known womanizer, an extravagant gambler, a devil-may-care chaser after the moment’s pleasure. For the life of him, Evan could not think why anyone would be in alt to have such a one in their midst.

  Sensing Evan’s disapproval, the squire explained, “Good for business, don’t you see? White Oaks is already ordering goods from the Mercantile, for the house party he’ll be bringing with him.”

  More like an orgy, from what Evan knew of the viscount, but he refrained from comment as Mr. Naysmith raised his own glass. “Linens and toweling, soaps and candles. And his steward is adding on staff.”

  “And we heard he might hold a ball.” Mrs. Naysmith beamed at the Prescott ladies, visions of dress lengths and lace dancing in her eyes.

  “Yes, I can see where that can help put some money in local pockets,” Evan admitted, “but Lower Winfrey needs more than a fortnight of revelry.”

  Squire slurped at his soup. “Who’s to say Whittendale will be gone after Twelfth Night?”

  “Lord Whittendale himself. He told me he despised ruralizing, the one time I met him when I interviewed for this position. He said he hadn’t been here in a donkey’s age, and didn’t intend to visit any time soon.” He had not bothered to reply to Evan’s pleas for him to visit, to see conditions for himself. “I confess I should like a few moments of my lord’s time, but doubt he’ll stay even that long.”

  Prescott waved his spoon in the air, sending droplets of soup toward the centerpiece. Evan decided to forgo the fruit. “Idle chitchat,” Squire said, dismissing the vicar’s misgivings. “No, word is that Lord Whittendale is ready to settle down.”

  “About time,” Aunt Minerva repeated.

  Even Squire’s wife looked dubious. She read the London gossip columns as often as her husband. The on dits reached Sussex a few days late, but not that late.

  “Just think,” Prescott said around a slab of meat. “The man is thirty if he is a day. Long past time he starts setting up his nursery. He’s sown his wild oats, aye, more than his fair share, but he knows what’s due his name and his title. Noblesse oblige and all that. Asides, all that rushing from party to party and staying out all night grows tiresome. Mark my words, our viscount is coming to look over the country seat, with an eye toward rusticating.”

  “I hope you may be right, for St. Cecilia’s sake, as well as for the rest of the community.” Perhaps Evan would even get to ask the viscount for a raise in his salary. While the others speculated on the size and social standing of the viscount’s house party, Reverend Merriweather let his mind wander to the size of increase he’d request. His thoughts traveled further afield on paths of gold and landed, as usual, on Alice Prescott—who was looking right at him.

  She smiled as if she could see inside his mind and said, “I think we must all benefit from Lord Whittendale’s visit, no matter how short.”

&
nbsp; “Quite right, puss. And I daresay if you play your cards right, you can be a viscountess one day.”

  Everyone turned to stare at Mr. Merriweather as his fork clattered onto his plate, then skittered to the floor. Mortified, Evan bent to pick it up, bumping his head on the mahogany table. Alice caught her father’s attention to cover the vicar’s awkwardness. “What fustian nonsense, Papa. As if I ever aspired to such lofty estate.”

  “And why not, I want to know?” her doting father asked. “You’re wellborn enough. Wasn’t your mama’s grandfather a duke? And I paid enough for that fancy finishing academy to please the highest sticklers. Besides, you’re a devilishly pretty chit, if I have to say so myself who shouldn’t. Image of your mother at that age, don’t you know. And she had beaux swarming at her feet. Could have had an earl, by George, but she chose me.” Squire gazed fondly at his wife, the tender sentiments marred only by the gravy dripping down his chin.

  “Yes, dearest,” Mrs. Prescott said. “But the viscount is so…so sophisticated.”

  “So? Our gal had her London Season. I turned down plenty of offers on her behalf, too. Not like she’s some chit fresh out of the schoolroom. Puss mightn’t be a dasher, but she’ll do, if Whittendale knows what’s good for him.”

  “Doing it too brown, Papa. You know the viscount would never look at me when he has all those elegant females to choose from.”

  “Now who’s talking gammon? A man don’t want some pretty wigeon to be mother to his children and to run his household. When he’s ready to take on leg shackles, he wants a sensible female, not an ornament. You’re a good girl, my Alice, and Whittendale is bound to see that. If he doesn’t, I’ll bring it to his attention.”

  Blushing rosily, Alice took a hasty sip of wine. “You’ll do nothing of the kind, Papa. Didn’t you say that Lady Farnham was to be of the party? Her name was linked with that of the viscount last spring, when we went to London.”