The pole collapsed under the weight of the well-fed Fred. With the sudden loss of the upright, the rotted roof beam groaned, shifted, and cracked. Cat, mouse, post, beam, and a good portion of the roof fell onto the floor of the church, scant feet away from Lady Farnham and Reverend Merriweather. She screamed, he screamed, and Mrs. Cotter, who was coming to fetch her precious puss for a spot of tea, screamed. Viscount Whittendale screamed from the outside, tearing into the church and shoving rubble out of his way as he raced to reach Beatrice’s side.
Ed screamed, but no one heard him. He burrowed deeper in the debris.
Mrs. Cotter reached her pet first, not that anyone else was trying to rescue the feline.
A board had fallen on Dread Fred’s head.
He bled, but he hung on by a thread, not quite dead.
Mrs. Potter scooped him up in her apron, sobbing that the church must truly be bedeviled, picking on innocent pusses now, instead of preachers. Still screaming, she carried him away to safety and his blanket-bed near the cook-stove.
Evan was choking on the cloud of disturbed dust, but he went to look at the damage as soon as he made sure Lady Farnham was uninjured. She was uninjured so far, but the way Lord Whittendale was clutching her to his chest, Evan worried that she’d soon have broken ribs.
“Are you all right, Bea?” the viscount was desperately asking. “Are you sure? God, when I heard that awful noise, I thought for a moment I had lost you.”
Lady Farnham caught her breath and nodded. “I am fine, truly. Mr. Merriweather pushed me aside when he realized what was happening.”
“And the baby? What about the baby?”
Lady Farnham reached up to wipe a smudge of dirt from his cheek, a smudge that had a suspiciously moist track through it. “We are both fine, I swear. But do you really care about the baby?”
“Lud, Bea, more than I thought possible. Losing the child now would have been the perfect solution, but I couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing my son or daughter at your breast. Ah, Bea, I don’t want any milk-and-water miss in my bed or sitting across the breakfast table or beside me at the Opera. I want you, none other. Perhaps I am a fool for needing such a near-tragedy to show me what I value most in this world, but will you marry me anyway, my dearest?”
“But what of Society?”
“Society be damned.” The viscount noticed Merriweather standing nearby, the remnants of the wicker basket in his hands. “Sorry, Reverend.” Then he turned back to Bea. “Say you will, darling, and make me the happiest of men.”
“Oh, do, Lady Farnham,” Evan put in, “before he changes his mind. That is, excuse me. The excitement, don’t you know.”
“You can give me your answer in the carriage, my love.” The viscount scowled over her head. “As for you, Merriweather, rest assured I shall not change my mind. I owe you for protecting my lady, and for your plain speaking on Sunday, so I will raise your wages. That doesn’t mean that I am willing to throw good money after bad, though. If no one will come to this church, cursed or not, I see no reason to repair it. I will make you a bargain, Merriweather. You fill this church for Christmas morning service, and I will make the repairs and endow your charities. Yes, and I’ll make the vicarage more habitable, too. If the church is not used, especially on Christmas morning, it is not worth fixing, so I will let the living lapse. I’ll ask the bishop to find you another post, and have Most Holy take over the parish duties.
“But Christmas is next week. I cannot—”
They were gone, their eyes only on each other.
“Watch out for the rotten stairs!” Evan called.
The viscount waved a casual acknowledgment with the hand that was not around Lady Farnham. “Next week.”
*
As soon as word reached the Manor, Alice hurried to the church to assess the latest damage and disaster.
Evan was standing behind the lectern, using his handkerchief to wipe dirt from the ceiling off the large Bible there. A small collection of coins, two of them golden, rested beside the Book.
Alice picked her way over the debris, careful not to snag her cloak, and joined him at the front of the church. She looked up at the grayish-blue sky visible above and said, “At least it is not raining.”
“Ah, my heart, trust you to find the silver lining in this cloud of dust.” Then he went on to describe Lord Whittendale’s ultimatum.
“How dare he make a game out of people’s lives. That worm!”
“That worm is going to marry Lady Farnham after all, thank goodness, despite the censure of his friends and acquaintances.”
“Then they will go back to London and not give another thought to St. Cecilia’s or Lower Winfrey.”
“No, I think he will keep his word about supporting the parish, if we meet his conditions.”
Alice looked up, not to seek divine guidance, but to watch a passing cloud. “How can we satisfy him, Evan? The church has not been filled since the viscount’s mother’s funeral. There are not enough people in the village to fill the pews, even if no one goes to Most Holy instead.” Evan stacked the coins. “I’ve been thinking. I can use these contributions and the rest of my quarter’s salary to fix the ceiling. Then our people might not be so anxious about attending St. Cecilia’s.”
Alice did not want to worry Evan further by reminding him that the villagers feared the bad luck of the previous vicars’ deaths, not the bad roof. She nodded encouragingly.
“Or else,” Evan reflected, “I could use the blunt to buy foodstuffs. If I promise the poor souls in the almshouse a Christmas dinner, maybe they will come to services. Unfortunately, I cannot do both. It’s either the roof and the villagers, or the food and the unfortunate. Either way, the church will be half empty.”
“No, it won’t, for I have some pin money of my own put by. We can fix the church and have a feast to celebrate. And I can help with the repairs, and the baking, too.” He shook his head, sending dust from his hair back onto the Bible. “I cannot take your money, Alice.”
Alice brushed a smudge from his cheek, her fingers lingering there. “It’s not for you. It’s for St. Cecilia’s.”
“But you know that without Lord Whittendale’s money, we’ll never have enough brass to make the church really safe for anyone to worship here, not even you. Especially you, my dear.”
“I’ll be here. And I will make sure everyone I know is here, to help save St. Cecilia’s.”
Evan kissed her fingers, so near his lips. “Poor Lord Whittendale.”
“Poor, that makebait?”
“Aye. He doesn’t get to marry the finest woman in the kingdom.”
“I thought you liked Lady Farnham. She is certainly beautiful enough.”
“She isn’t you.”
8
White Oaks had not opened its vast doors to the community in ages. Not since the viscount’s mother’s time had the huge ancient pile hosted what used to be an annual Christmas Eve ball. Tonight the party was twice as joyous, twice as lavish as any Lady Whittendale had ever thrown, for tonight the current titleholder was going to announce his engagement.
Money had flowed through village hands from the influx of travelers and traders. The restored fortress needed to be refurbished, restocked, and restaffed, and what could not be ordered in time from London was purchased nearby. Since everyone in the vicinity was also invited to the lively party in the barn if not the formal dance in the ballroom, spirits were high, and not just because spirits were flowing as well as Lord Whittendale’s blunt.
One person was not enjoying himself. The Reverend Mr. Merriweather could not share in the joy of the occasion. Oh, he’d made a sincere blessing over the happy couple and, indeed, wished them well. He’d also blessed the meal, both at the long oak table and at the trestles set up for the common folk. He was pleased to see his neighbors so carefree, so happy in the moment, yet he could not join in their merriment. Here it was, Christmas Eve, perhaps his first, last, and only Christmas Eve as vicar of St. Cecilia’s, and
here he was, watching Alice dance with all the London bucks and blades. She was beautiful in her new gown of ivory lace over emerald-green satin, with holly twined in her upswept hair, and every man there knew it. All those wealthy, titled, landed gentlemen were waiting in line for her hand, to dazzle her with their diamond stickpins and polished manners, to shower her with flowery compliments and flirtatious conversation. Evan could no more turn a pretty phrase than he could turn into a Town Beau.
He’d had one dance with his beloved, a stately minuet as befitted his station, and their relationship as minister and congregant. Whittendale was getting to have nearly every dance with his affianced bride, the lucky dog. No one would think any the less of Lady Farnham, not in light of her betrothal, and the light of adoration in the viscount’s eyes. No one would dare slight her, or bring up old gossip, not once the engagement was announced. Beatrice was going to be Lady Whittendale, a blanket of respectability that could ward off all but the chilliest of disapproval.
Envy sat heavily in Evan’s heart, along with uncertainty over his own future.
Another gentleman was also less than delighted with the occasion. Mr. Prescott found Evan leaning against a pillar, half hidden by a potted palm tree. “Wretched thing, balls,” Squire complained. “How they expect a fellow to cavort around on his toes after feeding him six courses, I’ll never know.” He accepted another glass of punch from a passing footman, and leaned on the other side of the pillar. “Much rather have a nap or a quiet game of cards. M’wife insists I stay right here, though, keeping an eye on Alice, what with all those randy, ramshackle rakes Whittendale calls friends around. As if one of those loose screws is going to drag the gal behind a drapery to steal a kiss when there’s all this mistletoe in plain sight.”
Botheration, Evan hadn’t noticed the mistletoe. He could have— No, he could not have. He was the vicar—the impoverished vicar. He sighed.
Squire sighed louder, watching Alice float by in a cloud of lace, in the same set as Lord Whittendale and his radiant wife-to-be. Lady Farnham was wearing the Whittendale heirloom engagement ring, the enormous diamond reflecting the hundreds of candles around the room. “Deuce take it, I suppose now I’ll have to take Alice back to London in the spring. I was hoping to be done with all those folderols and furbelows, especially at planting season.” Mr. Merriweather could only nod in commiseration. The thought of Alice going to London to find a parti to wed stuck in his throat like a piece of Mrs. Cotter’s Christmas pudding.
“I don’t suppose she mentioned an interest in any of these coxcombs when you were as close as inkle weavers all week, did she?” Squire asked hopefully. “I could get a ring on her finger by New Year’s. Not the size of Lady Farnham’s, of course. None of the popinjays can touch Whittendale’s deep pockets. Not that I mean to sell my gal to the highest bidder or anything. Won’t even hold out for a title if the chap is a decent sort.”
The pain in Evan’s chest grew with each of Squire’s words. He swallowed and said, “No, she never mentioned any of Lord Whittendale’s company by name, although I know she dined with them a time or two, and entertained some of the gentlemen at tea.”
“Hmpf. She could have fixed any number of the toffs’ attention if she’d set her mind to it and stayed home instead of spending every minute at St. Cecilia’s. Her mother had to tie her down, nearly, to be at home in the afternoon.”
“Miss Prescott was a great help this week. She lent her hand to mending the altar cloth and helping Mrs. Cotter prepare Christmas dinner for the needy. She taught the children their lines for the Nativity pageant, and she sewed their costumes. I don’t know what I would have done without her.” Yes, he did. He would have given up and handed in his resignation before Lord Whittendale could dismiss him from his post.
“Aye, she’s a good girl, my Alice.”
“There is none finer.” Evan raised his own cup of wassail in a toast to the only woman he could ever love. Then he made his farewells, citing exhaustion and last-minute work on his sermon for the morning.
He was certainly tired from all the work he had done this week, and anxious about the morrow, but mostly he could not bear to wait for midnight and the lighting of the Yule log in White Oaks’s cavernous hearth. All of the revelers would come into the Great Hall for the ceremony, where a sliver of last year’s log would be used to start the new mammoth one, thus ensuring the prosperity of the house and its inhabitants. Evan did not know what they would use as last year’s kindling, since Lord Whittendale hadn’t been in the county, but he did know that everyone would lift their glasses and cheer the viscount and his lady, toasting the health of his unborn sons, the continuance of his line, the hope of the community.
Evan was pleased for Lady Farnham, and more relieved that that firstborn child would bear his father’s name. Still, he could not stay to watch.
Besides, he told himself, his sexton could not be trusted to leave the party in the barn in time to ring the church bell at midnight, or to be sober enough to pull the rope. If this was to be St. Cecilia’s last Christmas, the bells had to ring.
He’d done his best to save the church, Evan reflected. He’d used his money to hire carpenters and buy lumber, and he’d been sawing and nailing alongside the workmen. The roof was secured, albeit temporarily. The new stairs would not collapse under the weight of the heaviest worshiper. A few broken pews were shored up, a few more stones were remortared. All the dust and dirt was swept out, fresh pine boughs, holly, and ivy were brought in.
Evan had not stopped there. He’d helped roll out the gingerbread for the children, and found parts in the Nativity pageant for every child he could bribe, knowing their parents would then attend, if only to see their offspring as Magi and shepherds.
Now it was up to the Lord to see if His servant’s best was good enough.
On his way home in the gig Alice had convinced the squire to put at his disposal, Evan counted. He did not count the miles back to the vicarage, nor the stars overhead, nor the number of smiles Alice had bestowed on her various dancing partners. No, he counted seats, empty seats.
The poor from the almshouse. The loyal villagers. The sheep farmers whose children were sheep in the pageant. Alice and her reluctant family. Those were all he could count on. And they were not enough. He doubted if any of the White Oaks guests would attend, not after the revelries of this evening. The rest of the gentry at the Christmas ball would undoubtedly go to Most Holy, with its gleaming stained glass windows and its choir’s voices raised on high.
In despair, Evan knew the only thing to be raised at St. Cecilia’s was more dust. He had too many seats, and too few sitters.
*
The mice had toiled mightily that week also. With Fred holding on to the last of his nine lives, and firmly intending to spend that one safely alongside Mrs. Cotter’s nice warm stove, the desperate, determined duo worked all the harder, not having to look over their shoulders. They were invigorated by the crusts of bread and apple cores the carpenters left behind, too, as well as the vicar’s efforts to save their home.
They had St. Francis polished to a fare-thee-well. His back side still had patches of paint and plaster, but his front shone as lustrous as soft fur and mouse spit could burnish it. His robes showed a few extra folds, and his face a few more wrinkles, where the gnawing had been a tad too enthusiastic, and one of his fingers was sadly missing altogether, but his smile seemed all the sweeter to the weary rodents. Surely now, after all of their work, one of the worshipers would notice the golden gleam.
Unfortunately, they realized St. Cecilia’s had too many dark corners and not enough candles.
“What if no one sees the statue?” Pass fretted.
“They have to,” Ed insisted. To a mouse’s eyes, the gold was as unmistakable and beckoning as a ripening ear of corn.
“I don’t know, Ed. These human people aren’t all that bright. They forgot about hiding the golden statue when the bad men were coming, didn’t they? We’ve got to do something.”
>
So when Vicar Merriweather came to his church to pray for a miracle, he heard Cotter ring the bells for midnight. He heard the answering chorus of Most Holy’s pair of bells chime back. And he heard another pair of tiny, tiny voices.
“Look to St Francis,” Evan thought he heard.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Now I am hearing things. It is not enough that I shall lose my church and lose the woman I love; now I am to lose my mind as well.”
“Look to St. Francis,” floated again across the empty church.
Evan supposed it wouldn’t hurt to pray to each and every one of the plaster saints in their niches, though he rather thought he’d do better starting with St. Jude, patron of lost causes. Still, he would not deny the little voice in his ear. Lifting his candle the better to pick out the correct niche, Evan walked to the side of the church.
There was St. Francis, one arm extended to an alighting sparrow, the other cradling a…bear? Another creature sat by his feet. Odd, Evan could not recall any such animals surrounding the saint when last he’d dusted the statue. He stepped closer, holding his candle higher.
“You see, you see!” Ed was hopping up and down, and Pass had to wrap his tail around St. Francis’s neck to keep from falling off in his excitement.
“I see,” Evan murmured, and he had eyes for nothing but the statue, gleaming golden in its niche, as bright as the Christmas star leading the Wise Men to Bethlehem, as bright as the love he had for Alice. “I see.”
After the shortest prayer of thanks in Christendom, Evan ran for the door and shouted, “Ring that bell, Mr. Cotter. Keep ringing it. Tell everyone. We’ve got our miracle.”
9
Most Holy Church was almost empty that Christmas morning. Everyone came to St. Cecilia’s to see the golden statue, treasure lost since the times of Cromwell, found, by everything holy, on Christmas Eve.
The pews were filled, and the aisles, too. So many people crowded into the little building that the heat from their breaths warmed their bodies and their souls and the old stones of the church.
Greetings of the Season and Other Stories Page 30
