Aunt Dimity's Christmas (17 page)

Willis, Sr., took a sudden interest in Rob's fingernails. “I may have mentioned Father Bright's predicament to her, in passing. I fear that our modest donation will do little to remedy the situation at Saint Benedict's, but one must do what one can, mustn't one?”

“Yes,” I said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “One must.”

Willis, Sr., bounced Rob on his knee. “I wish to move back into the nursery,” he announced. “I am fully recovered from my recent indisposition, and the master bedroom is much too far away from my grandsons.”

“We'll move you back tonight,” I promised. “But before
then we're going to bring a little Christmas to the cottage. I'll whip up a batch of gingerbread men after breakfast, then we'll get cracking on those decorations.”

“I look forward to assisting you,” Willis, Sr., said, rising. “My staff has never permitted me to decorate my own home….”

By noon it was clear that the Christmas fairy had put a curse on the cottage. Every one of my gingerbread men burned to a crisp, filling the air with smoke instead of the spicy-sweet aroma I'd intended. The living tree insisted on listing to one side, no matter how carefully we adjusted its root ball, and Willis, Sr., whacked his thumb with the hammer he was using to hang the mistletoe. I don't know what the boys made of certain exclamations they may have overheard, but I prayed they wouldn't repeat them to Bill.

We achieved very little after lunch, thanks to a steady stream of villagers bearing gifts. The vicar's sermon and the snap in Lilian's stockings had evidently had an impact on the community's group conscience, because the gifts weren't meant for us. They were meant for Kit.

Sally Pyne brought a box of hand-dipped chocolates from her tearoom; the Peacocks, a bottle of homemade brandy from the pub. Able Farnham dropped off a basket of fruit from his greengrocer's shop, and George Wetherhead delivered a pile of old magazines.

“I've spent a fair amount of time in hospitals,” said Mr. Wetherhead, leaning heavily on his three-pronged cane. “The days'll pass more quickly if the young chap has something to read.”

The most amazing gift of all came from Peggy Kitchen. The doughty widow had assembled a full set of winter
clothing from the stock in the Emporium—wool socks, insulated boots, a warm sweater, heavy trousers, leather gloves, even a down-filled, hooded parka.

“If the sizes aren't right,” Peggy said gruffly, “tell Mr. Smith he can exchange them the next time he's in Finch.”

“I will, Peggy,” I told her, and my gruffness came from a tightening throat.

Aunt Dimity's wise prediction chimed inside my head all afternoon.
They're good people, at heart
, she'd written.
Once they overcome their fears, they'll do what's right, you'll see
. I did see, and what I saw made me realize that I still had a lot to learn about—and from—my neighbors.

I sent each of them away with a box of angel cookies, and felt a measure of satisfaction at having carried out at least one of my father's traditions. As I set their gifts aside, though, I felt a rising sense of restlessness.

Their concern for Kit had rekindled my own. It had been lingering just below the surface all day long. Now it came back full force, filling me with frustration and making it impossible for me focus on any of the tasks Willis, Sr., and I had set for ourselves. Between his lack of experience and my lack of enthusiasm, the decorations went up in a somewhat haphazard fashion. If the Christmas fairy's curse had spoiled the morning, my own impatience tainted the afternoon.

When the telephone rang in the middle of dinner, I ran to answer it. “Julian?” I said eagerly.

“Sorry to disappoint you, love,” said Bill, “but it's only me.”

I gave a shaky laugh and wondered what was wrong with me. It was the second time in as many days that I'd snatched up the phone, hoping to hear Julian's voice.

“I'm never disappointed to hear from you,” I told my
husband. “But I'll be a lot happier when you're not three thousand miles away. When are you coming home?”

“I wanted to surprise you by coming home today,” Bill said, “but an ice storm's paralyzed Boston. Logan's been shut down for the past twenty-four hours.”

I groaned and leaned my head on my hand. “When I write this chapter in my autobiography, I'm going to call it ‘The Blizzards That Ate Christmas.”'

“I've chartered a flight,” Bill said quickly. “The pilot's assured me that we'll take off as soon as the runways are open. I promise you, Lori, I'll be home by Christmas if I have to swim the Atlantic.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All I care about is that you get home safely and in one piece, Bill. Don't worry about Christmas. We won't start it without you.”

I hung up the phone and looked over at the mantelpiece, where the lacy glass star rested in splendid isolation. Willis, Sr., had offered to put it on the top of the badly listing tree, but I'd forbidden it. Crowning the tree would be Bill's privilege, just as it had been my father's.

I checked in with Emma the following morning, to see if she'd discovered anything about the owner of Kit Smith's medals, but she'd been too busy baking to sit down at the computer. It took an effort of the will to keep from insisting that she put Christmas aside for Kit's sake. Not everyone, I reminded myself, shared my concern for his well-being.

I spent the rest of the day cremating gingerbread men and examining Kit's scroll with a magnifying glass, searching for a Christopher Smith. An eyestrain headache and
the smell of smoke in the kitchen forced me to abandon the search after the first twenty-five pages.

Julian's call didn't come until late evening.

“I hope I didn't wake you,” he said.

“Never mind about that,” I said, switching on the bedside lamp. “Did you speak with anyone in Lincoln?”

Julian laughed. “In Lincoln, York, Durham, Lossiemouth, and London, among other places. Your phone bill's going to be astronomical, I'm afraid, but I think you'll consider it a worthy investment….”

Julian had hit upon the brilliant notion of using the map Willis, Sr., had shown us as a guide to Kit's travels. My suggestion about contacting the refuge network had come in handy, too.

“I went with the assumption that Kit would stay in towns or villages near former bomber bases,” Julian explained, “and that he'd use shelters like Saint Benedict's when they were available.” By calling shelters located in the vicinity of bases, Julian had pieced together a profile of Kit's movements over the past four years.

“I don't know how many people I've spoken with today,” said Julian, “but those who met Kit, no matter how long ago, remember him.”

“He does make an impression,” I commented, glancing at the canvas carryall.

“When a shelter wasn't available near a cluster of bases,” Julian continued, “Kit must have arranged some other form of inexpensive lodging.”

“Like finding a job that included room and board,” I put in, “as he did at Blackthorne Farm.”

“Precisely,” said Julian. “That's why there are certain gaps in the story.”

I smiled. “You mean to say that you didn't call every farm between Hertfordshire and Durham?”

“I didn't have to,” Julian replied. “Not after I spoke with the chap who runs the soup kitchen in Lossiemouth. He told me that Kit had compared his soup kitchen to one run by a C of E church in London—Saint Joseph's, in Stepney.” The priest's voice began to vibrate with barely suppressed excitement. “When I called Saint Joseph's, the woman who answered the phone told me that the vicar, a man named Phillip Raywood,
knows Kit's family
.”

I bent over the phone, wishing Julian were in the room with me instead of somewhere in the ether. “Did you speak with Phillip Raywood?”

“Alas,” said Julian, “he was gone for the day. But I've made arrangements to meet with him at Saint Joseph's tomorrow evening.” He hesitated. “I don't suppose there's any chance of your coming with me.”

I thumped my pillow with a clenched fist. I hated being a bystander, watching Julian from the sidelines, but there was nothing else I could do.

“I can't, Julian,” I said forlornly. “I keep burning the gingerbread men, and there's still the wreath to hang on the front door, and presents to wrap …” My words trailed off in a disappointed mumble.

“Forgive me,” said Julian. “I shouldn't have proposed the idea. What you're doing is far more important than what I plan to do tomorrow. Family traditions must be nurtured, Lori, if they're to …” His voice faded suddenly.

“Julian?” I said. “Are you still there?” I strained to catch his words, but his reply was garbled.

“Sorry … speak with you soon …” His voice grew fainter and fainter, then faded completely.

“Good luck,” I said softly, and hung up, wanting to kick myself. Why hadn't I given Julian the recharger when I'd given him the phone? The myriad calls he'd made must have drained the battery dry.

Sighing, I crawled to the end of the bed and pulled the canvas carryall into my arms. I'd dreamt of Kit last night, as I had every night that week. He'd been on the bridle path, riding a high-stepping black stallion, his long hair streaming behind him, the reins taut in his beautiful hands.

When he reached the cottage, the horse reared and Kit tumbled to the ground. As he fell, the stallion twisted grotesquely and dissolved, shrinking from view, leaving Kit on his knees, gazing at me through the brightly lit bow window. While I beamed out at the falling snow, Kit crumpled beneath my lilac bushes, clutching Anne Somerville's little brown horse in hands blackened by frostbite.

I'd awakened in tears, and now it seemed as if I'd fall asleep the same way. The knowledge that Julian might soon meet Kit's family without me was very hard to bear. Anne Somerville had said that Kit's father was dead, but his mother might still be alive, and if she was, she'd be frantic to know what had happened to her son. She'd welcome Julian with open arms.

Unless she felt uncomfortable talking to a man.

Or mistrusted Roman Catholic priests.

I laid my cheek briefly against the carryall, then returned it to the blanket chest and headed for the study. I needed to consult Aunt Dimity.

“… So Julian could go all the way to London and meet with Phillip Raywood and find Kit's mom and still come back empty-handed,” I concluded.

Dimity responded without hesitation.
Then you must go to London
.

I gazed at the words doubtfully. “What about nurturing family traditions?”

Family traditions are an exercise in futility if one's heart's not in them. Your heart is transparently occupied elsewhere
.

“My heart's not the issue,” I insisted. “Kit is. The only thing holding me back is William. I don't think he'll approve of my trip.”

If this mission is as important to you as you say it is, I believe William will understand. There is something I'd like to know, however, for my own peace of mind
.

“What's that?' I said.

Why is it so important to you
?

I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead, to ward off the howling wind, and slowly closed the journal.

As it turned out, Dimity and I were both right. Willis, Sr., wasn't happy about my plan to meet up with Julian in London, but he didn't question my need to do so. He was so understanding, in fact, that I didn't bridle at the one condition he placed upon my going.

“You will take the train to London,” he stated flatly. “My son would never forgive me if I allowed you to drive there.”

I
knew that Julian would give me a lift home in Saint Christopher, so I hitched a ride to Oxford the next day with Derek Harris, who was headed there to consult on a construction project. He dropped me at the train station and I plunged into the fray.

With less than two shopping days left until Christmas, panic had set in. The train to London was packed, and Paddington Station was a frantic anthill of last-minute shoppers. I clutched Kit's canvas carryall to me, kept a firm grip on my shoulder bag, and elbowed my way through the throng to the long line at the cab stand. Forty minutes later, I was on my way to Saint Joseph's Church.

The driver, an East Indian, knew Saint Joseph's well. “It's round the corner from my sister's flat,” he said. He eyed me in the rearview mirror, as if wondering why an American tourist would spend the day before Christmas Eve in the lower reaches of Stepney instead of Harrods' hallowed halls. “You sure you want to go there?”

I told him that I was.

The journey seemed to take forever. The East End's narrow lanes, choked with traffic at the best of times, had turned into a slowly shifting parking lot. People of every color and ethnicity crowded the sidewalks and spilled into the streets as we crawled past brightly lit shops whose signs were written in languages I couldn't even identify, much less understand.