Finding Father Christmas (6 page)

Katharine didn’t answer, but I nearly did. I was thinking:
You’d better keep your eyes on the road’.

Andrew glanced forward and then back at me. “I’m thinking you should meet my son, Ian. Will you be staying over the Christmas
holidays?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Not here in Carlton Heath. I’m staying in London.”

“Are you now? Have you got family in London, then?”

“No. I—”

“Andrew, my love,” Katharine interrupted, “you’ve missed the entrance.”

“Awk! I have indeed.” With a quick turn, he set the small car in the opposite direction and steered through an open-gated
entry to a large home lit up with tiny white lights around the eaves.

The home wasn’t a manor per se. Not that I had ever been to a manor to compare it with Ellie’s home. But it was grand, distinct,
and impressive.

The large two-story house, composed of dull red brick, was dressed up with a grand arched entrance, tall rounded windows,
and a fairy-tale-like turret in the south corner. Nothing about the picturesque structure looked standard or mass-produced.
It seemed like a one-of-a-kind creation sprung from an artistic
mind. The closer we drove, the more beautiful each curve of the house appeared in the headlights of Andrew’s car.

“What a beautiful place,” I said, wishing I could find better words to describe how the house made me feel.

“The house was built by Edward’s grandfather, wasn’t it, Andrew? Or was it his great-grandfather?”

“It was his great-great-grandfather. He was an artist of some fame. Have you heard of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, Miranda?”

I shook my head.

“Aye, well then, I don’t imagine it would much matter to you who the builder was or why it was built in such a fashion, nor
why Edward is so keen to keep the place as it is.”

“And who is Edward?” I asked, lost in the conversation.

“Edward Whitcombe. Ellie’s husband. Son of Sir James Whit-combe.” He looked at me as if waiting for a response. “Have you
not heard that name before? Sir James Whitcombe?”

I nodded slightly. I thought I had heard the name, but I wasn’t sure where.

“We consider Edward and Ellie Whitcombe our resident touch of royalty, I suppose.”

“Royalty?”

“Are you stretching the matter a bit, Andrew?”

Andrew cut the car engine and ignored his wife’s admonition. “You see, when Edward’s father was knighted by Her Majesty a
number of years ago, it gave a certain rise to the village status. Katharine and Ellie have been friends for a long stretch.
That’s how Katharine came to settle here in Carlton Heath, not long after the passing of her first husband.”

“Andrew, I’m not sure all of this family history is going to be useful to Miranda.”

“Right. Well, to finish what I had to say about Edward and Ellie, I call them our resident Lord and Lady, just to get a rise
out of them. They’re nearly like family to us, wouldn’t you say, Katharine?” Andrew slid out of the car and held out his hand
to help Katharine disembark.

“Yes. Almost like family to us.” Katharine slid her hand through Andrew’s arm. He offered his other arm to me, and I played
along with being escorted by Christmas Present across the gravel driveway. A dozen other cars were parked in the expansive
area between Andrew’s car and the house. We could hear sounds of laughter from inside as we traipsed through the cold air
up to the well-lit front door.

Pausing under the arched entry, Andrew knocked soundly on the massive oak door. I noticed a banner of words painted over the
doorway in a Victorian script: “Grace and Peace Reside Here.”

The door swung open, and Lady Sugarplum Fairy welcomed us with her rendition of Andrew’s line from the performance: “Come
in, come in, and know me better, friends!”

“Well, there you have it,” said Andrew. “Next year you’re the one to play the role of Christmas Present, Lady Ellie. You have
the lines already.”

“Lovely! I was thinking an all-female cast would be a clever twist next year. What do you girls think?” Ellie’s hair swished
as she turned her head to look at Katharine and me. The motion invited a shower of pixie dust to leave her pink hair and rest
in sparkles on the threshold.

“Do come in out of the cold before you answer that,” she added.

“The answer is simple.” Andrew motioned with a half bow for Katharine and me to enter first. “Have we not caused the poor
man enough reason to turn over in his grave each Christmas when we take such liberties with his story?”

“Undoubtedly,” Katharine stated.

Andrew removed his hat, hair and all, and handed it to our hostess as she collected our coats. “Then I propose we try something
radical next year. We perform the blessed script the way it was written originally!”

“Bravo!” Ellie laughed. “Wouldn’t that take the town by surprise!” Looking at me she added, “I’m so glad you’ve come, Miranda.”

“Thanks for letting me crash your party.”

Ellie looked at Katharine as if she wasn’t sure why I would say such a thing.

“You’re not crashing into anything. It was my idea for you to come. Katharine tells me you have a mystery to solve. I’m eager
to hear about that, but first I must put away these coats. Katharine? Andrew? You will pick up my duties as hostess, won’t
you? Please make sure Miranda meets all the right sorts of people.”

Ellie whooshed away in her pink gown, and I had a feeling my peacoat would forever carry sugarplum sparkles on it.

Ellie added a final thought over her shoulder. “And do avoid introducing her to the seedy characters, won’t you?”

“Not a chance,” Andrew said. “We’re taking her directly to all the questionable guests to give her a true impression of the
sort of individuals you associate with.”

“That would include you, Andrew,” Ellie called as she exited down a hallway.

With a wink and an aside to me, he added, “The only person I want to introduce you to is my son, but he’s not here. So how
about if I let Katharine carry on the introductions? If either of you needs me, you know where you can find me.”

I glanced at Katharine, and she interpreted. “He’ll be wherever the food and drinks are. Come. I suppose we should start with
an introduction to our host, Edward. Do you have the photo with you? Perhaps you might show it to him.”

I realized I had blindly handed my coat and purse over to Ellie. “No, I left it in my purse. Which way did Ellie go?”

Katharine pointed down the hall to the left. “She’s probably put all the coats in the study. It’s the second door on the left.
Would you like me to go with you?”

“No, I’ll be right back.” A small and probably childish part of me wanted to roam about the poetic home by myself. In front
of me was a polished staircase just begging to be climbed the way an unattended piano on an empty stage begs to be played.

I reluctantly turned from the stairs and went down the left hall of the L-shaped floor plan. The second door on the left led
into a large study with built-in bookshelves on either side. In the air lingered a hint of worn leather and cherry almond
pipe tobacco. In the center of the room sat a great desk made of a dark wood that had been polished until it reflected the
amber light of the standing floor lamp.

Wow. One could rule a small country in a room like this and with a desk like that.

I spotted my coat, hanging from a standing coatrack near
the door. My purse shared the same hanger. As I lifted off the purse, I noticed the collection of photographs on the wall.
All the pictures were framed in black. The center one caught my eye, and I stepped closer. Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, was
standing beside a well-dressed man, whom I guessed to be Sir James Whitcombe. His stately appearance and perfectly groomed
dark hair gave him a sophisticated air of royalty.

The framed photo directly under the knighting of Sir James was a contrasting image of the debonair figure. He was stretched
out on a picnic blanket, eyes closed, as if trying to take a summer nap. Over him stood a little girl with ringlet curls and
a mischievous grin. She was dropping rose petals on his face one by one.

I cast a sweeping glance over the other three pictures. One of them showed an informal family gathering around an outdoor
table. Another was of Sir James and a lovely blond woman, whom I supposed to be his wife. The two of them stood with their
arms around each other in front of the Taj Mahal. The third photograph was of Sir James sitting atop a camel with a hazy view
of the great pyramids of Egypt in the background.

Leaving the study with my purse, I told myself to be on my best behavior. I had never been in such a home before nor in the
company of people who possessed such wealth.

I realized I should have felt nervous or at least a little uncomfortable about being around all these people I didn’t know.
Strangely, I felt calm. Welcomed. Warmed. Ready to welcome Christmas Present with this glad company.

T
he largest room in the Whitcombes’ luxurious home was referred to as the drawing room. When Katharine and I entered, I stopped
and tried to take in the architectural features as well as the gorgeous decorations. Ellie had made use of her sugarplum theme
by incorporating pink touches throughout the elegant room. Swags of greenery looped around the room at ceiling level. Tiny
white lights and clumps of holly berries were woven into the garlands, which also were dotted with pink sugarplums.

The ceilings were high, and the voices of the thirty or so lively guests echoed in the large open area. Even though the room
provided enough space for everyone to be comfortably seated, most of the visitors were standing, chatting in small groups.
At the far end of the room a bushy Christmas tree was lit up with pink lights. At the other end, closer to the door where
Katharine and I stood, was a long table covered with a smorgasbord of food.

“Be sure to try the crab puffs.” Katharine handed me a china plate. “Ellie serves them with a fabulous sweet-and-sour dipping
sauce.”

I made my way down the line, filling my plate with
petite appetizers of all shapes and adding a spoonful of each scrumptious-looking salad. We stood as we ate, balancing our
plates and being careful not to bump into anyone or spill our cuisine.

Katharine introduced me to a stout woman who had lived in Carlton Heath her entire life.

“Miranda is curious about a photography studio on Bexley Lane,” Katharine said. “Do you know anything about the Carlton Studio?”

“Well, yes, of course. Wonderful people, the Halversons, weren’t they? They were in business there on Bexley Lane for years.
Such a pity when they moved, wasn’t it? We had our family photos taken at their studio when the children were young. Such
a loss when they went out of business, don’t you think? One can only assume the failure of the enterprise was the result of
the computer industry. All the digital cameras for sale these days. People are too impatient to wait and have something done
right or to go to a specialist to have it done. They would rather take care of everything themselves at home on their computers.
I don’t have a computer. I don’t plan to get a computer. This is all leading to terrible destruction, really. Don’t you think?
I tried to get my grandson to go one entire day without using any of his computer gadgets, and do you know, he would not do
it. He would not. It’s not only the computers, is it? It’s all the other machines they carry with them to listen to their
music and make all their unnecessary phone calls. Quite irritating, really. Have you seen them on the trains these days? All
wired up as if they belonged in a hospital bed in the cardiac ward. They have this wire that goes to this ear and this wire
that goes
to that ear. Somehow they talk through something and carry on conversations that are entirely too private while out in public.
It’s deplorable, really.”

As the stout woman paused for air, I glanced at Katharine, and she attempted a polite escape for us. “Yes, deplorable. If
you don’t mind, I’ve a few others to introduce Miranda to before she slips out to catch the train to London.”

“You’d best check the schedule for the times. This being Christmas Eve, you know. I’m sure you’ve considered that. Tomorrow,
of course, being Christmas Day, well, it goes without saying that when it comes to National Rail, I’m of the opinion that
it, such as it is, is not accommodating the travelers trying to be with family for the day. No, I would think it’s more along
the lines of National Rail trying to accommodate all the employees who would doubtless ask for outlandish additional wages
on the holidays. Not that anyone—”

Katharine interjected, “Oh, I see someone I need to introduce Miranda to. You will excuse us, won’t you?”

Before the woman could answer, Katharine nudged me across the room through the maze of people. Some of them were still in
costume, which made the gathering a familiar setting and awoke childhood feelings in my heart. Doralee had a lot of opinionated
friends like the woman we had just listened to. I was much more comfortable around that sort of party guest than the ones
who might ask me questions. It was all part of my preference to blend into the background when in a crowd.

We came through the human obstacle course with our plates of food intact and only a few bumps. A tall, dark-haired man stood
in front of us, holding in one hand a small plate emptied
of appetizers and in the other hand a piece of fluted stemware with some sort of pink beverage.

He wore rectangular-shaped glasses that gave him an English professor aura in a cool retro sort of way. He looked like the
young teacher-of-the-year sort of professor who could be living on a sailboat near Belize if he chose to but instead spent
his days shaping impressionable minds with the classics.

The person with whom he was chatting had just stepped away, making a natural opening for Katharine to move closer and make
the introductions.

“Edward, I would like you to meet someone. Miranda, this is our host, Edward Whitcombe.”

“Son of Sir James Whitcombe,” I added, without realizing I was drawing from my earlier conversation with Andrew in the car.