Star Carol for Celeste

Star Carol for Celeste

Karen Hall

Star Carol for Celeste

Copyright 2012

By Books to Go Now

For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [email protected]

First eBook Edition –March 2012

Printed in the United States of America

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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Other Historical Roman
ce Stories by Karen Hall

A Christmas Proposal

Christmas Stockings

The Comet that Came atChristmas

This story is dedicated with love and gratitude to Jim Garvey, John Brock and the choir at the Episcopal Church of the Ascension. Singing with you is a joy and a privilege. Deo Gratias.

Chapter One

London 1892

December Thursday afternoon

“You’ve entered the children in what?” Celeste Stillwell stared at the elderly headmaster of Saint Alban’s School in open-mouthed amazement.

“I’ve entered them in the Children’s Choral Competition.” Samuel Dobbins wiggled his bushy white eyebrows at her. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea, Miss Stillwell?”

“But sir, we don’t have a choir,” Celeste said faintly, hoping she wouldn’t fall from the hard-backed
chair to the floor in the first faint of her life. “And the Children’s Choral Competition is one of the finest in London.”

“
How hard can it be?” the old man asked, pulling on his high collar. “Just have them sing a Christmas carol or two, and we’ll win. Easy enough.”

A Christmas carol or two
. Celeste’s brain reeled at his words. Singing a “carol or two” at the CCC as it was known—and a triple threat if there ever was one—was like suggesting one address the Queen as “Vicki.”

And expecting to win the one hundred pound prize the competition offered was just as daft.

“I know you must have studied music before you started teaching here,” Headmaster Dobbins continued. “All young ladies of gentle birth study music. Just pick the children you think can quickly learn whatever songs you choose
and set a practice time. I’ll be sure the building is at your disposal.”

Recalling her
lackluster efforts at the keyboard while growing up, Celeste tried again. “My piano playing is not that good, Headmaster.”

“But I’ve heard you sing in chapel so you know music,” Dobbins said blithely. “You can conduct and let one of the other teachers to accompany you. Or perhaps the new teacher we’ve hired plays. Seems a pleasant chap, bachelor from somewhere up north. Can’t recall his name right now. He starts on Monday, so you can ask him them. You may start your auditions on Monday after chapel.”

The conversation was obviously over, because Dobbins
stood and headed for the corner to take his hat and coat off the rack. “After all, it’s only a carol or two. Don’t worry, Miss Stillwell
. Christmas is not quite a month away so you have plenty of time. Good day to you.”

There was nothing to do but follow him from his office. Returning to her empty classroom, Celeste sat at her desk and drummed her fingers on the top. The children were long gone but she could almost hear their young voices as they recited their lessons. She would not have traded her four years at this school.
Teaching and working part-time in her friend Holly Chamberlain’s letter writing business provided her with enough income to meet her needs.

But to enter the Children’s Choral Competition! Celeste doubted seriously that any of the other
teachers would agree to help when they heard of Headmaster’s mad scheme, or that any of Saint Alban’s student body sang choral style music, much less read it.

And with Christmas less than a month away, where in London—
with hundreds of programs being prepared—
was she going to find an accompanist to help her create a children’s choir? She offered up a hasty prayer that the new teacher did indeed play the piano.

After donning her coat and hat, she left the school and boarded an omnibus for the next neighborhood and Hope House, where she helped
the residents improve their reading and writing.

They were an odd bunch, these retired old soldiers who
pooled their pensions to rent and share a house. Jasper Collins, Timothy Blunt, Toby Noble and Duncan Kincaid had
all served in Afghanistan twenty years ago. After meeting again
at a soldiers’ Social Club, and being life long bachelors, decided to set up housekeeping together. Duncan, a retired Army cook, who was
in charge of Hope House’s kitchen, couldn’t read at all, and the others struggled to read beyond the first form.

But
Celeste suspected that Bart Collins, the newest resident, was a man of education. Far younger than the others, Toby had found the blind man begging on the streets, recognized him as a fellow veteran and brought him to Hope House.

“Ain’t right for a man who took the Queen’s coin and lost his sight to starve in the streets,” he
declared indignantly. “We’ve got plenty of room ‘ere.”

Unlike the others, Bart never spoke about his experiences. Indeed, he rarely spoke at all, and the others didn’t pry. As far as they were concerned, he was one of them.

The ‘bus stopped at the corner, and Celeste stepped down. A brisk two-block walk took her to a small, two story sturdy brick house. The “lads” as they called themselves, had scrubbed and repaired it to such a degree that some of their neighbors
also spruced up their
homes and what had once been a rather shabby looking street, was now all “shipshape and Bristol fashion,” as Tim liked to say. Jasper took pride in keeping the lawn mowed and trimmed, and Toby had put in small neat flowerbeds beneath the windows. Celeste mounted the steps, rapped a tattoo on the door to announce her arrival and stepped
inside. After closing the door, she called, “Hallo, the house!” and hung her coat and hat on the hall tree.

“’Afternoon, Miss Celeste!” A quartet of voices
called. She found her four students in the parlor, gathered around the table. Bart sat in his chair by the window, the usual knitting needles in his hands. They all stood and bowed, and Celeste smiled. They always wore their “Sunday best”
when she came and a wave of affection surged through her. In the six months she had been coming here, a strong bond had formed between them, and she enjoyed it as much as her work with the children. “How is everyone?” she asked.

They assured her all was well, and Duncan added, “I’ve made Dundee cake and cheese scones for our tea. Hope you’re hungry.”

“A woman would have to be seriously ill not to eat your cooking, Duncan,” Celeste declared, taking her place at the table. She glanced at Bart. He never joined them while they were having their lessons, but would sit and listen, sometimes commenting on their work. He was a handsome man, with dark brown hair and darker eyes. A pair of white scars on either side of those eyes stood out on
tanned skin, and Celeste wondered again how he lost his sight. “What are you making, Bart?” she asked.

He held up the needles and the long swatch of yarn hanging from them. “Tim told me he has no winter scarf, so I am making one for him.”

“He’s going to make me a pair of socks next,” Jasper said proudly.

The afternoon passed quickly and after arranging to meet with them the following
week, Celeste headed for the flat she shared with Rose Walton, a private duty nurse. A note on the kitchen table reported Rose
would be working late, so Celeste ate a light supper and started next week’s lesson plans. Not until she was preparing for bed, did she recall the choral competition. And then, quite unbidden, memories of her musical training returned, including those of singing to the piano playing of the man who had broken her heart. His light-hearted flirtations— soon had her head over heels
in love, with every reason to believe he returned her feelings.

But when a wealthy brewer helped secure her erstwhile beau a position as an organist at a northern cathedral, and the brewer’s pretty daughter made her admiration known, her “beau” had no more need for the affections of a country solicitor’s daughter. His declarations to Celeste vanished like smoke beside the promise of a comfortable, secure life and she had abandoned her hopes of a musical career studies for the more practical studies
of a teacher. That night, for the first time in five years, Celeste cried herself to sleep.

***

Monday Morning

“Stop it this instant!” Micah Anderson demanded above the shouting as he grabbed one boy by his belt and lifted him, still swinging, off another boy, who scrambled from the floor, his fists ready to throw another punch. The other boys in the classroom shouted and cheered them on. Micah’s damaged hands ached as much from the December cold as pulling the boys apart. This was not the way to start his first day at Saint Alban’s.

And he needed the work too badly for it to be his last.

“I said STOP it!” Micah roared, stepping between the two would-be
pugilists and thankfully the other boys fell silent. The fighters, still gasping for breath, scowled at one another, but dropped their fists.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Micah said. “You can beat each other black and blue when you’re at home if you like, but
not
in
my
classroom.”

“’e called me a sissy!” said the first boy.

“That’s ‘cause ye are,” the second sneered.

They raised their fists again, and stepped forward, but Micah’s palms on their chests stopped them. “Enough,” he shouted again.

“Is there a problem?” A feminine voice asked.

Micah froze, and a hundred memories from a lifetime ago flooded his brain, turning his heart’s already rapid pace into a crescendoed frenzy. Slowly he turned and found his past standing in the doorway. Her green eyes widened, and for a moment he thought she might drop the books she carried. “Micah?” she whispered. “
You’re
the new teacher?”

His face must have held an equally astonished expression because the remaining chatter behind him died away as the boys watched the two adults.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Micah managed to

say, “Miss Stillwell. I had no idea you were employed here.”

“Four years,” she said, her bell-like
voice now within normal speaking range. She tucked a loose auburn curl behind her ear, and a tremor ran along Micah’s hands as he recalled doing the same thing.

A lone bead
of sweat broke out on the back of his neck, trailing down in a long, slow descent. “I didn’t see you in chapel this morning,” he said, praying for calm.

“My roommate’s stomach was uneasy this morning when she woke up, so I went to the chemist for her, which caused me to arrive only just now.” Her inspection of the room’s overturned desks and scattered papers brought the
suggestion of a mocking smile to her lips. “Is there a problem?” she repeated.

“Just getting to know my students,” he returned.

“So I see.” Her smile widened and there was no mistaking her sarcasm.

Celeste, singing Handel and Bach duets beside him. Celeste’s sweet mouth exploring his afterwards. Celeste, her eyes swollen from weeping as he told her their futures did not include each other. . .
He slammed the lid on that memory and his own stupidity.

“Boys,” she said, stepping into the room. “Headmaster might cancel the Christmas party if he learns you were fighting. Do as Mr. Anderson says and settle your arguments outside the school. Now, tidy the room please.”

“Yes, Miss Celeste,” the boys chorused, and to Micah’s astonishment, the lot of them ambled back to their desks, righted those that were overturned and gathered up the papers. Then they sat, folded their hands on top of their desks, and waited, their gazes riveted on the adults.

“Thank you,” she said. “Mr. Anderson, if I might borrow Noah and Ralph for a few minutes? I promise not to keep them long.”

A fresh wave of astonishment hit Micah as the two fighters scrambled to their feet, their argument obviously forgotten and headed to the door to follow Celeste into the hallway. Micah stared after them for a moment before limping back to resume his place behind his desk. His hands only slightly trembling, he picked up the arithmetic book and said, “Very well then. I believe we were about to review your knowledge of fractions.”