Engaging Father Christmas (14 page)

“Would everyone like tea then?” Ellie asked as, with expert ease, she poured from the silver teapot. I assisted by passing around the steaming cups of tea balanced on the saucers.

When I handed Margaret her cup, our eyes met for a flicker of a second. “I understand congratulations are in order,” she said.

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

Ian added, “Miranda agreed to be my wife. In spite of all the uproar, this is a very happy night for us.”

“Indeed,” Margaret said.

I wished the right words would come to me at that moment and I could say to Margaret what was on my heart. But I froze with a simplistic sort of smile sitting on my lips in a wavy line.

Edward picked up the conversation from there.

“I will start by giving everyone a summary of the current situation.”

He went through the list of who had been contacted, where the security was in effect, and what was scheduled for the media interview the day after Christmas.

All of this seemed so un-American to me. Disaster was at our doorstep, and we were settled around a fire, drinking tea, planning our civilized counterattack.

Edward continued. “I was reminded by one of my advisors that this will pass quickly due to some of the other more scandalous happenings in the news at the moment.”

I hadn’t kept up on British or world news for the past few days, so I wasn’t aware of what scandalous happenings were going on, but I did hold onto what Ellie had said in the kitchen about how this bit of news would pass quickly. I knew things would be intense for a few days and probably shaky for the rest of my stay. But then was it possible the big rush of the media would be over?

I hoped so.

As Edward concluded his update, I began to breathe a little more deeply and steadily. I was trying to muster up the courage to say something that would let Margaret know how much I regretted bringing this upon their home, especially at Christmas.

Before I could speak up, Mark said, “May I say something, Father?”

“Yes, Mark.”

“A person should not be blamed for something that’s not their fault. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Edward was looking at Mark as if he wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed.

“So a person like Aunt Miranda should not be blamed because of who her father was.”

An odd hush settled on the gathering. If there was any doubt Mark understood what was going on, that doubt was now removed.

“There are a few more complications, son. It’s not as easy as all that.”

Margaret shifted in her chair. I had a feeling she was about to get up and leave.

Mark, who had been watching my expression, said, “I did not choose that you would be my father. Aunt Miranda did not choose who would be her father either. None of us can choose who his or her parents will be. Wouldn’t you agree, Grandmother?”

Edward jumped in, deflecting the curved question Mark had tossed at Margaret. “We may not have our choice as to how we come in to the Whitcombe clan, Mark, but it is up to each of us how we choose to live with the Whitcombe burdens and blessings.”

His statement seemed to settle equally on all of us in the room. My first thought went to how many blessings this family had received. My next thought was that I might very well be the burden each of them would have to bear.

Ian reached over and took my hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“I propose,” Edward continued, “the less said on this topic, the better for the time being.”

“Right,” Ellie agreed. Popping up, she reached for the silver serving tray. “What do you say we all turn in for the night? You know, Mark, we have lots of days ahead of us that we’ll be together. We can always talk later, can’t we? What if we all get some sleep? What do you say to that?”

Margaret was the first to rise and leave the room. Mark trailed her, with Ellie following him carrying one of the tea trays. Ian, Edward, and I were left by the waning fire.

For a few minutes none of us spoke. Ian was the one to break the silence. “I want you to know, Edward, that I appreciate how you’ve supported Miranda and me, especially the past few months. You have put a fine and noble effort out there for both of us, and I know your father would be pleased with how you’ve handled the blessing of being a Whitcombe.”

“Not at all.” Edward brushed off the comment as he stood up, preparing to leave the room. “I’ll keep both of you informed should there be any changes in our plans or schedule. Ellie said she wants to prepare a family brunch for us at around ten o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll see you then, of course.”

I looked down at my hands. The light from the fire reflected on my engagement ring and sparked in me a sweet glimmer of hope.

I held onto that glimmer through the night as I slept in the upstairs guest room. My sleep was restless. I would doze off for a few hours and then awaken with a horrible mixture of elation over remembering that Ian and I were engaged, quickly followed by the heaviness that stayed on me after Margaret left the drawing room.

When the filtered morning light finally entered my chambers, bringing the details of the room into focus, an unexpected, faint signal seemed to go off in my head. The signal was telling me to leave. Run. Jump ship now. Go! Get far away from this place and these people.

Let this be your great closing scene on these relationships, Miranda. Now is your chance to prove how invisible you can be. Quietly gather your belongings right now and leave. No curtain call. Just go.

That’s what my mother would have done. I knew where those thoughts were coming from. I knew the ancient fire from which they were forged.

But I was not a mirror image of my mother, just as I was not consciously reflective of my father. I was a unique blend of the two in the innermost parts of my makeup. But mostly I was myself. I was free to make my own decisions.

And my decision was to marry Ian and settle here in Carlton Heath.

Chapter Twenty-two

D
ue to my restless sleep, I stayed in bed and slept much later than I expected. It was after nine by the time I was up and dressed and on my way downstairs. Last Christmas jet lag had awakened me along with early riser Julia, and the two of us had quietly watched the snow fall.

This year she must have had instructions to leave me to my slumber because I wasn’t aware that she had tried to wake me.

Making my way downstairs, I could hear voices coming from the drawing room around the tree. With a determined heart, I put on my best Christmas morning smile and stopped at the open door of the drawing room. Around the tree sat Ellie, Edward, Mark, and Julia. They were opening gifts and taking pictures. None of them noticed I was in the doorway.

I decided to pull back and not enter into their family gift exchange the way I had the previous year. Instead of being with the Whitcombe foursome, I faced what I had been avoiding all last night — that I needed to talk with the matriarch of the family. I needed to tell her from my heart, as Ellie had said, how sorry I was for the situation she was facing.

Since Margaret wasn’t with the others around the tree, I assumed she was in her apartments at the end of the hall.

With each step down the long hallway, I felt my heart beat a little faster. I wished Ian were with me, but he was accompanying Katharine to the hospital this morning to take Andrew home. Besides, I knew this was a conversation I needed to have alone with Margaret.

I paused in the middle of the hallway. To the right was a series of small, rectangular windows positioned at eye level. Each window was painted with a small pink rosebud in the center. Margaret had painted the rosebuds, just as she had embroidered the handkerchiefs with rosebuds.

The irony of the symbol that seemed to represent so much to both of us settled on me as I looked out the window into the back garden. Just down the lane was a cottage — my cottage — with a Christmas tree — my Christmas tree — covered in red roses. Margaret and I were both women who had been romanced and loved and who carried with them tender images of the beauty of that love.

I hated being the living, breathing evidence that Sir James had at one moment been unfaithful to his love for Margaret. Yet Mark was so right when he said that wasn’t my fault.

Pressing my feet forward toward Margaret’s apartments, I tried to rehearse what I would say to her. None of the practice sentences cooperated nicely as I tried to line them up.

Standing for a moment before the closed door, I drew in a deep breath. I still didn’t know what I would say. But I did know that my heart toward Margaret was sympathetic and sincere. My feelings toward our complicated situation were simple. I wanted peace. Peace and grace, just like the motto that was etched over the front door of this home.

My father was the one who put the motto over the door. Peace and Grace Reside Here.

Without realizing it, as I repeated the motto, my hand rose and covered my heart as if I were about to make a pledge. My whispered prayer right before I knocked on Margaret’s door was, “May peace and grace reside here, in my heart, as well.”

My hand rose and knocked four taps.

“Come.” Margaret’s voice from behind the door sounded strong.

I pressed open the door and saw her seated in one of the dark red chairs that flanked the fireplace in her spacious apartment. A warm fire glowed in the hearth. Soft Christmas carols played in the background. The window shades were down. A vanilla-scented candle flickered on the round table between the two chairs.

She didn’t turn to see who it was, so I asked, “Margaret, would it be all right if I came in?”

“Yes.” She still didn’t turn to face me.

I never had been inside her quarters. As I approached the fireplace, I saw the morning newspaper on the floor beside her chair. My photo was there — front-page news. Seeing it so boldly displayed made me feel sick to my stomach.

She turned to look at me, and I could see her eyes were red and swollen. I stepped closer. Her stature seemed to diminish by the large chair. Her expression was that of a young child and not that of a fierce matriarch.

My lips seemed to stick together, and my throat felt as if it were swelling shut. The first words that peeped out before I could stop them were, “Margaret, I am so sorry.”

Then more words tumbled out from my heart. “I want to apologize to you, Margaret. I’ve brought complications to your life. I hate that my existence has been a source of pain for you. I realize you have no reason to take me into your home, let alone into your heart. Especially now, with this on the front page of the newspaper and with reporters lining up at the gate. But I have to tell you that all I want is peace between us. Peace and grace.”

Margaret motioned for me to sit in the chair across from her in front of the fire. Her gaze was on the fire, not on me. She took a long while before responding. I waited, practicing the same sort of peace and grace toward her that I was asking her to show to me.

When she spoke, it was in a low and weary voice. “I do believe that, if my husband were still here, he would have welcomed you into our home without reservation. He would not have hesitated to show you his love, his approval, and his kindness. He would have expressed great joy today to hear of your engagement.”

Her words warmed me. But only for a moment.

“However, my husband is no longer here. And I am not my husband. It is up to me to choose, as my son said, how I will respond to the blessings and burdens that come with being a Whitcombe.”

I nodded, waiting for her to continue.

“Mark was right, of course. It’s not your fault you were born. Yet . . .” Lowering her chin, Margaret continued. “I heard something last evening at Grey Hall. I don’t think the woman who said it realized I was within hearing distance.”

I immediately thought of the way I had spoken too loudly at Paddington station. Was Margaret about to compare my mistake to the way one of the Carlton Heath busybodies had failed to exercise discretion?

Margaret apparently had another objective in mind. “One of the women asked who you were and why you were seated in our row. She wondered if you were a friend of Ellie’s. The other woman stated that she had heard that you were the daughter of a homeless, unwed mother and that the Whitcombes had taken you in.”

I couldn’t argue with the description. It was true.

“Mark followed me to my rooms last evening,” Margaret continued. “He was quite set on making his point clear to me. I tried to explain that he did not understand the implications of the scandal of your birth. He sat in that chair where you are sitting now, and he said to me, ‘Grandmother, is Christmas not also about a scandalous birth?’ I have been thinking on this for most of the night.”

“I would never compare my mother with Mary,” I said quickly.

“Nor I,” Margaret echoed firmly. “Yet a few curious parallels are in play.”

“I don’t know about that, but I do accept what the woman said at Grey Hall. I am the daughter of an unwed woman, and yes, I think it could be said that she was homeless.”

“That may be, Miranda.” Margaret looked at me for the first time. “But you are also the daughter of a fine and noble man who had a well-established home. He would have wanted me to receive you as his own. I suppose I have gained an odd sort of sympathy for Joseph in this small drama we seem to be playing out in my home. Joseph chose to enter into the circumstances, as inconvenient as they were. He adopted the Christ child as his.”

Once again, I wanted to dismantle the parallels Margaret was drawing between Jesus’ family and the Whitcombe family. I didn’t think I should be compared to Christ.

But, for some reason, the combination of Mark’s words to her and the sympathies she felt toward Mary and Joseph’s lives seemed to be the brick and mortar she was using to build a bridge toward me. I was ready to meet her halfway.

Margaret cleared her throat. “You asked a few moments ago if I might extend to you peace. Peace and grace. These are the words my husband had written over the doorpost of this home long ago. He often said those would be the qualities that would mark our family. I regret to say that, with you, I have not remained true to his wish.”