Aunt Dimity's Christmas (12 page)

“No, you wouldn't,” I chided. “You'd turn it into a cottage hospital or a refuge for unwed mothers.”

“Unwed mothers don't need refuges anymore.” Julian turned his face toward me. “Show me where you found him.”

We crossed the graveled drive and stood before the lilac bushes, gazing at the packed snow that marked the spot where Kit had lain. I showed Julian where Bill had knelt to check Kit's pulse, and where I'd bent to lift Kit's legs as we'd carried him into the cottage. I didn't mention the shudder of revulsion that had passed through me at the thought of touching Kit's ragged trousers.

Julian listened without comment, then walked with me up the graveled drive to the bridle path. The stars were bright enough to light our way, and Nell's sleigh had left a trail of tamped snow for us to follow. We walked in silence, save for the crunch of snow beneath our boots and the creak of branches in the rising wind. It wasn't until we'd rounded a bend and the lights from the cottage had vanished behind us that Julian spoke.

“I've examined my conscience,” he said, “and discovered an element of truth in what you said to me at Saint Benedict's.”

“The last time I looked, arrogance wasn't a mortal sin,” I told him.

“Not the arrogance,” said Julian. “The jealousy.” He paused to gaze up at the stars. “Do you remember asking me about my clerical collar?”

I thought back to our conversation in the Land Rover,
on the way to Blackthorne Farm. “I asked if you'd taken it off to avoid unnecessary confrontations.”

“And I gave an unsatisfactory reply.” Julian scuffed at the snow with the toe of his black leather boot. “The truth isn't easy for me to admit. I told myself at the time that I did it to become a better priest, but I know now that my decision had more to do with ego than vocation.” He shuddered slightly as an icy gust rattled the trees. “I've worked hard to keep Saint Benedict's open, Lori, to keep a roof over the men's heads and food in their bellies. Yet my flock, for the most part, treats me as nothing more than a well-meaning bureaucrat.

“They treated Kit as a pastor. From the moment he arrived, they confided in him, asked his advice, and left me to carry on with the paperwork.” Julian fixed his gaze on the snowy path. “I envied his rapport with the men. I thought removing my collar would make it easier for them to approach me, but it wasn't about
clothing
. It was about
grace
. Envy blinded me to the very quality that drew the men to Kit. Where there was goodness, I chose to see madness.” Julian let out his breath, like a pricked balloon. “What would I do if Christ walked into my hostel, Lori? Would I envy him? Would I think him mad?”

“You'd put a roof over his head and food in his belly,” I said softly. “Those aren't small things.” I hesitated, then slipped my arm through his. “It's no use trying to be perfect, Julian. Sometimes we have to settle for being good enough.”

He peered down at me anxiously. “But am I? Am I good enough?”

I laughed in disbelief. “I wish you could see yourself walking through the Radcliffe. You can't go ten steps without someone calling out to you. They love you there, and they need you. Just like the men at Saint Benedict's.”

“Whom I've failed,” Julian said.

“It's not your failure,” I declared. “You're doing your best by those men, and anyone who does his best is good enough for me. God's lucky to have you on her side.”

Julian's slow smile was as beautiful as the star-filled sky. “She is, is she?”

“She certainly is,” I said brusquely. “Now stop feeling sorry for yourself, Julian Bright, and help me help Kit.”

He stood to attention. “What can I do?”

I told him about Miss Kingsley's assignment to look into Kit's stay at the Heathermoor Asylum, Luke Boswell's acquaintance with Kit, and Rupert's unexpected gift. I was particularly careful to explain why Rupert had given the scroll to me instead of to Julian.

“Doesn't want to add to my burdens, eh?” Julian shook his head. “I'll have to speak with Rupert about that.”

“Don't you dare,” I threatened. “Rupert enjoys looking after you. Let him.”

Julian conceded the point, then returned to the subject of the scroll. “A roll call of the dead to go with the service for the burial of the dead,” he said. “You may be right after all, Lori. It seems that Kit was holding private prayer vigils at the bomber bases in Cambridgeshire. But why?”

I raised my hands, palms toward the sky. “There has to be a personal connection. Maybe his father served with Bomber Command and made a deathbed wish that his son go out and pray for his fellow airmen. We'll know more after Emma checks out some of the names.”

“Kit's father …” Julian stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “If he really did lecture at one of the colleges, someone might remember him. I'll ask around.”

“How?” I asked. “We don't know his name.”

“I'll try Christopher Smith,” said Julian. “Kit's a diminutive
of Christopher, and fathers have been known to name sons after themselves.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “There's one other thing I'd like you to do.”

“Name it,” said Julian.

“Telephone your contacts in the refuge network,” I said. “Find out if Kit stayed in other shelters. If we can reconstruct his movements, we may be able to figure out where he came from originally.”

“And perhaps find his family.” Julian blew on his cupped palms and rubbed his hands together. “Might be a bit tricky, though, the telephoning.”

I slapped my forehead. “I forgot. Your phone's been disconnected.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my cellular phone. “Here, use mine.”

“I couldn't,” Julian protested. “It's far too expensive.”

I thrust the cell phone into his hands. “It's for Kit's sake, remember? And don't worry about the expense. I've got tons of—” I broke off as an awful thought intruded. “What time is it?”

Julian checked his watch. “A quarter to five.”

“Oh my Go”—I caught myself—”gosh! We have to get back right away.” I grabbed Julian's arm and hurried him up the bridle path, kicking myself for forgetting about Willis, Sr.'s rehearsal.

Willis, Sr., had his coat in hand when we came bursting through the front door of the cottage. I gasped out an apology, which he accepted gracefully, but it wasn't until he'd driven off in the Mercedes that I thought to ask if he'd had dinner.

“I am the worst daughter-in-law who ever lived,” I said mournfully, watching the Mercedes's taillights through the bow windows.

“I wouldn't say that.” Julian came up behind me and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I'd say you're good enough.”

I sent Julian off with the rest of the angel cookies to share with the men at Saint Benedict's. When he'd gone, it was playtime, bathtime, and finally, bedtime for the twins.

After clearing the kitchen, straightening the living room, and mopping up the bathroom, I was too worn out to even consider decorating the cottage. Instead, I carried Kit's canvas carryall upstairs to the master bedroom, placing it on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, where the boys were less likely to get at it. As I tucked the brown horse in beside the suede pouch, I wondered for the thousandth time what had brought Kit to a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, in the midst of a winter storm.

With an ear attuned to the telephone, and Miss Kingsley's much-anticipated call, I tore the wrapping paper from the book Luke had loaned me, scanned the table of contents, and saw a chapter title that caught my interest: “The Birth of the Pathfinder Force.” Intrigued, I sat on the edge of the bed and started reading.

Two hours later, I heard a sneeze and glanced up from my book to see Willis, Sr., standing in the doorway.

“I have looked in on my grandsons,” he informed me, “and now I shall retire for the night.”

“Let me get you a bite to eat,” I insisted, rising hastily from the bed.

“I am not excessively hungry.” Willis, Sr., touched a linen handkerchief to his patrician nose. “Did you learn anything of value in Oxford today?”

I needed no further encouragement to tell him everything
I'd learned about the mysterious, charismatic man known as Kit Smith.

I repeated the story to Bill three hours later, when he telephoned from Boston. Willis, Sr., had gone to bed and the boys were sleeping soundly in the nursery. I'd been lying on the bed in the master bedroom for some time, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling, when Bill called.

“You've taken a surprising interest in this Kit Smith,” Bill observed, echoing Luke Boswell's words.

“Wouldn't you?” I retorted. “He's either a madman or a saint.”

“You seem to be leaning toward the latter,” said Bill.

“Someone has to,” I said. “Practically everyone else thinks he's nuts.”

There was a pause. Then Bill said carefully, “What if they're right?”

I stiffened and thought,
Et tu
, Bill? “They're not,” I said shortly. “What time is your plane arriving tomorrow?”

Bill cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, that's why I called….”

I listened calmly while Bill explained why he wouldn't be coming home on Friday. Hyram Collier's widow, it seemed, needed help settling her late husband's estate, and Bill felt duty-bound to offer his services. I gave my blessing to his extended stay. How could I object to him helping an old friend's widow in her time of need?

“I don't care how long you're away,” I told him, “as long as you're home by Christmas Eve.”

“I'll be home long before then,” Bill promised.

I hung up the phone, turned off the bedside lamp, and lay back against the pillows. I'd intended to speak with
Aunt Dimity before turning in, but the long day had finally caught up with me. All I wanted was a hot bath, a flannel nightie, and sleep.

Moonlight streamed into the bedroom, casting long-fingered shadows across the ceiling. The shadows bucked and quivered as a biting northeast wind shook the leafless trees beyond the windowpane. I trailed my fingers across Bill's pillow, thought of Kit's exquisite hands, then crawled to the foot of the bed to kneel before the canvas carryall.

It seemed strangely alive in the trembling moonlight, like the crumpled body of a man struggling for breath. I touched a fingertip to a roughened seam, then slowly unzipped the zipper and slipped a hand inside. The suede pouch full of medals clinked softly as I pressed it to my lips.

“Kit,” I whispered, “why did you come here?”

B
oth Willis, Sr., and I were in pensive moods at breakfast the following morning. When I asked how the rehearsal had gone, he gave a forlorn little sigh and set his toast aside, untasted.

“It's an amateur production,” I reminded him.

“Of that there can be no doubt whatsoever,” he declared. “The shepherds can scarcely hobble across the stage, the three wise men are being played by women, the angel of the Lord must perch precariously atop an unstable stepladder, and as for Eleanor …” He clucked his tongue sadly.

I paused with a last bite of toast halfway to my mouth. Willis, Sr., was usually full of praise for Nell Harris. I'd expected him to enjoy playing Joseph opposite her Mary. “What's wrong with Nell?”

“Some of her ideas will have to be revised,” said Willis, Sr. “I do realize that her character is supposed to be with child, but I cannot recall a single scriptural
passage describing the Holy Virgin as suffering from morning sickness.”

“Morning sickness?” I repeated.

“
Violent
morning sickness,” Willis, Sr., said darkly. “Nor do I recall the Virgin toppling from her donkey in a dead faint. I was most surprised when Eleanor landed at my feet.”

“I bet she was, too.” I popped the toast into my mouth and began clearing the table, taking care to step around the twins and over an assortment of pots and pans—their second-favorite toys—on my way to the sink.

“Mrs. Bunting said nothing to me about catching a fainting virgin,” Willis, Sr., pointed out, “but then, Mrs. Bunting scarcely spoke all evening. She may be the play's nominal director, but Mrs. Kitchen is clearly in command.” He pushed his omelet away, uneaten. “A most unfortunate turn of events, in my opinion.”

“Did Peggy give you a hard time?” I asked, knowing full well that Peggy Kitchen was constitutionally incapable of doing anything else.

“Mrs. Kitchen took issue with my American accent,” said Willis, Sr., indignantly. “When I ventured to point out that the play's events took place nearly two thousand years ago in the Middle East and that all of our accents were therefore suspect, she told me in no uncertain terms that Joseph would speak the Queen's English or none at all.”

I winced. As a lawyer, my father-in-law took great pride in his elocutionary skills. Peggy Kitchen had hit him where it hurt. “What did Lilian say to that?”