Christmas Bells (4 page)

A newly built fire crackled on the grate as he entered the familiar room, which smelled of woodsmoke and fine old books and furniture polish. Although he had written many of his most acclaimed poems there, either bent over the desk by the south window or seated in the chair by the fireplace writing in pencil to spare his tired eyes, the study was no dignified retreat where he toiled in isolation but rather a pleasant, welcoming nexus of domestic activity. Charley could burst in at any time of the day to play with his canary and chatter on about friends' antics or dogs or sports or ships newly come to Boston Harbor. Ernest kept his
crayons and paper and paints scattered upon a central oval table, and would often sketch scenes from memory or imagination while Henry wrote nearby, two artists companionably at work. The girls darted in and out, safe in knowing that their father would not rebuke them if they interrupted his train of thought with hugs and kisses and requests to mend broken toys or cut them new paper dolls. Quite to the contrary, he delighted in their innocent antics so much that he was inspired to compose a poem, “The Children's Hour,” to capture forever the merriment of his daughters' evening ritual of bursting into his office at twilight for hugs and good-night kisses.

He turned around in place, patting his pockets absently as if searching for something mislaid, until he remembered his errand. The newspapers stacked neatly on the desk he ignored, reluctant to allow reports of new threats from rebellious South Carolina to cast melancholy shadows upon the day. The most recent report he had heard, that the rebellious state's newly appointed leaders had announced that the three federal forts within its borders no longer belonged to the United States but to their fledging separatist republic, surely diminished the likelihood that South Carolina would be swiftly restored to the Union through negotiation. At least Henry hoped such efforts were ongoing, and with increasing urgency; considering how President Buchanan had dithered and equivocated throughout the escalating crisis, Henry would not be surprised to hear that he was doing little more than staring at the calendar and counting the days until he could leave office and pass the problem on to Mr. Lincoln.

With an effort, Henry pushed thoughts of political matters aside and went to the nearest bookcase to scan the titles for a story that suited the holiday, something that would entertain the children and improve his mood. He had just taken Clement C. Moore's book of poems from the shelf and was turning to “A Visit from St. Nicholas” when Allegra Anne—his dear little Annie—
ran in, her brown curls bouncing, held back from her face by a ribbon of red velvet. “Mama says you're wanted,” Annie announced, her sweet, piping voice ringing with authority.

“Then I'm duty bound to come,” he said, bowing as he tucked the book beneath his arm. Beaming, Annie seized his hand and led him off to the foyer just as the brass knocker rapped twice to announce the arrival of their first guests.

Soon Craigie House was filled with friends and family, and the very walls seemed to resonate in harmony with their love and mirth and happiness. As the eldest, Charley led the boys' games, merrily boisterous but full of fun and gentle with the younger lads. Alice and her favorite cousin quickly had the girls performing songs and reciting poems for an indulgent audience of parents and neighbors, warmed by the companionship of dear friends as much as by the Yule log blazing on the hearth. A Christmas tree stood in the corner of the drawing room, its evergreen boughs prettily adorned with candles, strings of popcorn, sugared fruits, and small trinkets wrapped in colored paper, gifts for their guests. A side table was laden with so many presents for the children—sent from loving aunts and uncles or left by affectionate friends who had called throughout the week—that it almost seemed to bow beneath the weight.

Then came time for the feast—roast goose, boiled ham, smoked fish, oysters, mince pies, potatoes with chestnuts, cranberries in jelly, and excellent Italian wines for the adults. No one wanted to talk about the secession fever sweeping from Charleston through the South, but as the wineglasses were refilled and the guests began feeling ever more merry and bright, the topic shifted from reminiscences of Christmases past to beloved Christmas stories from favorite authors. Before Henry could forestall it, a general clamor went up that he too should write a great Christmas tale, one to rival those of Clement Moore and Charles Dickens.

From the head of the table Henry caught Fanny's eye, which sparkled with mischievous amusement; unnoticed by the others, she pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress laughter and raised her glass in a small toast to her husband. He was forever being told by well-meaning friends, admirers, and critics alike what he ought to write, and she knew how it vexed him.

As even the children chimed in with suggestions for the proposed Christmas tale, Henry threw Fanny a helpless look, pleading for intercession. Ever loyal, she rose to the occasion. “Don't offer him too much inspiration,” she said, her voice carrying above the clamor, “or he'll hurry off to his study to begin writing immediately, and we won't see him again until the New Year.”

“We mustn't allow that,” protested Henry's good friend Louis Agassiz, a Swiss who had come to America in 1847 to join the Harvard faculty as a professor of zoology and geology. Since then he had become one of the most famous scientists in the world, and his startling theory that much of the Earth had once been covered in glaciers fascinated Henry. “It's Christmas. This is not a day for labor, but for revelry.”

“And reverence,” added Frances Lowell, the wife of another close friend in attendance, the professor, editor, and poet James Russell Lowell.

“Yes, indeed,” declared Henry's brother-in-law, Tom Appleton. “Let's not forget that Henry must also continue to play host to us, his friends and relations. All told, I count three very good reasons he should not write today. Fanny,” he said, turning to his sister, “you must insist that he forbear composing any new verses until tomorrow.”

“I agree,” she replied, and to Henry, added, “Darling, I insist you postpone commencing this grand Christmas epic until January, at the earliest.”

“Very well, my dear.” Henry spread his hands and looked around the table, shaking his head and feigning regret. “I
apologize, friends, but I must decline your most . . . interesting suggestion.”

Everyone gathered around the table, save the youngest children, burst out laughing, revealing that they had all been in on the joke.

As dessert was served—plum pudding, which had steamed enticingly upon the sideboard for what seemed like many fragrant and tempting hours, accompanied by a rich, velvety custard flavored with anise—Fanny said, “Henry will have another poem published very soon, which you may enjoy almost as much as a Christmas tale.”

Several friends nodded knowingly, for Henry had shown them drafts of the work in progress, but others turned inquiring looks upon their host. “Will it be another ‘Evangeline' or ‘Hiawatha'?” asked Elizabeth Agassiz, Louis's wife, an intellectual, well-spoken woman who had founded a school for girls in Boston. “Another stirring epic tale with an unlikely hero at its center?”

“I wouldn't say unlikely,” said Henry. “I call the poem ‘Paul Revere's Ride,' and it will appear in the January edition of
The Atlantic
.”

“Who's Paul Revere?” asked Alice, for children were not required to be seen and not heard within the Longfellow household—in fact, they were encouraged to question, to speak, to compose.

“He was a Boston silversmith and a patriot of the Revolution,” said Henry. “My grandfather, Peleg Wadsworth—your great-grandfather, children—was his commander in the Penobscot Expedition of seventeen seventy-nine. My poem, however, tells of the night Revere courageously risked his life and liberty to warn the colonials of an invasion by the British.”

“Sounds intriguing,” said Mrs. Agassiz. “I look forward to reading it.”

Henry inclined his head to thank her for the compliment. “I was inspired to write the poem after visiting the Old North Church last April. I climbed its tower, looked out upon the landscape, and contemplated the troubles our forefathers confronted in the early days of the republic and those we face now. I began writing the next day.” Then honesty compelled him to add, “I admit I took some liberties with historical fact—”

“As a poet must, for the sake of his art,” declared Tom, looking around the table for affirming nods.

“There were three riders, not one, for example,” said Henry, “and Revere's role was to warn Samuel Adams and John Hancock that the Redcoats were marching upon Lexington to arrest them and seize their armories in Concord. I think—I trust—that my readers know the story well enough to understand that I altered facts for dramatic effect.”

“If they don't, they should,” said Fanny stoutly.

“I only hope they see the whole poem,” Henry added, almost to himself. “Earlier this month, the
Evening Transcript
ran a version they said they took from
The
Atlantic
's advance sheets. Six lines were omitted—six rather essential lines.”

“Mr. Fields won't make that mistake,” Fanny said soothingly. “The poem will be printed in its entirety, and the people will love it. Your Paul Revere is a hero for our own troubled times as well as the past.”

“Our generation too longs for a great man to save the nation,” said James Lowell, frowning slightly as he studied his wineglass. “Only instead of oppression from a foreign king, we confront secession. Instead of red-coated British regulars, we contend with Southern firebrands and slaveholders.”

“Perhaps Mr. Lincoln will be the hero for our times,” said Fanny. “Mr. Buchanan has availed us nothing, but if God wills it, his successor may yet heal the breach and preserve the Union.”

“Hear, hear,” said Tom, raising his glass.

They all joined in on a solemn toast that the New Year would bring reconciliation and peace, although Henry suspected not one of them, for all their vaunted intellect, could predict how that might come about.

When the feast was over, the older children pulled on their coats and mittens and raced outside to throw snowballs and tow sleds around the yard in the dwindling twilight while the adults settled in the drawing room to talk and reminisce, and to smile over the younger children as they played with the new toys Santa Claus had left in their stockings the night before.

They were warming themselves with hot coffee and amusing riddles when the children trooped back in, rosy-cheeked and exuberant. Once they were out of their wraps and comfortably settled by the fire with sugared plums and cups of hot tea, Henry read aloud “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” The younger children gazed up at him with rapt attention as the story of the jolly old elf's visit unfolded, and from across the room, Fanny regarded him with such warmth and fondness, so much obvious enjoyment of the sound of his voice, that Henry could not imagine feeling any more blessed than he did at that moment on that holy day. The inevitable, trifling frustrations of daily life, the heavy responsibility of raising children, the onerous troubles facing the country—all fell away in the firelight. He marveled to realize that everything that truly mattered to him was represented in that gathering—family, friends, love, faith, hope. It seemed miraculous that one room could contain so much—but if a humble manger could hold the Divine, anything was possible.

The youngest children were dozing in their parents' arms by the time the guests departed, the light of their lanterns and the music of sleigh bells fading as the horses carried them home and away. The Longfellow children were soon tucked into their beds with warm quilts and tender kisses. Shortly after midnight, their father and mother too retired for the night, tired but content.

“It was a very merry Christmas, wasn't it, darling?” said Fanny as she plaited her hair into one long braid and tucked it beneath her cap.

“It was.” Henry yawned as she climbed into bed beside him, then he tucked the quilts around them both and kissed her. “One of the merriest in memory. May the New Year be as full of happiness and peace and friendship.”

“May it indeed,” Fanny replied drowsily, snuggling up close beside him.

Their hopes were short-lived, dashed by shocking developments in Charleston.

While the city slept on the night of December 26, Union Major Robert Anderson, acting without orders from his superiors, stealthily moved his troops from their vulnerable position at Fort Moultrie on the mainland to the incomplete but more strategically located Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor. The next day, South Carolina militia seized Fort Moultrie and another federal stronghold, Castle Pinckney, and demanded that Major Anderson surrender.

Instead, Major Anderson and his men resolutely held their position, and the South Carolina militia settled in for the siege.

The Accompanist's Tale

“You should tell Sophia how you feel,” Father Ryan had urged Lucas on more than one occasion, but even the priest acknowledged that the timing had never been right. And then it was too late: Sophia was engaged to marry Brandon, a decent-enough guy, well-meaning but clueless, reliable but lacking in imagination, and definitely not good enough for Sophia. Not that Lucas was biased or anything.

Sophia and Brandon had been dating only a short while when Lucas first met her, and ever afterward he tortured himself with the knowledge that if only he had sat down at the piano at St. Margaret's three weeks earlier, everything might have turned out differently.

On the last Friday before Christmas—which was also Sophia's last day of school before Winter Break—Lucas stopped at a coffee shop on his way to St. Margaret's, and as he stood in line, he remembered the student concert. He figured Sophia would need coffee, so he ordered two cups to go, hers in an insulated
travel mug. “How fresh are those scones?” he asked the barista, gesturing to the bakery case.

“Came out of the oven twenty minutes ago.”

“One blueberry and one cranberry, please.”

Lucas paid, moved down the counter to collect his order, and added milk and sugar to Sophia's cup before heading outside and on his way. The wind had picked up while he was inside, sending icy crystals of snow into graceful swirls and eddies on the sidewalk, reminding him with painful intensity of a night in late November two years before, when an unexpected early snowstorm had compelled Sophia to end rehearsal early. Lucas had walked her back to her apartment, but any hope that she might invite him in to wait out the storm had been immediately quashed when he spotted Brandon's SUV in the parking lot. Some things had changed in the two years since that snowy night, others not so much. Brandon was gone; Sophia still had no idea how Lucas felt about her. But what could he do? She had just broken off an engagement. She needed a friend, and he did not want to be the rebound guy. He had waited for her too long for that.

The realization brought him to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk. That was exactly what he had been doing for the past three years, though he hated to admit it: He had been waiting for her.

Maybe it was time to either tell her the truth or move on.

“What do I have to lose?” he muttered as he continued down the sidewalk, a cup of coffee in each hand, his messenger bag full of sheet music slung over his shoulder. What did he have to lose except his self-respect, his friendship with Sophia, and his volunteer gig with the choir? He would miss the kids, so goofy and smart in unexpected ways and often unintentionally hilarious. No matter how stressful or exhausting or frustrating his day might have been, a couple of hours with the young singers never failed to lift his mood, to put everything else in perspective. Why
risk losing all that to confess the truth to Sophia, when she had never—once or twice, tops—in the past three years shown him even a flicker of romantic interest?

“Get over it,” he told himself loudly, angrily, as he passed before St. Margaret's on his way to the side entrance.

“Get over what?”

Startled, Lucas turned and discovered Father Ryan at the top of the stone staircase, bundled in a black pea coat and a black-and-gold Bruins tuque, sweeping snow off the landing in front of the tall, ornate double doors marking the front entrance. For a moment Lucas groped for a plausible answer, but he had been raised Catholic and could not bring himself to lie to a priest on the steps of his own church. “You know,” he said, deflated.

“Oh, that.” Father Ryan nodded and resumed sweeping. “You should ask her out.”

“Are you kidding? Less than two months ago she broke up with her fiancé.”

“Which means she's single.”

“It's too soon.”

Father Ryan rested his hands on the end of the broom handle, mulled it over, and shook his head. “I think I would've heard if there was an official mourning period.”

“Sophia doesn't think of me as anything more than a friend.”

“Only because you've never given her reason to think of you as anything else.”

That irked him, because he knew it was true. “Father,” he said wearily, “no offense, but I'm a little skeptical about taking romantic advice from a priest.”

“Fair enough.” Sighing, mildly exasperated, Father Ryan gestured for Lucas to climb the stairs. “The front door's unlocked. Save yourself the walk around the side.”

“Thanks.” Lucas took the stairs two at a time and entered the
warm vestibule as the priest held open a door. “You must really feel sorry for me.”

The nave was warm and softly lit, and his footsteps echoed as he made his way to the piano, a magnificent Shigeru Kawai grand donated to the church by a wealthy parishioner. The same anonymous benefactor paid to have it regularly tuned by the most qualified expert in Boston, and its tone was astonishingly clear, rich, and harmonic, with excellent power and projection enhanced by the church's superb acoustics. Lucas had never played a finer instrument, and it almost made him wish he had chosen to pursue music rather than civil engineering, except that urban planning and design was an equal, if less romantic, passion. Father Ryan might even say it was Lucas's calling.

As a kid he had drawn maps of imaginary cities with skyscrapers of apartments separated by wide swaths of land where residents could plant crops. As he had grown older, he had learned that those maps needed to include affordable housing for lower-income residents, and that his avenues of farmland displaced roads, which would be a hard sell before any planning committee. In college he had started out in architecture but switched to civil engineering when he saw how it brought together his two compelling ideals, sustainability and social justice.

“Most people think those are mutually exclusive and competing paradigms, but they don't have to be,” Lucas had told Sophia over Indian takeout one evening to celebrate a successful Easter Vigil Children's Mass performance. “Granted, they're still two separate movements, but they share enough goals in common that one day they may converge, and in the meantime, the tension between the two can be very productive.”

He had stopped abruptly there, having reached the point where most people's eyes glazed over, but Sophia had surprised him. “How so?” she asked, with apparently genuine interest.

“Well, they can come together to improve neighborhoods in
ways as complex as designing the layout of an entire city block or as simple as turning a vacant lot into a community garden.” For the next twenty minutes, as they sat on a park bench eating chicken tikka masala and aloo gobi from paper cartons, he had given her more specific examples, ambitious projects he had heard of and admired, others that had failed spectacularly, some that he had worked on during school breaks, a few that existed only on paper or in his head but which he hoped to launch someday. He had also told her about his volunteer work with Habitat for Humanity, and his absolute belief in the radical notion that everyone deserved a safe place to live.

Eventually he had realized that he'd been holding an empty takeout container and that Sophia had set hers aside long ago, and that she had been sitting beside him, her legs curled up beside her on the bench, watching him with interest and not saying a word.

“Sorry about that,” he had said, embarrassed. “I think I just gave you my entire doctoral thesis.”

“Really? What a wasted opportunity.” She had shook her head, feigning dismay. “We should've recorded this. That would've saved you so much work. You could've just played it back and typed it in.”

He had managed a laugh. “Thank you for not falling asleep.”

“Why would I? I think your work is fascinating.”

“You do?”

She had smiled, amused. “Your surprise isn't selling it very well at the moment, but yes, I do. It's relevant and important. I never really thought about the social issues that go into—or
should
go into—planning a city. I'll never look at a vacant lot the same way.”

He had studied her appraisingly. “I'm never completely sure when you're joking and when you're being serious.”

She had bent close to his ear and lowered her voice to a
conspiratorial whisper. “The real trick is to do both at the same time.”

She had straightened, smiling, and had begun gathering up their takeout trash, but for a long moment he had only sat watching her. She had brushed her hand against his leg when she had leaned toward him, and he still felt it, the pressure and the warmth. At that moment he'd realized, with a curious mixture of exultation and alarm, that even though he had a girlfriend and she had a boyfriend, he was coming dangerously close to falling for her.

•   •   •

They had met only a few weeks before, not long after Professor Callaghan had assigned Lucas's History and Theory of Historic Preservation class a research paper on a local building of historical significance and its role in the community. Lucas chose St. Margaret's from the list of options because it was reasonably near his apartment, and he admired the architecture whenever he passed it. He called to arrange a site visit, and after the chipper little nun on the other end of the line assured him that he was welcome anytime, he stopped by on a Tuesday afternoon on his way to meet his girlfriend for a quick supper during the brief interval she allowed herself to emerge from the law library.

The vestibule was empty, but as he passed through another set of doors to the nave, he spotted an older, well-dressed couple sitting in a pew near the back. Their heads were bowed and they sat closely together, the man leaning slightly against the woman as if she bore him up. Something about them seemed familiar, but rather than intrude upon their privacy, he quickly glanced away and continued up the center aisle. He had almost reached the front pew when he spotted it—the gleaming, ebony grand piano near the rows of choir seats behind the altar.

He halted, his gaze fixed on the piano in stark admiration.
From off to his right came the soft, muffled boom of a heavy door falling shut; a moment later, a short, stoop-shouldered elderly woman in a plain gray dress and white wimple walked stiffly but briskly in. “Ah,” she exclaimed when she caught sight of him. “Admiring our lovely piano, I see.”

He recognized the cheerful, quavering voice from the phone call. “Yes, I am. It's a beauty.”

She put her head to one side and peered at him with friendly curiosity through horn-rimmed glasses fastened about her neck with a silver chain. “Do you want to try it out?”

“I'd love to.” He glanced at the couple seated in the back of the church, their faces indiscernible in the dim light. “But I don't want to disturb anyone.”

“It wouldn't be a disturbance, not at all.” The nun glanced back at the couple too, then returned her gaze to Lucas, smiling. “He loves to hear people play his piano.”

Puzzled, Lucas lowered his voice and indicated the older man with a subtle tilt of the head. “The piano belongs to him?”

“Of course not.” The nun clasped her hands together at her waist, lifting her chin proudly. “It belongs to the church.”

“Oh, okay.” A moment later, Lucas figured it out. He had not detected the capital H in “his”; she apparently meant that it was God's piano, or Jesus's. “Sure, I'd love to play it.”

She beamed and gestured for him to proceed, and as he sat down at the piano, she settled into the front pew and watched him expectantly. He began with a Chopin étude, then played a Bach sinfonia, thinking it suited the setting and the nun might like it. He had just begun the Christmas Sonatina by Carl Reinecke when he realized that someone else had joined the audience, standing in the aisle near the nun, her hand resting on the back of the pew. A surreptitious glance revealed a young woman so beautiful, so radiant and rapt, that he stumbled over the rest of the measure and came to an abrupt halt.

“Don't stop,” she protested. “You play beautifully.”

“Yes, that piano has never sounded better.” The nun gave a little start and glanced to the back of the church, where the couple sat utterly still, either watching them or lost in thought, Lucas could not tell. “Or rather, it's
rarely
sounded better.”

The younger woman dropped her bag on the front pew with a solid thunk and joined him at the piano. “Please tell me you're Sister Joanne's replacement.”

“Who?”

“Sister Joanne. She was our accompanist for years, but ever since she retired last month, I've been on my own at choir practice. I can play, but not as well as she does.” The young woman regarded him with such candid admiration that he was more than a little flattered. “And definitely not anywhere near as well as you.”

“Thank you.” He rose and stepped away from the piano, and the sense that he was making a terrible mistake did not prevent him from adding, “But I'm not an accompanist.”