Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (39 page)

Evan laughed, but without humor. “So everyone seems to think, for all the good anyone’s opinions will do. I am afraid it will take a miracle for sure now for me to afford a wife and children.”

“We have to have faith, Evan.”

“Oh, I do, my dear,” he said, brushing flakes of paint off her shoulder. “I do, even with the church falling down around our ears. Nor do I intend to sit around waiting for Lord Whittendale to develop Christmas cheer and a generous spirit. After we deliver your bundles of food, I can start splitting wood for new stair treads this very afternoon, and I can get rid of the mice, at least. I’m sure Mrs. Cotter won’t mind if I close her cat in here for a bit.”

*

“Now see what you’ve done, fleas-for-brains?”

7

Lady Farnham returned to St. Cecilia’s as promised, with a basket of food from the White Oaks kitchen for the needy. She managed to get Lord Whittendale to drive her, to carry the hamper inside, and to apologize for any insult he may inadvertently have given Mr. Merriweather.

Inadvertent? The man had nearly threatened to have Evan boiled in oil for merely speaking to this woman. Or to Alice. Still, the vicar graciously accepted the basket and the new opportunity to win the viscount to St. Cecilia’s side. A reprieve, thank the Lord. He gladly shook the peer’s hand, then felt a coin pressed into his own palm. The viscount might merely be trying to appease his conscience, Evan thought, but St. Cecilia’s would be grateful nevertheless. He put the coin in his pocket.

When his lordship left to wait outside while the beautiful young widow prayed, Evan softly vowed, “Never again will I doubt the power of prayers.”

Lady Farnham smiled. “And never doubt the effect of a woman’s weeping. When Randolph told me what he had said to you, I confess I turned into a watering pot again. I understand women become highly emotional at such times.”

“He must love you very much, then, to care about your tears.”

She shrugged in her fur-lined cloak as she sat in one of the far pews, indicating that Evan should sit with her. “I suppose he does, in his way.”

“But not enough
to…?”

Bea dabbed at her eyes with a scrap of lace-edged linen. Evan reached for his own, more adequate, handkerchief, but Lady Farnham shook her head. “No, I have used up all my tears. In fact, I must return the handkerchief you so kindly lent me.”

Evan took the freshly laundered square she held out, feeling the coins in its folds. “This is not necessary, my lady.”

“No, but you and your little church need it far more than I do. A few shillings will not make a difference in my condition, but they might mean the difference between an empty larder and a full one for some of your parishioners.”

“I thank you, madam, but surely you are going to need every groat for when—”

“No, Randy is being very generous. Shortly after Christmas he is going to purchase a little cottage not far from London, so that he can come visit frequently. He will make sure I have the best of care and want for nothing.
I…
I have hopes that he will let me stay on there with the baby, although he says he will have his solicitor look for a likely family. Perhaps if I cry enough, he will relent. Who knows? I understand that such an unsanctioned arrangement cannot find acceptance in the eyes of the Church, but will you pray with me, Vicar?”

“Of course, my lady. Surely our Lord will hear your prayers, so close to Christmas and the birth of His own son.”

*

While the vicar and the widow prayed, the mice eyed the wicker basket of food sitting so invitingly in the aisle.

“Got to be something better than paint chips in there, don’t you think?”

Ed licked his lips. “And better than the pine needles from the decorations. I say we are as needy as anyone in the parish, and charity does begin at home.”

“Let’s go.”

So the last remaining hopes of the Churchmouse clan took a break from their gnawing and scurried across St. Francis’s niche, down the molding, under the loose floorboards, surfacing inches away from the basket.

The sexton’s wife’s cat was also speculating about the contents of Lady Farnham’s basket, and his chances of helping himself to a chicken leg or a bit of cheese or an apple tart. He was deserving of a reward, wasn’t he, keeping watch in this cold, drafty, dusty church, instead of sitting by Mrs. Cotter’s nice warm cookstove? Fred cocked one scarred ear toward the praying pair and stealthily stalked toward supper. Instead he
saw…
dessert!

“Well, bless my soul if Christmas isn’t coming a week early!” With a loud meow he leaped at the two mousekins.

Passeth-All-Understanding made it back to the gaping floorboard, with Dread Fred’s fetid cat-breath on his shoulder, but elder Exultemus Domine was too slow. Now the marauding mouser was between him and the hole. The people were between him and the crumbling stone wall. Ed froze in place, as still and stiff as the statue of St. Francis.

“Run, Ed. Run for the roof! You’ll be safe there.”

So Ed fled, up the post that the vicar had propped in the corner to support one of the sagging roof beams. Dread Fred followed.

The pole collapsed under the weight of the well-fed Fred. With the sudden loss of the upright, the rotted roof beam groaned, shifted, and cracked. Cat, mouse, post, beam, and a good portion of the roof fell onto the floor of the church, scant feet away from Lady Farnham and Reverend Merriweather. She screamed, he screamed, and Mrs. Cotter, who was coming to fetch her precious puss for a spot of tea, screamed. Viscount Whittendale screamed from the outside, tearing into the church and shoving rubble out of his way as he raced to reach Beatrice’s side.

Ed screamed, but no one heard him. He burrowed deeper in the debris.

Mrs. Cotter reached her pet first, not that anyone else was trying to rescue the feline.

A board had fallen on Dread Fred’s head.

He bled, but he hung on by a thread, not quite dead.

Mrs. Potter scooped him up in her apron, sobbing that the church must truly be bedeviled, picking on innocent pusses now, instead of preachers. Still screaming, she carried him away to safety and his blanket-bed near the cook-stove.

Evan was choking on the cloud of disturbed dust, but he went to look at the damage as soon as he made sure Lady Farnham was uninjured. She was uninjured so far, but the way Lord Whittendale was clutching her to his chest, Evan worried that she’d soon have broken ribs.

“Are you all right, Bea?” the viscount was desperately asking. “Are you sure? God, when I heard that awful noise, I thought for a moment I had lost you.”

Lady Farnham caught her breath and nodded. “I am fine, truly. Mr. Merriweather pushed me aside when he realized what was happening.”

“And the baby? What about the baby?”

Lady Farnham reached up to wipe a smudge of dirt from his cheek, a smudge that had a suspiciously moist track through it. “We are both fine, I swear. But do you really care about the baby?”

“Lud, Bea, more than I thought possible. Losing the child now would have been the perfect solution, but I couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing my son or daughter at your breast. Ah, Bea, I don’t want any milk-and-water miss in my bed or sitting across the breakfast table or beside me at the Opera. I want you, none other. Perhaps I am a fool for needing such a near-tragedy to show me what I value most in this world, but will you marry me anyway, my dearest?”

“But what of Society?”

“Society be damned.” The viscount noticed Merriweather standing nearby, the remnants of the wicker basket in his hands. “Sorry, Reverend.” Then he turned back to Bea. “Say you will, darling, and make me the happiest of men.”

“Oh, do, Lady Farnham,” Evan put in, “before he changes his mind. That is, excuse me. The excitement, don’t you know.”

“You can give me your answer in the carriage, my love.” The viscount scowled over her head. “As for you, Merriweather, rest assured I shall not change my mind. I owe you for protecting my lady, and for your plain speaking on Sunday, so I will raise your wages. That doesn’t mean that I am willing to throw good money after bad, though. If no one will come to this church, cursed or not, I see no reason to repair it. I will make you a bargain, Merriweather. You fill this church for Christmas morning service, and I will make the repairs and endow your charities. Yes, and I’ll make the vicarage more habitable, too. If the church is not used, especially on Christmas morning, it is not worth fixing, so I will let the living lapse. I’ll ask the bishop to find you another post, and have Most Holy take over the parish duties.

“But Christmas is next week. I cannot—”

They were gone, their eyes only on each other.

“Watch out for the rotten stairs!” Evan called.

The viscount waved a casual acknowledgment with the hand that was not around Lady Farnham. “Next week.”

*

As soon as word reached the Manor, Alice hurried to the church to assess the latest damage and disaster.

Evan was standing behind the lectern, using his handkerchief to wipe dirt from the ceiling off the large Bible there. A small collection of coins, two of them golden, rested beside the Book.

Alice picked her way over the debris, careful not to snag her cloak, and joined him at the front of the church. She looked up at the grayish-blue sky visible above and said, “At least it is not raining.”

“Ah, my heart, trust you to find the silver lining in this cloud of dust.” Then he went on to describe Lord Whittendale’s ultimatum.

“How dare he make a game out of people’s lives. That worm!”

“That worm is going to marry Lady Farnham after all, thank goodness, despite the censure of his friends and acquaintances.”

“Then they will go back to London and not give another thought to St. Cecilia’s or Lower Winfrey.”

“No, I think he will keep his word about supporting the parish, if we meet his conditions.”

Alice looked up, not to seek divine guidance, but to watch a passing cloud. “How can we satisfy him, Evan? The church has not been filled since the viscount’s mother’s funeral. There are not enough people in the village to fill the pews, even if no one goes to Most Holy instead.” Evan stacked the coins. “I’ve been thinking. I can use these contributions and the rest of my quarter’s salary to fix the ceiling. Then our people might not be so anxious about attending St. Cecilia’s.”

Alice did not want to worry Evan further by reminding him that the villagers feared the bad luck of the previous vicars’ deaths, not the bad roof. She nodded encouragingly.

“Or else,” Evan reflected, “I could use the blunt to buy foodstuffs. If I promise the poor souls in the almshouse a Christmas dinner, maybe they will come to services. Unfortunately, I cannot do both. It’s either the roof and the villagers, or the food and the unfortunate. Either way, the church will be half empty.”

“No, it won’t, for I have some pin money of my own put by. We can fix the church and have a feast to celebrate. And I can help with the repairs, and the baking, too.” He shook his head, sending dust from his hair back onto the Bible. “I cannot take your money, Alice.”

Alice brushed a smudge from his cheek, her fingers lingering there. “It’s not for you. It’s for St. Cecilia’s.”

“But you know that without Lord Whittendale’s money, we’ll never have enough brass to make the church really safe for anyone to worship here, not even you. Especially you, my dear.”

“I’ll be here. And I will make sure everyone I know is here, to help save St. Cecilia’s.”

Evan kissed her fingers, so near his lips. “Poor Lord Whittendale.”

“Poor, that makebait?”

“Aye. He doesn’t get to marry the finest woman in the kingdom.”

“I thought you liked Lady Farnham. She is certainly beautiful enough.”

“She isn’t you.”

8

White Oaks had not opened its vast doors to the community in ages. Not since the viscount’s mother’s time had the huge ancient pile hosted what used to be an annual Christmas Eve ball. Tonight the party was twice as joyous, twice as lavish as any Lady Whittendale had ever thrown, for tonight the current titleholder was going to announce his engagement.

Money had flowed through village hands from the influx of travelers and traders. The restored fortress needed to be refurbished, restocked, and restaffed, and what could not be ordered in time from London was purchased nearby. Since everyone in the vicinity was also invited to the lively party in the barn if not the formal dance in the ballroom, spirits were high, and not just because spirits were flowing as well as Lord Whittendale’s blunt.

One person was not enjoying himself. The Reverend Mr. Merriweather could not share in the joy of the occasion. Oh, he’d made a sincere blessing over the happy couple and, indeed, wished them well. He’d also blessed the meal, both at the long oak table and at the trestles set up for the common folk. He was pleased to see his neighbors so carefree, so happy in the moment, yet he could not join in their merriment. Here it was, Christmas Eve, perhaps his first, last, and only Christmas Eve as vicar of St. Cecilia’s, and here he was, watching Alice dance with all the London bucks and blades. She was beautiful in her new gown of ivory lace over emerald-green satin, with holly twined in her upswept hair, and every man there knew it. All those wealthy, titled, landed gentlemen were waiting in line for her hand, to dazzle her with their diamond stickpins and polished manners, to shower her with flowery compliments and flirtatious conversation. Evan could no more turn a pretty phrase than he could turn into a Town Beau.

He’d had one dance with his beloved, a stately minuet as befitted his station, and their relationship as minister and congregant. Whittendale was getting to have nearly every dance with his affianced bride, the lucky dog. No one would think any the less of Lady Farnham, not in light of her betrothal, and the light of adoration in the viscount’s eyes. No one would dare slight her, or bring up old gossip, not once the engagement was announced. Beatrice was going to be Lady Whittendale, a blanket of respectability that could ward off all but the chilliest of disapproval.