Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (40 page)

Envy sat heavily in Evan’s heart, along with uncertainty over his own future.

Another gentleman was also less than delighted with the occasion. Mr. Prescott found Evan leaning against a pillar, half hidden by a potted palm tree. “Wretched thing, balls,” Squire complained. “How they expect a fellow to cavort around on his toes after feeding him six courses, I’ll never know.” He accepted another glass of punch from a passing footman, and leaned on the other side of the pillar. “Much rather have a nap or a quiet game of cards. M’wife insists I stay right here, though, keeping an eye on Alice, what with all those randy, ramshackle rakes Whittendale calls friends around. As if one of those loose screws is going to drag the gal behind a drapery to steal a kiss when there’s all this mistletoe in plain sight.”

Botheration, Evan hadn’t noticed the mistletoe. He could have— No, he could not have. He was the vicar—the impoverished vicar. He sighed.

Squire sighed louder, watching Alice float by in a cloud of lace, in the same set as Lord Whittendale and his radiant wife-to-be. Lady Farnham was wearing the Whittendale heirloom engagement ring, the enormous diamond reflecting the hundreds of candles around the room. “Deuce take it, I suppose now I’ll have to take Alice back to London in the spring. I was hoping to be done with all those folderols and furbelows, especially at planting season.” Mr. Merriweather could only nod in commiseration. The thought of Alice going to London to find a
parti
to wed stuck in his throat like a piece of Mrs. Cotter’s Christmas pudding.

“I don’t suppose she mentioned an interest in any of these coxcombs when you were as close as inkle weavers all week, did she?” Squire asked hopefully. “I could get a ring on her finger by New Year’s. Not the size of Lady Farnham’s, of course. None of the popinjays can touch Whittendale’s deep pockets. Not that I mean to sell my gal to the highest bidder or anything. Won’t even hold out for a title if the chap is a decent sort.”

The pain in Evan’s chest grew with each of Squire’s words. He swallowed and said, “No, she never mentioned any of Lord Whittendale’s company by name, although I know she dined with them a time or two, and entertained some of the gentlemen at tea.”

“Hmpf. She could have fixed any number of the toffs’ attention if she’d set her mind to it and stayed home instead of spending every minute at St. Cecilia’s. Her mother had to tie her down, nearly, to be at home in the afternoon.”

“Miss Prescott was a great help this week. She lent her hand to mending the altar cloth and helping Mrs. Cotter prepare Christmas dinner for the needy. She taught the children their lines for the Nativity pageant, and she sewed their costumes. I don’t know what I would have done without her.” Yes, he did. He would have given up and handed in his resignation before Lord Whittendale could dismiss him from his post.

“Aye, she’s a good girl, my Alice.”

“There is none finer.” Evan raised his own cup of wassail in a toast to the only woman he could ever love. Then
he made his farewells, citing exhaustion and last-minute work on his sermon for the morning.

He was certainly tired from all the work he had done this week, and anxious about the morrow, but mostly he could not bear to wait for midnight and the lighting of the Yule log in White Oaks’s cavernous hearth. All of the revelers would come into the Great Hall for the ceremony, where a sliver of last year’s log would be used to start the new mammoth one, thus ensuring the prosperity of the house and its inhabitants. Evan did not know what they would use as last year’s kindling, since Lord Whittendale hadn’t been in the county, but he did know that everyone would lift their glasses and cheer the viscount and his lady, toasting the health of his unborn sons, the continuance of his line, the hope of the community.

Evan was pleased for Lady Farnham, and more relieved that that firstborn child would bear his father’s name. Still, he could not stay to watch.

Besides, he told himself, his sexton could not be trusted to leave the party in the barn in time to ring the church bell at midnight, or to be sober enough to pull the rope. If this was to be St. Cecilia’s last Christmas, the bells had to ring.

He’d done his best to save the church, Evan reflected. He’d used his money to hire carpenters and buy lumber, and he’d been sawing and nailing alongside the workmen. The roof was secured, albeit temporarily. The new stairs would not collapse under the weight of the heaviest worshiper. A few broken pews were shored up, a few more stones were remortared. All the dust and dirt was swept out, fresh pine boughs, holly, and ivy were brought in.

Evan had not stopped there. He’d helped roll out the gingerbread for the children, and found parts in the Nativity pageant for every child he could bribe, knowing their parents would then attend, if only to see their offspring as Magi and shepherds.

Now it was up to the Lord to see if His servant’s best was good enough.

On his way home in the gig Alice had convinced the squire to put at his disposal, Evan counted. He did not count the miles back to the vicarage, nor the stars overhead, nor the number of smiles Alice had bestowed on her various dancing partners. No, he counted seats, empty seats.

The poor from the almshouse. The loyal villagers. The sheep farmers whose children were sheep in the pageant. Alice and her reluctant family. Those were all he could count on. And they were not enough. He doubted if any of the White Oaks guests would attend, not after the revelries of this evening. The rest of the gentry at the Christmas ball would undoubtedly go to Most Holy, with its gleaming stained glass windows and its choir’s voices raised on high.

In despair, Evan knew the only thing to be raised at St. Cecilia’s was more dust. He had too many seats, and too few sitters.

*

The mice had toiled mightily that week also. With Fred holding on to the last of his nine lives, and firmly intending to spend that one safely alongside Mrs. Cotter’s nice warm stove, the desperate, determined duo worked all the harder, not having to look over their shoulders. They were invigorated by the crusts of bread and apple cores the carpenters left behind, too, as well as the vicar’s efforts to save their home.

They had St. Francis polished to a fare-thee-well. His back side still had patches of paint and plaster, but his front shone as lustrous as soft fur and mouse spit could burnish it. His robes showed a few extra folds, and his face a few more wrinkles, where the gnawing had been a tad too enthusiastic, and one of his fingers was sadly missing altogether, but his smile seemed all the sweeter to the weary rodents. Surely now, after all of their work, one of the worshipers would notice the golden gleam.

Unfortunately, they realized St. Cecilia’s had too many dark corners and not enough candles.

“What if no one sees the statue?” Pass fretted.

“They have to,” Ed insisted. To a mouse’s eyes, the gold was as unmistakable and beckoning as a ripening ear of corn.

“I don’t know, Ed. These human people aren’t all that bright. They forgot about hiding the golden statue when the bad men were coming, didn’t they? We’ve got to do something.”

So when Vicar Merriweather came to his church to pray for a miracle, he heard Cotter ring the bells for midnight. He heard the answering chorus of Most Holy’s pair of bells chime back. And he heard another pair of tiny, tiny voices.

“Look to St Francis,” Evan thought he heard.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Now I am hearing things. It is not enough that I shall lose my church and lose the woman I love; now I am to lose my mind as well.”

“Look to St. Francis,” floated again across the empty church.

Evan supposed it wouldn’t hurt to pray to each and every one of the plaster saints in their niches, though he rather thought he’d do better starting with St. Jude, patron of lost
causes. Still, he
would not deny the little voice in his ear. Lifting his candle the better to pick out the correct niche, Evan walked to the side of the church.

There was St. Francis, one arm extended to an alighting sparrow, the other cradling a…bear? Another creature sat by his feet. Odd, Evan could not recall any such animals surrounding the saint when last he’d dusted the statue. He stepped closer, holding his candle higher.

“You see, you see!” Ed was hopping up and down, and Pass had to wrap his tail around St. Francis’s neck to keep from falling off in his excitement.

“I see,” Evan murmured, and he had eyes for nothing but the statue, gleaming golden in its niche, as bright as the Christmas star leading the Wise Men to Bethlehem, as bright as the love he had for Alice. “I see.”

After the shortest prayer of thanks in Christendom, Evan ran for the door and shouted, “Ring that bell, Mr. Cotter. Keep ringing it. Tell everyone. We’ve got our miracle.”

9

Most Holy Church was almost empty that Christmas morning. Everyone came to St. Cecilia’s to see the golden statue, treasure lost since the times of Cromwell, found, by everything holy, on Christmas Eve.

The pews were filled, and the aisles, too. So many people crowded into the little building that the heat from their breaths warmed their bodies and their souls and the old stones of the church.

The collection plate was filled. Evan would not have to petition the bishop to sell the statue in order to finish the repairs, but would even have some money left to feed the hungry. There would not be so many needy mouths, not once Lord Whittendale kept his promise to better conditions for his dependents.

Alice’s eyes were filled with tears of happiness.

Mr. Merriweather’s heart was filled with joy and hope.

The mice’s bellies were filled, too, with the slice of Christmas pudding the vicar had hidden behind the lectern where no one could see.

Never had there been a more glorious Christmas service. The children all remembered their parts, and so many voices joined in the hymns and carols that no choir could have sounded sweeter. Evan was so elated that his words, for once, flowed smoothly, movingly, in benediction. No souls burnt in eternal damnation in this sermon; he spoke only of the love of God for His children. Feeling the vicar’s sincere spirituality, knowing he cared for their well-being as well as their redemption, the congregants vowed not to miss a single one of his Sunday services.

Evan knew that would take another miracle, but he smiled as he shook hands with everyone leaving the church. Some were on their way to the feast at the vicarage, while others were on their way home to share Christmas dinner with family and friends. Some were headed toward White Oaks and another elegant repast.

“My man of affairs will call on you in the morning, Merriweather, to see what’s to be done and in what order,” Lord Whittendale told him.

“I have some of the ready in the church funds now, my lord, so St. Cecilia’s can get by on its own for a bit.”

“Nonsense, the sooner the church is fully repaired, the better.”

Lady Farnham, stunning in her white furs, laughed. “I told him I wanted to be wed in St. Cecilia’s, that’s why Randolph is in such a rush. A special license would only give rise to more talk, so we would prefer starting to call the banns this Sunday, if you will.”

“I would be honored, my lady. And St. Cecilia’s will be glistening for the wedding in three weeks, I swear it.”

The viscount nodded. “And not a moment too soon, lest people start counting months. I’ll come by later, after my guests have left, to discuss what changes we can bring to the parish. Perhaps we can establish a pottery or a brickworks, to employ some of our people, so they don’t have to leave for positions in the factories and mines.”

“Don’t forget the school,” Lady Farnham reminded him.

“That’s right, we’ll set up a proper school for the children, boys and girls, so they can better their lot in life. That’s if you are willing to oversee its operation, at a raise in pay, of course, in addition to the increase I already promised.”

“I…I…”

“Can’t expect you to do more work without recompense. Yes, and I intend to recommend that the bishop consider you for rector of Most Holy, when old Bramblethorpe there retires. No reason you cannot hold two livings, earn a decent wage. That ought to make your days brighter, by Jupiter.”

“You are too generous, my lord. That was never part of our bargain, nor a school nor a pottery.”

“Nonsense, my son is going to be born here, isn’t he? Can’t have him living in some beggar’s backwater.”

“Your daughter Cecily will be born here,” Lady Farnham corrected. “Then your son Francis.”

“Francis?”

As the two left, arm in arm and bickering over the sex of their firstborn, Squire Prescott took their place, with his womenfolk behind him stopping to greet some of the neighbors.

The squire pumped Evan’s hand. “Good show, lad, good show, I say. Didn’t know you had it in you. Alice said you did, of course, but she always had a soft spot for this church. I heard what Lord Whittendale said about when Bramblethorpe retires, and I’ll second his recommendation. Meantime you’ve got a respectable livelihood, eh?”

“More than respectable. In fact now I can—”

“And I suppose now that you’re come into your own you’ll be looking around you for a wife.”

“Why no, I don’t need to—”

The squire shook his head in regret. “You’ll be off to London, I’d wager, before the cat can lick its ear.”

Since the cat could barely lick its foot currently, Evan would not be leaving any time soon. He tried to tell Squire he had no intention of seeking a bride in London, or anywhere else, for that matter, but Prescott was bemoaning his fate. “Dash it, just when I find an eligible match for m’daughter, one that will keep her in style but close to home, he up and marries a dashing widow. Now you’ll be looking over the crop of heiresses in Town, the devil take them, and I’ll have to traipse off to Bath or some outlandish place to find puss a proper match.”