The Christmas Candle (3 page)

He leaned forward and, with twinkling eyes and a bouncing head, sang a verse:

“Peace and goodwill 'twixt rich and poor!
Goodwill and peace 'twixt class and class!
Let old with new, let Prince with boor
Send round the bowl, and drain the glass!”

“Edward.” Bea placed a hand on his. “The candle.”

“Oh yes. The candle. Where were we?”

“The night before the final Sunday in Advent,” Reverend Richmond aided.

“Right . . . Papa Edward and his wife were sound asleep when brightness exploded in the room. You would have thought a curtain had been yanked opened at noonday. A bonfire couldn't have been brighter. They sat up and saw a glowing angel. They watched him touch one of the candles and then disappear. Papa Edward grabbed it, looked at his wife, and the two spent the rest of the night wondering what had just happened.”

“They had no idea what to think, Reverend,” Bea continued. “They went to Sunday services saying nothing about the angel's visit. They feared people would think they were crazy. Before they left, however, Mrs. Haddington gave the candle away. Touched by the plight of a young widow, she gave her the candle and urged her to light it and pray.”

Edward picked up the story. “Each Christmas Eve church members are invited to stand and share a blessing. Well, imagine who stood first that year?”

“The young woman?” asked the reverend.

“She was a changed person. A generous uncle had provided for her needs, and Grandmother and Grandfather Haddington wondered about a connection between the candle and the gift, but they drew no conclusion.”

Edward took a drink from his glass. When he did, Bea spoke up. “Half by hope and half by obligation, they continued to hang extra candles each eve of the final Advent Sunday. Then, after a quarter of a century, the December night glowed, and an angel touched another candle. Papa Edward gave it to a shepherd who was searching for his son. The father found the son, shared the news at the Christmas Eve service, and Grandmother and Grandfather knew something special was happening.”

The reverend shifted uneasily in his chair. “And you credit God for this?”

“Who else?” asked Edward.

“You realize, of course, that these could all be coincidences.”

“Indeed they could,” Edward conceded. “But two hundred years have passed. Every quarter of a century an angel has touched one candle. Every prayer that was offered over the candle was answered.”

“The Christmas Candle has become legendary,” Bea interjected, “and so have the Haddington candle makers. Even when the region had other chandler shops, the angel only and always came to Papa Edward's descendants. The citizens of Gladstone have anticipated each candle maker's child the way the rest of England awaits a royal heir, which brings us to the hard part of this story.” She looked at Edward. “God gave us only one child, a son. He was born to us late in life and died from cholera when he was twenty.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Was he married?”

“That he was. His wife died several months later in childbirth.”

“My goodness. One tragedy followed the other.”

“It did. Indeed, it did.”

Edward noted this first ray of warmth from the reverend. His guard, for just a few moments, was lowered.

“And your grandchild?” Richmond asked.

Edward chose to veil his reply. “As you can see, Bea and I are alone. We're both in our seventies; we won't be having any more children.”

“Does that mean the angel visits stop with you?”

“We assume so.”

Richmond began reviewing the facts, counting them with his fingers. “The angel comes once every twenty-five years?”

Edward nodded.

“He touches one candle?”

“So far.”

“And that candle has power?”

“No, God has the power. The candle is just the . . . Bea, what did you call it?”

“The vessel.”

“Yes, the vessel.”

The young minister crossed his arms and looked out the window.

“You find the story hard to believe?” Bea asked.

Reverend Richmond cleared his throat and looked back. “It's not the type of event you hear about often.”

“No,” Edward agreed, “far from it.”

“How long since the last visit?”

Edward looked to Bea and let her answer the reverend. “Twenty-four years.”

“Twenty-four? That means this is the . . .”

“Yes, this is the year,” she agreed.

“Goodness. No wonder everyone's talking about the candle.”

The conversation ended soon after that.

Nothing else seemed worthy of mentioning.

Reverend Richmond spent the night in the care of the soft-spoken churchwarden who had welcomed him at the parsonage. His Gladstone tour continued the next day. He met a farmer who showed him his flock. (“Purebred Cotswold sheep. My rams are famous.”) And a retired tailor, inquisitive and cautious. (“Some of us were hoping for an older minister, you know.”)

All in all, the villagers could not have been more friendly . . . or more untitled, rural, and backward. (One farmer asked Reverend Richmond if he'd ever delivered a lamb.) No match for an academician like himself.

He returned to Oxford the following day and awaited the next opportunity: the call from London, Southampton, or at least Bristol.

The don made it clear: no other options were coming. “Given the problems you've had, Gladstone is your only option.”

“Gladstone doesn't fit me,” he said, shrugging.

The Gladstonians held the same opinion. “Not quite right for us,” was Barstow's tactful comment in his note to the Oxford don. The citizens returned to their routine, hoping for someone older, married—seasoned. A pastor with thick skin for the winters, a warm heart for farmers, and an open mind for the mystery of Christmas miracles and angel-touched candles.

He never came.

Reverend Richmond came.

He arrived in June. June labored into July. Summer cooled into autumn. Apple trees dropped fruit and then leaves. Maples turned a rusty tint, and blackthorn bushes produced their purple sloe berries. Early October felt the first freeze, and Gladstone's new minister purchased an extra blanket from Barstow's Mercantile.

As he made his selection, Emily Barstow watched. When he looked up, she blushed and looked away.

In the church vestment box, Reverend Richmond found a warmer cape to wear in the pulpit. It was this robe that he donned the first Advent Sunday in December, the day he refused to preach about the candle.

The young mother pulled the blanket over the face of her infant son. Even seated inside the train, she felt the chill of the December air.

“Ticket?”

She looked up to see the uniformed conductor.

“Oh yes.” She'd forgotten to keep it handy. Reaching over her sleeping child, she found the ticket in her purse. The conductor checked it and handed it back.

“We'll warm up as the train leaves the station,” encouraged the lady in the adjacent seat. She was matronly in appearance: gray hair peeking from beneath a bonnet, wrinkled face still red from the chill. “Long trip for you and the baby?”

“All day,” Abigail said.

“I'll keep you company, then.” The lady looked around the crowded car. “Lots of travelers. Busy season.”

The young mother nodded, cradled her son closer, and looked out the window at the sea of travelers. All wore coats and hats; most carried bags or children. Everyone was in a hurry to go somewhere. The train lurched, and Abigail grabbed the seat, then smiled at her neighbor.

“Jerky things, these trains,” the woman sympathized.

Iron wheels slowly rolled the locomotive, mother, and child out of Paddington Station and into the city. Buildings passed, signs blurred, and Abigail felt moisture form in the corner of her eyes. She looked down at her sleeping son and spoke softly so no one would hear. “Are we doing the right thing, little man?” Then, as if answering for him, she said, “What else can we do?”

She sighed and reached into her bag and extracted a large brown envelope. She looked at the address, ran a thumb across her printed name, removed the letter, and did what she'd done a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours. She unfolded it and stared at the words. She thumbed away another tear.

“Are you all right?” asked the lady.

Abigail nodded but didn't look up.

“This letter. I, uh, I can't read. But my landlord read it to me. So I was just looking at it.”

“Would you like me to read it to you?”

Abigail smiled. “I would like that very much.” She handed her neighbor the paper and looked down into the face of her child and listened as the woman read.

CHAPTER 3
FIRST SUNDAY OF ADVENT

December 4, 1864

As Edward took his seat in the church, he heard snatches of conversations, enough random sentences to reveal the topic on everyone's mind.

“If I get the candle, I know what I'll pray for . . .”

“I hear Edward already knows who he'll give it to . . .”

“Do you suppose he'd talk to me about it?”

Edward was relieved to see Bea take her seat at the hundred-year-old organ. Now the service would begin and the whisperings cease. People followed the cue of the ten-member choir as they stood to sing “Come, Thou Almighty King.” Limestone walls echoed with “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow . . .” As the congregation sang, Edward looked out the window and spotted the reverend walking from the parsonage through the cemetery. As he leaned into the bracing wind, he held the neck of his coat closed and then loosened it as he neared the doors of the church.

I wonder what Reverend Richmond has prepared to say to us,
Edward considered. He knew what Reverend Pillington would have said. He had understood the cherished place the candle held in the lives of Cotswold villagers. They endured difficult days: crawling out of bed on dark, cold mornings; closing the barn after the sun had set; sewing by the light of the fire; laboring through weeks of rainy, sunless seasons. The former rector had understood the life of the villagers and how the legend of the candle always lifted their spirits. Were he preaching today, he'd speak of surprises and angels and fresh hope in the midst of dark Decembers. He'd speak about the candle.

“No. I can't do that,” the young minister had told Edward earlier in the week. “I'm not Pillington. I don't preach about candles. People don't need old wives' tales.”

“But this is . . .”

“I know. This is the year. But I give people practical help and solid facts. I stay away from mysteries.”

“You don't believe, do you?”

“I believe in the Bible. I believe in the church. I believe in God. But I see no reason to promote superstitions or raise false hopes.”

“Don't you think God can work however he chooses?”

“I believe God worked, and the rest is up to us.”

So as the singing ceased and the choir took their seats, Edward shifted in his pew, anxious to hear what the reverend would say.

The congregation heard the click of Richmond's boots as he ascended the stone steps to the pulpit. He looked nervously over his flock and unfolded his notes with the ease of a suitor asking for a maid's hand in marriage.

He spoke of Christmas kindness and neighborly love and Christian charity. Most other churches would have appreciated the message. But not the parishioners of St. Mark's. As they left the building, some refused to shake the reverend's hand. Others did so with disappointment. “The candle?” they asked. “Did you forget?”

Edward tried to hide his frustration but had trouble doing so. “Your sermon could have been better, Reverend.” He then followed Bea as she and Sarah exited the nave.

“Nothing!” Sarah whispered. “He didn't say a word, not one word!”

“Perhaps it's for the best,” Bea replied. “People are already so . . .”

“Persistent,” Edward finished for her.

“Persistent, indeed,” Bea continued.

CHAPTER 4
MONDAY

December 12, 1864

A An outside noise interrupted Edward's sleep. He opened his eyes and stared into the dark, not wanting to climb from beneath the covers. The bell in the ancient tower struck the five o'clock hour with lingering vibrations, as if its teeth were chattering in the belfry.

“It's cold,” he muttered as he snuggled up to his wife.

He was almost back to sleep when he heard the noise again. This time Bea heard it too.

“Edward,” she whispered, “did you hear that?”

“Probably just a hedgehog.”

“Go and see.”

“It's freezing, Bea.” But even as he protested, he knew he had to go. He grumbled and obliged. He grabbed his coat off the back of the chair, threw it on over his nightshirt, and opened the door.

Moonlight illuminated a shivering hump against the wall of his house.

“Bea! Someone is out here!”

“Actually, Edward, there are two of us.”

“James, Elizabeth, what are you doing?” Edward asked.

“Waiting on you,” the woman answered, making ghosts with her breath.

By now Bea, wrapped in her bed's blanket, stood next to her husband. “Come in, you two,” she urged. “You'll die of chill.”

They were only too happy to oblige.

As the couple settled in by the fire, Edward begged for an explanation.

“Can we warm up a bit first?” James requested with trembling chin.

In short order Bea filled four cups with tea. The unsolicited guests wrapped their hands around the warmth and sighed as they sipped.

James and Elizabeth Clemly ran the Queen's Tavern south of town in a century-old building they rented from the lord of the manor in Chipping Campden. The two served as the first line of hospitality for Gladstone-bound travelers. As he offered hay and rest to the horses, she filled pints and plates in the pub. This morning they had walked the length of Bristol Road in the predawn darkness.