CHAPTER 8

MONDAY

December 19, 1864

Early the next morning Reverend Richmond knocked on the Haddingtons’ door. Bea answered it. “Merry Christmas, Reverend. Won’t you come in?”

“Edward, I need to speak with you about this candle business,” he began. His tone was less than cordial. “People expect me to mention it in the Christmas Eve service.”

“Yes, they do.”

“To ask the recipient of the candle to stand.”

“That’s the tradition.”

“How can I? This is superstition. Have you seen the parishioners? They are counting on the candle to help them . . . to save them . . . to rescue them . . .”

“It’s not the candle that can save them, Reverend. It’s the Giver of it.”

“This is disastrous.”

Edward and Bea had never seen him so worked up.

“You should preach like this,” Edward offered.

“Edward,” Bea buffered.

“What do you mean?” The reverend frowned.

“With passion. Your preaching could use some. A little pulpit fire never burned a church, you know. Why, Reverend Pillington . . .”

“I weary of hearing about Reverend Pillington.”

The trio sat in embarrassed silence for a few moments. Edward finally spoke up. “What are you afraid of, Reverend? Afraid the prayers won’t be answered or afraid they will?”

The young rector started to speak, then stopped.

Edward continued in soft yet firm tones. “The mystery of God unsettles us all, Reverend. But isn’t mystery where God works? If he does only what we understand, is he God?”

He paused, inviting the rector to reply. He didn’t. Nor did he look away. Edward opted for bluntness. “Do you fear that God will dash the faith of the people, my son? Or do you fear that he will stretch yours?”

Reverend Richmond’s face softened for a moment. Then it hardened. “All this talk of angels and hope. Where will it lead us?”

“And your dismissal of miracles . . . Where will that lead us?”

The reverend started to object, but Bea placed a motherly hand on his and, for the first time, addressed him by his Christian name.

“David, something burdens you. What is it?”

The young minister said nothing.

Edward leaned forward. “The first day we met I asked you why Gladstone. You seem groomed for the cathedral, a city like Gloucester, not a country parish. You never answered that question. Perhaps this would be a good time to do so.”

Reverend Richmond pressed his two hands into a tent and leaned his lips into them. After several moments he lifted his eyes and began to speak.

“Four of us were at a pub. It was a year ago . . . a year this month. We were celebrating the coming holidays. The winter night was cold, the ale was good, and the fire was warm. So we drank. We drank until we, well, we became foolish, foolish and loud.

“Patrons told us to be quiet. The pub owner threatened to throw us out. I told him my father’s name and position and dared him to do so. He didn’t hesitate.

“Next thing I knew we were standing outside, bracing against the cold. The wind was bitter and I was too. The man had humiliated me in front of my friends. Embarrassment prompted me to do something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

“I saw an empty delivery wagon in the street, still hitched to its team. I jumped on, grabbed the reins, and told my friends to go with me. They hesitated . . . so I prodded. ‘What are you, afraid?’ They finally climbed up.

“I was imagining a fast ride, a few laughs. We’d have the wagon back at the pub before anyone missed it.”

The reverend looked down.

“What happened?” Edward asked.

“Something horrible. I had no business handling a wagon. The wind was strong, I was drunk and inexperienced. I slapped the reins and off we went. I feigned being in control. My buddies knew better. They told me to slow down, go back. But no, I had my pride.

“A narrow bridge crosses the Thames a mile north of the pub. The road bends sharply just before the crossing. The turn demands care on a clear day with a good driver. A drunk one on a dark, icy night has no hope. I missed it entirely. When I knew what was happening, I pulled up, but it was too late. The horses, the wagon, we all plunged over the edge of a steep ravine and fell fifteen feet into the water.

“All of a sudden I was fighting to stay afloat. Three of us made it to the river’s edge. We looked frantically for George, our friend. We stomped up and down the bank, crying out his name, crying out to God.

“We had to abandon the search—we were freezing. We found a house and got help. They located his body the next morning.”

The trio sat in silence for a long time.

Bea was the first to speak. “I’m so sorry, son. You must be heartbroken.”

“More than you could imagine. I was so stupid, so childish. I got what I deserved. But my friend . . . he didn’t deserve to die. I suppose that’s why I see God in the fashion I do.”

He turned and looked straight at Bea, lower lip quivering. “God could have helped. He should have helped. I used to think he hears us when we pray. But I prayed that night. With all my heart . . . now, I don’t know anymore.”

“This is how you ended up in Gladstone?” Edward asked.

Richmond nodded. “We should have been expelled. My father intervened, however. But the don made it clear I would never know the likes of a preferred pulpit. I guess Gladstone is my penance.”

“Or,” Edward adjusted, “Gladstone is where you find forgiveness.”

Bea looked at her husband. “It’s all right that we tell him, don’t you think?”

“About Abigail?” he answered.

The clergyman looked at her. “Tell me what?”

“We didn’t tell you the whole story. The fact is, our granddaughter used to live with us . . . until a year ago. She ran away last January.

We think she is in London; a friend saw her there last spring.”

“Why did she leave?”

“She made a mistake she must have thought we couldn’t forgive,” Bea explained.

“We’ve tried to find her,” Edward added. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”

Bea walked across the room and lifted a candle from the basket. “I guess we all need Christmas miracles, don’t we, David?”

She handed the candle to the minister. “Take this, my son. You need some light.”

He smiled. “I don’t think I should . . .”

“Just take it.”

He placed the candle in his coat and stood to leave. As Edward opened the door, he made a request. “Follow the tradition in the Christmas Eve service. Who knows what might happen?”

Edward and Bea watched him walk away; then Edward closed the door.

“Bea,” Edward invited, “we have one more candle.”

She knew his thoughts and smiled. He set the candle in the holder; the two sat at the table and prayed. They prayed for forgiveness, faith, and a young girl in a large city.