“What do you want with me now?” Carol demanded. “Haven’t you done enough harm already?”
“It is my opinion that I have done only good to you,” Lady Augusta responded, “and will do still more good on this night.”
“I refuse to become involved in another time-travel excursion,” Carol stated. “I haven’t recovered from the last one yet.”
“I do understand how difficult it is to change your heart,” Lady Augusta said in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. “While I lived I was never able to do so, though I had many opportunities to alter my ways. You may take comfort in the knowledge that during your visit to the past you learned a valuable lesson or two, and you prevented much grief for those whom you loved in that time.”
“A famous woman once said that no good deed will go unpunished.” Carol could not keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I am paying now for my generosity to Lady Caroline.”
“Yes, you were generous,” said Lady Augusta. “You will receive full credit for your actions. However, I note that you have not yet given up your essential selfishness. You have much more to learn in the two nights still to come. We shall begin at once.” She moved from the bedside toward the middle of the room, passing into the light of the single lamp, and now Carol could see her clearly for the first time.
“Are you headed for a costume party?” Carol asked, surveying her unwelcome guest’s appearance. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
“Do you like my gown? Personally, I am quite pleased with the overall effect.” Lady Augusta was wearing a robe of deep red velvet. Long strands of ivy were wrapped about the robe in a spiral pattern. The garlands were caught here and there with sprigs of red-berried holly or with small bunches of green and white mistletoe. A high collar of rubies and diamonds encircled Lady Augusta’s neck, and ruby and diamond earrings fell in glittering showers almost to her shoulders. She wore wide matching bracelets on each wrist. Her shining black hair, which on this occasion displayed not a single streak of white, was piled high and decorated with a diamond snowflake ornament.
“You look like one of the Christmas trees I saw in a florist’s window this afternoon,” Carol said.
“That is altogether appropriate, since on this night you will witness Christmas in the present.” Lady Augusta moved toward Carol, who backed away until she was pushed up against the door. “Come now, Carol, surely you are no longer afraid of me.”
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” said Carol rudely.
“Dear me.” Lady Augusta sounded surprised and a bit hurt. “I hoped the lessons you learned last night would stay with you longer. I regret to see how quickly you have reverted to your earlier self.”
“How could you imagine that I would be glad to see you again after you took me away from the one man I have ever really loved?” Carol cried.
“I did not remove you. You left voluntarily. You still do not understand. But then, how could you? Water your flowers, my dear, and we will go.” Moving aside to let Carol pass, Lady Augusta lifted the dome on the dinner tray. “I see Mrs. Marks has been stirring up that dreadful curry recipe of hers, now that she doesn’t have to feed me anymore. I never could abide the stuff.” Lady Augusta sniffed, turning up her nose in distaste.
“I happen to like curry,” Carol retorted, pouring the contents of the water glass over the narcissus bulbs. “But I suppose I won’t have an opportunity to eat it, will I? If you insist on snowing up every night at dinnertime and taking me away, I will probably starve to death before you are finished with me.”
“There is little chance of that.” Lady Augusta smiled at her and Carol began to tremble.
“What are you going to do this time?” Carol asked.
“Come.” Lady Augusta held out her hand. When Carol did not move, the smile turned into a scowl. “Do not be childish. We have work to do and no time to waste. If you do not take my hand, Carol, I will be forced to embrace you once more.”
“Oh, all right.” Reluctantly, Carol reached toward the ghost and felt cold fingers clasp hers.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lady Augusta was smiling again.
“Where are we going?” Carol asked.
“We have two visits to make tonight. The first is to the servants’ hall.”
“ Why?” Carol tried to pull her hand away, but Lady Augusta held fast to her.
“You have a habit of asking the wrong questions,” Lady Augusta told her. “Just come with me and I will explain as we go along.”
In an instant they were standing in the warm, bright kitchen of Marlowe House.
“How did you do that?” Carol demanded. “We didn’t come down the stairs. We didn’t even walk out of my bedroom door.”
“Delightful, isn’t it? I do so enjoy the transportation part of my assignment.”
Carol scarcely heard her companion. She was staring at Nell, Hettie, and Mrs. Marks, who were all bustling about the kitchen.
“Nell, what are you doing?” asked Carol, putting out a hand to catch the maid’s attention. Nell walked right by her as if Carol wasn’t there.
“She cannot see or hear you,”. said Lady Augusta.
“Why not? What kind of trick is this?” Carol cried.
“You persist in thinking that I am playing mere tricks on you,” responded Lady Augusta with exaggerated patience, “when in fact, what is occurring is of an importance far beyond your comprehension. No person whom we will encounter on this night will be aware of your presence. Until your heart is finally and permanently changed, you cannot be allowed to alter the present-day course of events. What you see before you is this year’s Christmas Day at Marlowe House. Your duty is to observe, to think upon what you see, and to consider ways in which you might improve the lives of others.”
Carol said nothing to this. She watched as the female servants prepared and set out a holiday meal under the direction of Mrs. Marks. A small roasted turkey with chestnut stuffing, a sauceboat of gravy, bowls of whipped potatoes, cranberry sauce, and several dishes of vegetables were all carried into the servants’ dining room, where the table was laid with a spotless white cloth and gilt-edged plates.
“They are using my mother’s best china,” Lady Augusta noted. “Well, why not? No one will know unless they break a plate, and Mrs. Marks will see to it that all is replaced where it should be when they have finished.”
“Where is Crampton?” Carol asked.
“In the wine cellar,” came Lady Augusta’s reply just as the butler appeared with two dusty bottles.
“They are stealing your wine for their dinner?” Carol exclaimed.
“By household tradition, the servants are allowed a bottle or two for their own use on Christmas,” said Lady Augusta, “and I have always left it up to Crampton to choose the wine. It appears that he is still honest. While those particular bottles are adequate for this feast, he has not brought up the best my cellar has to offer. He must know the servants would not appreciate it, while my nephew will.”
Carol wasn’t really paying attention to what Lady Augusta was saying. She was much more interested in what the servants were doing. As the women took off their aprons, she realized that they were all three dressed in what must be their best clothes. Crampton, who was occupied in opening one of the wine bottles, was also properly attired in jacket and necktie.
“This is the Christmas meal to which you were invited,” Lady Augusta explained, “and which you refused to attend.”
“I would eat it now if I could,” said Carol. Her invisibility did not prevent her from smelling the delicious aromas coming from the turkey or the vegetables and the freshly baked rolls. From past experience she knew what a good cook Mrs. Marks was, and her mouth was watering. “I’m hungry. I never did eat lunch today and now, thanks to you, I have missed my second dinner in a row.”
“You would be hungrier still if you waited for this meal,” Lady Augusta noted, “since it will not take place until Christmas Day. The scenes you will see tonight are of the present holiday season, unmodified by any act of yours. Listen, now.”
“Ain’t the flowers pretty?” asked Hettie, taking her place at the festive table. “They didn’t wilt after all. It were so nice of Miss Simmons to think of us.”
“It was, indeed,” said Crampton, speaking right over Mrs. Marks’s derisive snort.
“Miss Simmons has a real kind heart,” Nell remarked. She was sitting across from Hettie, with Crampton at the head of the table and Mrs. Marks at the foot.
“Miss Simmons is a snob,” said Mrs. Marks.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Marks,” cried Hettie, apparently greatly upset by this point of view. “She ain’t no snob. She always speaks to me.”
“Be quiet, Hettie,” commanded Mrs. Marks. “What could an ignorant girl like you possibly know about Miss Simmons?”
“I knows that I likes her,” Hettie responded.
“Let us have no dissension on this special evening,” said Crampton. “Enjoy your meal, Hettie, and be grateful for it.”
As soon as Crampton finished carving the turkey, the vegetables, stuffing, gravy, and rolls were passed, and everyone at the table fell silent while the dinner was eaten.
“Mrs. Marks,” said Crampton after a while, leaning back in his chair and glancing around at the empty plates, “allow me to congratulate you upon a superlative meal.”
“There’s still dessert to come,” said Mrs. Marks, rising.
“And brandy to go with it.” Crampton rose, too, disappearing into the pantry, while Mrs. Marks headed for the kitchen and Hettie and Nell began to clear the table.
“He’s got my best brandy!” cried Lady Augusta as Crampton returned bearing a silver tray with a bottle and brandy glasses on it.
“What difference can that make to you when you didn’t care about the wine?” asked Carol, who had been observing the meal with a watering mouth. “Can’t I just have a tiny piece of turkey? I’m starving.”
“You don’t have time to eat,” responded Lady Augusta. “You are supposed to be learning valuable lessons from what you see before you. Have you noticed Hettie?”
“What about her?” Carol tore her eyes from contemplation of the turkey carcass and the remains of the whipped potatoes to glance toward the scullery maid. “Hettie looks fine to me. She’s the same as she always looks.”
“Exactly,” said Lady Augusta. “The same as always. Do you know why Hettie does not change?”
“I suppose you intend to tell me,” said Carol, her thoughts still on food.
“Hettie will never be more than a scullery maid because she cannot read or write.”
“That’s nonsense. Everyone in England has to go to school.”
“There will always be children who do not learn what they should,” said Lady Augusta. “Hettie was not slow enough to come to the notice of the school authorities, who are always overworked and understaffed, and who do not have the time to look for problems that are not obvious. Hettie can write her name and do simple arithmetic, but she has never mastered the art of reading fluently, and certainly she could not compose a letter or fill out a complicated employment form. She got through school by pretending she can read and by memorizing a good portion of her schoolwork, but once her schooling was over, she was qualified for little but a life as a scullery maid.”
“What a shame,” Carol said. “Hettie is a nice girl, and I don’t think she’s stupid.”
“Not stupid at all,” agreed Lady Augusta. “Were she fully literate, Hettie might go far in life. But she will never have the chance to discover just how far unless—”
“Unless what?” Carol asked.
“Hettie needs a teacher,” said Lady Augusta. “Someone she respects might set her on the right path.”
“If you’re thinking that I ought to teach her to read,” Carol said, “forget it. I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
“You could begin by offering encouragement. Or by discovering where there are schools that teach adults to read. You could volunteer your services to such a school.”
“Volunteer? Look, maybe you aren’t aware of my financial situation. I need to find a paying job for myself, never mind Hettie.”
“What kind of job do you think Hettie will be able to find?” asked Lady Augusta.
“Hettie is not my responsibility.” But even as she said the words Carol experienced a pang of guilt.
“Observe,” said Lady Augusta, waving a hand toward the scene in the kitchen.
Mrs. Marks had just removed a large steamed pudding from its basin and was placing it on a silver platter that could only have come from Lady Augusta’s supply of family plate. The cook stuck a sprig of holly into the top of the pudding, then doused the whole dessert with brandy and set it alight.
“I’m ready,” Mrs. Marks announced.
With Mrs. Marks leading the way with the flaming pudding, Nell following with a bowl of hard sauce, and Hettie bringing up the rear carrying a plate of decorated sugar cookies, the three women made a procession into the dining room, where Crampton awaited them.
“Well,” said Crampton, beaming his approval, “this might be a Christmas scene right out of a Dickens novel. Mrs. Marks, you have provided a suitable finale for our years of employment here at Marlowe House.”
As if these words were a signal, Hettie burst into tears. Nell, after casting a worried glance in Mrs. Marks’s direction, all but tossed the bowl of hard sauce onto the table and took the cookie plate out of Hettie’s hands before she could drop the cookies onto the floor.
“Hettie,” said Crampton, “you ought not to cry on such a joyous occasion.”
“It ain’t joyous,” Hettie wailed. “It’s the last holiday we’ll all be together. Next year Nell and me’ll be in the poorhouse.”
“There is no poorhouse anymore,” said Mrs. Marks in her sternest voice. “Good heavens, girl, haven’t you got any sense at all?”
“I’ll be out on the streets,” Hettie cried. “I’ll be homeless. I’ll never find another job. I ain’t fit for nothin’ but kitchen work. You told me so yourself, Mrs. Marks, and it’s true. It’s true!”
“Hush now, Hettie.” Nell put her arms around the weeping girl. “I’ll take care of you. I said I would. We’ll find some kind of work to do. Well start looking on Tuesday, soon as Boxing Day’s over.”
“Why is Hettie so upset?” Carol asked Lady Augusta.
“For the same reason you were upset yesterday,” Lady Augusta responded, “and for the reasons I explained to you earlier. Hettie knows how slim her chances of finding employment are. How is a semiliterate young woman to find work in today’s harsh world? Nor will she have a home after Marlowe House is closed up and sold when my estate is settled.”
“There are social services available for people like her,” Carol said.
“Perhaps. I am inclined to think that what Hettie needs is a caring mentor rather than an overburdened social worker.”
“Nell said she would help.”
“Nell’s situation is not much more hopeful than Hettie’s.” Lady Augusta paused for a moment, gazing at the scene of the two young servants in a tear-drenched embrace while Crampton and Mrs. Marks looked on as if uncertain what they ought to do or say.
“I know Crampton and Mrs. Marks have worked for your family since the end of World War II, so they at least must be pretty well fixed,” Carol said. She was trying unsuccessfully to shake a growing sensation of uneasiness and guilt generated by the scene she was witnessing. She told herself that none of the misfortune she saw before her was her fault, nor could she be expected to do anything about it.
“I regret to say that neither my father nor I ever paid our servants adequately,” Lady Augusta replied to Carol’s comment. “Both Crampton and Mrs. Marks remained with me out of a combination of loyalty and inertia, and perhaps also because they did not wish to be separated from each other. Now, they are left with whatever they have been able to save out of their wages and the small bequests I made to them in my will.”
“But they are all four decent, hardworking people,” Carol cried. “Can you foresee their futures? What will happen to them?”
“Crampton and Mrs. Marks will pool their resources and retire together,” Lady Augusta replied. “Nell and Hettie will try to find work, but there are almost no more establishments like mine left these days, where a girl could begin as a scullery maid and slowly work her way up to cook or housekeeper or lady’s maid. Hettie and Nell will have to move into another line of work.”
“But if Hettie can’t read well,” Carol protested, “then she’s right. She won’t find a good job.”
“There is always one kind of work available to a desperate young woman. An ancient profession. Neither Hettie nor Nell is homely. With some paint on their faces and some bright, tight-fitting clothes—”
“No!” Carol cried. “Don’t even suggest such a thing, not with all the terrible diseases people can be infected with these days. Prostitution would be an almost certain death sentence for them. Even if they should survive, what they would have to do each day and night would still break their hearts and their spirits. They don’t deserve that.”
“If no one will help them, they will have little choice.” Lady Augusta shrugged her velvet-clad shoulders. The movement sent a spray of pure, icy glitter dancing from her diamond earrings across the faces and the worn clothing of the four people in the servants’ dining room. Only Carol saw that supernatural light or heard Lady Augusta’s next, seemingly careless words. “With workers in the social system too busy to spare more than a thought for two badly educated, jobless girls, what can you expect?”
“You are trying to make me feel personally guilty about something that isn’t my fault,” Carol said, angrily fighting against her own emotions. Deliberately, she turned her back on the scene in the servants’ dining room, as though not seeing it could block it out of her mind. “If Hettie’s situation—and Nell’s—is anyone’s fault, then it is yours, Lady Augusta. You are the one who took advantage of them, who didn’t pay them properly, or make any provision for their futures so they would have a little money to fall back on when you died.”
“Very true,” said Lady Augusta, her nod of agreement sending another shower of light into the room. “I will never cease to regret my miserly actions. I know now, as I did not know during life, that we are all responsible for the helpless among us. Unfortunately, I am no longer in a position to assist Hettie and Nell. You, however, might do something, if you care enough to make an effort in their behalf.”
“How do you expect me to do anything for them when I’m no better off than they are?” Carol shouted at her. “Take me out of here. I’ve seen enough.”
“Not quite,” said Lady Augusta. “There is more. Turn around, Carol. Watch and listen.”
While Lady Augusta and Carol argued unseen and unheard, Nell had succeeded in calming Hettie and had coaxed her to sit down at the table again. Crampton stood in his place at the head of the table, pouring an amber liquid into four glasses from the bottle that Lady Augusta claimed held her best brandy. These glasses Crampton passed around to the women.
“I would like to offer a toast or two,” Crampton said, lifting his glass. “First, to the blessed holiday.”
“To the holiday,” echoed Mrs. Marks, drinking with him. The two younger women sipped at the brandy as if they didn’t much care for it.
“And now,” said Crampton, “I ask you to drink to the memory of our late employer. To Lady Augusta.”
“To Lady Augusta.” Mrs. Marks swallowed another mouthful of brandy and Crampton refilled her glass and his own.
“Lady Augusta,” cried Nell.
“Lady Augusta.” Hettie tipped back her glass and drank.
“Nicely done,” said Lady Augusta, smiling her approval of the toast.
“Mindful of the improbability that we will all be together for much longer,” Crampton went on, “I would now like to offer a toast to the entire household staff. We have worked well together, I think, and I can honestly say that I will miss those of our little group who plan to move on to other positions.”
“Very well put, Mr. Crampton,” said Mrs. Marks. “A sentiment suitable to the holiday. A toast to the four of us.” Thus bidden, they all drank.
“I want to make a toast, too.” Nell was on her feet, glass in hand. “We can’t forget Miss Simmons. To her health!”
“To Miss Simmons,” said Hettie, bravely trying not to start crying again.
“Custom dictates that the butler should propose the toasts,” Mrs. Marks declared, sending a disapproving glare toward each of the young women.
“In the name of the holiday,” remarked Crampton, reaching for the brandy bottle again, “I will drink to Miss Simmons’s good health. This is not a time for pettiness, Mrs. Marks. You and I both know that the grand old days of this house are long gone. Let us participate in our last Christmas here with generosity in our hearts.” With that, he refilled glasses all around, and everyone drank to Carol’s health.
“It is time to go,” Lady Augusta said to Carol. “We have another visit to make tonight, and the hour grows late.”
“What will happen to them?” Carol whispered, her eyes and her thoughts still lingering on Nell and Hettie. “What could I possibly do to help them when I need help myself?”
“Unless the shadows I foresee are modified by kind and loving hearts,” Lady Augusta told her, “the future prospects for all four of my former servants are unpleasant. However, the time for action is not yet. First, there is more for us to see.”
Before Carol could offer any excuse to stay where she was, the scene around her changed. With Lady Augusta by her side, she was propelled out of Marlowe House and into the streets of London by the same remarkable process that earlier had moved her in the blink of an eye from her bedroom to the kitchen. Though it had been nighttime while she was observing the servants’ Christmas dinner, Carol saw that it was now bright daylight.
“It is the afternoon of this year’s Christmas Eve,” Lady Augusta explained, as if she could read Carol’s mind. “As in the servants’ quarters at Marlowe House, so here, no one we pass will be able to see or hear us. You cannot be permitted to change the present until you yourself are changed.’
“What if I don’t want to change?” asked Carol with grim resistance.
“That is but the last vestige of your old self speaking,” said Lady Augusta. “You are too intelligent not to change once you know all you are meant to know.”
“I wish you would stop talking in riddles,” Carol muttered. “I already know more than I want to know, and everything I’ve learned has only made me more unhappy than I was before you came back from the dead.”
“I have not come back,” remarked her companion. “The Lady Augusta whom you once knew is dead for all eternity.”
“So is Nicholas.” The words slipped out before Carol could stop herself.
“Nicholas,” Lady Augusta repeated, her eyebrows raised. “Carol, you disappoint me. Surely your experience with me has taught you that the spirit never dies.”
“You just said yourself that you are dead. So is Nicholas dead.” Carol shook her head in disgust at what appeared to her to be a senseless conversation. “Lady Augusta, you are speaking in riddles again.”
“No, I am telling you a simple truth, which you are still too blind, and too impatient, to comprehend. Ah, here we are.”
They had reached an old church located not far from Marlowe House.
“I know this place,” Carol said. “It’s Saint Fiacre’s Church. The rector read your funeral service.”
“The Reverend Mr. Lucius Kincaid,” said Lady Augusta. “He is a fine man.”
“Really? I didn’t notice.” Carol grimaced, remembering the rector and his fashionably dressed wife. “He accosted me at your funeral and tried to get a donation out of me.”
“And of course you refused.” Lady Augusta sounded amused. “So would I have refused, once upon a time. I know better now.”
As she had previously observed, while she was with Lady Augusta, Carol was able to pass through walls or move along streets in the same way as her companion and with no effort on her own part. Thus they moved through Saint Fiacre’s Church, which was solidly built of ancient stones, and out the back to a tiny garden dedicated to the patron saint. In one corner of the garden stood a statue of Saint Fiacre, leaning on his shovel while he contemplated the winter-bare flower beds at his feet.
“Poor old St. Fiacre.” Carol paused to look more closely at the statue. “After so many centuries, who can be sure what crisis in your life sent you off into the wilderness to live as a hermit? I have done something similar myself, so I had no right to criticize you the other day. I am sorry for what I said about you.”
“I am glad to hear you speak kindly of him,” said Lady Augusta. Then she added more sharply, “However, your regrets cannot help St. Fiacre now. You would be wiser to save your concern for the living.”
An instant later Carol and Lady Augusta passed through the stone garden wall and into a brightly lit, though shabby and unappealing, hall. This appeared to be a building of great age, for the plaster of the high ceiling was smoke-blackened and the walls were cracked and in need of a fresh coat of paint.
A series of metal tables was set up in the middle of this hall. Paper cloths decorated with Christmas motifs covered the tables and cheap metal folding chairs were drawn up to them. A few red and green bells were hung in the doorways, the ceiling being too high for such decorations. An artificial tree stood to one side, its ornaments of macaroni sprinkled with multicolored sparkles, painted clay angels with lopsided wings, and bright chains made of construction paper loops all attesting to the loving industry of Sunday school students.
“Where are we?” Carol asked. “I smell turkey again.”
“This is the enterprise for which the Reverend Mr. Kincaid solicited your donation,” Lady Augusta responded. “While you refused him, others did respond. Six turkeys were given just yesterday. At the Christmas season the public responds most generously, though these good people need help all year long.”
“Help for what? Is that a buffet table set up at the back of the hall? Is this a party? If so, where are the guests?”
“They will be invited to enter in a few minutes,” said Lady Augusta. “Welcome to Saint Fiacre’s Bountiful Board, Carol.”
“It’s a soup kitchen,” Carol said, finally understanding. “The people who run this place are feeding the poor.”
She now became aware of a great bustle of activity in a room off the back of the hall. By the smells coming from it, Carol deduced that this was the kitchen. Out of this kitchen now filed a little band of people, some of whom Carol recognized. The similarity to the servants’ procession and feast at Marlowe House was unmistakable, for the same spirit of Christmas cheerfulness in the face of harsh economic reality permeated both events.
As Carol and Lady Augusta watched, the Reverend Mr. Kincaid and his wife appeared, each carrying a cheap aluminum tray heaped with slices of roast turkey. Two elderly ladies hurried into the hall with pans of stuffing. More volunteers brought in the rest of the meal. Even three small Kincaids—distinguishable by their close resemblance to their blond, bhie-eyed mother—had been pressed into service, each child bringing some portion of the feast to the buffet table.
Three or four men who were present tended to the lighting of alcohol burners under the trays of food, which were intended to keep the food hot. The men then took up positions in front of the table as if they were standing guard to prevent the expected rush of hungry folk from upsetting the table and setting the hall on fire. The elderly women stationed themselves behind the platters and bowls of food, serving spoons in hand.
“Now,” said the Reverend Mr. Kincaid to his helpers, “I do believe we are ready to open the doors.”
“Thank heaven it is warm enough for people to wait outside without freezing,” remarked Mrs. Kincaid. “There is always so much confusion until everyone has a plate.”
Mrs. Kincaid was for this occasion clad in a bright red ankle-length skirt and an equally bright green turtleneck sweater. Each of the little Kincaids wore a red or a green garment, and all were freshly scrubbed and neatly brushed. The Reverend Mr. Kincaid regarded his family with justifiable pleasure.
“How grateful I am to have all of you by my side,” he said to his wife, who responded by laughing and kissing his cheek. The elderly ladies who were waiting to dish up the meal smiled and nodded their approval at this sign of domestic bliss.
“Mrs. Kincaid sure doesn’t worry about spending money for clothing,” Carol noted to Lady Augusta in a sour tone. “I’ll bet she could make a sizeable donation to this soup kitchen if she weren’t so concerned about fashion.”
“You know nothing at all about the Kincaids’ situation, Carol.” Lady Augusta sounded remarkably sad, considering the joyful atmosphere in the hall. “Clergymen do not earn large salaries, especially those who accept assignments to parishes once fashionable but now fallen upon hard times. In Lucius Kincaid’s case, he turns more than a tithe back to the parish so that he can carry out his charitable work.
“Abigail Kincaid buys almost all of her clothing, and her children’s clothing, from rummage sales. She cleans and patches and irons every piece of clothing herself. What she cannot buy in that way, she sews. If she and her children appear to be dressed in the latest style, perhaps it is because she has inherited her fashion sense from ancestors who were once almost as poor as she is today. It may also be that she imagines a good appearance on her part will cheer her hardworking husband and thus bolster his self-esteem and happiness. You might be interested in knowing more about Mrs. Kincaid.”
“She does sound like an admirable woman,” Carol admitted. “From what you have told me, it seems I judged her too hastily.”
“And misjudged her husband, too.” Lady Augusta broke off, watching the activity in the hall. The front doors of the building were now thrown open and a line of people surged forward toward the buffet table. Carol stared in amazement as a steady stream of men, women, and children, black, white, and East Indian, were served plates of food and shown to places at the tables in the middle of the hall. There was no pushing or shoving. Everyone was polite, but the sheer mass of hungry people did create the confusion Mrs. Kincaid had mentioned.
“I had no idea there were so many poor people in this area of London,” Carol remarked. “A lot of them are old, and some are just teenagers or little children.”
“The poor we have always with us,” noted Lady Augusta.
“That’s hardly an original thought,” Carol said, adding, “Tell me more about Mrs. Kincaid. From what I’ve seen while we have been standing here, it looks to me as though she is the one who organizes these meals.”
“You are correct,” said Lady Augusta. “Her husband is the spiritual force behind their efforts to feed the poor, but it is Abigail Penelope Kincaid’s practical mind that arranges and directs these affairs so well that they never degenerate into chaos.”
“Penelope?” Carol stared at Mrs. Kincaid, noticing familiar features she had missed in her first scrutiny of the woman.
“I wondered how long it would take you to see the family resemblance,” said Lady Augusta. “Like you, Mrs. Kincaid is a descendant of Lady Penelope Hyde, and thus is your distant cousin. Very distant, I must admit. But then, all the world is related, if you care to trace ancestors back far enough.”
“I never would have guessed if you hadn’t told me. I wasn’t really seeing her that first time we met. I was too involved with my own feelings to pay attention to her or to hear what she was saying to me.” Carol bit her lip, watching Abigail Kincaid take the plate of an old woman at the buffet table and offer the woman her arm to lean upon as, with a smile and a cheerful word, she helped the woman to find a seat at one of the dining tables.
“A generous heart would seem to be a family trait,” Lady Augusta noted.
“Not on my side of the family,’ Carol said. “I was deliberately rude to her, and to her husband.”
“You can rectify your previous behavior,” Lady Augusta said. “An apology coupled with an offer of help will surely be accepted.”
“I could donate some time, at least until I find another job here in London, or decide whether I am going to return to New York or not. Why don’t you make me visible right now, so I can talk to her?”
“As I have explained to you, Carol, you may not take any action that would change the present until all of your lessons are learned.”
Carol did not have a chance to make any objection, for the scene around her changed again and she discovered that she and Lady Augusta were back inside Saint Fiacre’s Church. The candles were all lit, dozens of them in old brass candlesticks that were a legacy from the days when the church could boast of wealthy patrons who could afford to make such gifts in memory of dead relatives, or to commemorate a recovery from serious illness, or in thanksgiving for the birth of a long-awaited child.
By the golden candlelight Carol could see that the church held a finely carved walnut reredos screen behind the altar, and there was a matching pulpit. Both of these furnishings gleamed from a recent polishing by the ladies of the altar guild, and the rest of the church was swept and neat. The linen on both altar and credence table was spotless and crisply ironed. But the poverty of the parish was evident in the few evergreen branches that decorated the altar in place of flowers, and in two places along the nave there were boards covering the holes where stained-glass windows once had been set. Carol could feel in the damp coldness the absence of an adequate heating system.
“This must have been a lovely little church once,” she said.
“And could be again,” added Lady Augusta. “All it needs is some decent restoration work.”
“Restoration takes money,” Carol replied. “These people don’t have any to spare, and if they did have extra cash they would probably use it to feed more of the hungry.”
Lady Augusta did not speak again, for the midnight service was about to begin. Mrs. Kincaid arrived with her sleepy children in tow and took her place in the second pew. The smallest of the children, who looked as if he would fall asleep as soon as he dared, curled up on the wooden seat next to his mother. She put a loving arm around his shoulders while his brother and sister found their places in the hymn book.
There were only six people in the choir, and three of them were drawn from among the poor folk who had eaten their holiday dinner in the hall a few hours earlier. Their choir robes were darned and patched here and there, but were freshly washed and ironed in honor of the occasion. After what Lady Augusta had told her about Abigail Kincaid’s industriousness, Carol suspected that this was her distant cousin’s doing.
All the members of St. Fiacre’s little choir sang out at the top of their voices as they marched into the church behind the youthful crucifer who carried an antique and ornate brass cross, and every one of them sang on key without the help of an organ. The three dozen or so souls who made up the congregation added their own volume to the old hymns until the sweet, joyful sounds rose to the very roof.
Lucius Kincaid’s sermon was brief. There was little, he told his listeners, that needed to be said beyond the beautiful prayer book service for that most blessed of nights. He read the Gospel in a deep and resonant voice, and said the prayers, and then he sent his little congregation home with his blessing. Afterward, Carol stood shivering in the dark and empty church.
“Lady Augusta?” Her companion was gone. Carol was alone.