Christmas Eve Day was Carol’s 27th birthday. She gave the fact only the briefest thought as she rose from her bed at an early hour. When she finished washing her face in the bathroom down the hall, she stared at herself in the mirror over the sink, expecting to see in her visage the marks of the great changes that had taken place in her. However, except for the faint hint of a smile lingering about her usually downturned lips, her face looked the same as it always did.
“After what I’ve just been through,” Carol said softly to herself, “I ought to be red-eyed from crying all night. But I slept better than I have for years, and I can’t see any outward signs of severe emotional conflict. Why not?”
It did not take much thought before she knew the answer to her question. Though they were real enough to her, the horrors of the future had not yet actually occurred, so they could not mark her. Nik was not yet born; thus, he had not died by order of Commander Drum. Nik, his sister, and his friends might never have to face the terrible deaths Carol had witnessed. She could make the difference for them.
“And I will,” Carol told her damp reflection. “I have the power to change the future. Lady Augusta said so, and I believe her. The only question is, exactly where to start.”
By the time she had applied her makeup and dressed, her plan of action was formulated. It was still early. Nell brought her breakfast on a tray every morning at 7:30, but today Carol did not wait to be served. She hastened below to the kitchen.
“Oh, miss,” cried Nell, catching sight of her, “I was just fixing your tray.”
“There’s no need for you to climb all those stairs,” Carol told her. “I will eat right here, at the kitchen table. Unless I’ll be in your way, Mrs. Marks? You look very busy.”
“Eat where you like,” said Mrs. Marks, somewhat ungraciously.
“Thank you, I will. I would like to talk to you, Mrs. Marks. And to you, too, Nell.”
“What about?” asked Mrs. Marks, slamming two pans of freshly baked bread down on the table.
“First,” said Carol, “if the invitation is still open, I would be very happy to join all of you for Christmas dinner tomorrow night.”
“I thought you had other plans.” Mrs. Marks was turning the hot loaves out of the baking pans onto racks to cool, but she paused to send a sharp glance in Carol’s direction.
“Well, my original plans have—um—they’ve fallen through,” Carol said. “Besides, it might be nice if the entire staff ate a meal together on what will almost certainly be our last Christmas at Marlowe House.”
“Oh, yes,” said Nell. “Oh, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Mrs. Marks?”
“If you want to eat with us,” Mrs. Marks said to Carol, “then you are welcome. It is Christmas, after all. But I still don’t understand why you want to.”
“She just told you why,” Nell cried.
“No, she didn’t.” Mrs. Marks frowned at Carol, who suddenly grinned at her. Mrs. Marks stared, too taken aback to say another word.
Carol had just recalled an old adage. If you want someone to be your friend, don’t do a favor for him. Instead, let him do a favor for you.
“Mrs. Marks, I have a great favor to ask of you,” Carol announced.
“Now we come to it,” said Mrs. Marks with another of her hard looks.
“Yes, indeed.” Carol was still smiling. “Do you know St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board?’
“Everyone in this part of London knows about St. Fiacre’s,” said Mrs. Marks. “The Reverend Mr. Kincaid and his wife do a lot of good there.”
“I agree.” Carol extended her smile to include not only Mrs. Marks and Nell, but also Crampton and Hettie, who had come into the kitchen while she spoke and who both looked very surprised to see her sitting there at the table. “I think we should help Lucius Kincaid and his wife in their efforts to feed the poor. I am sure they could use more food, and extra hands to help serve this evening’s meal would also be welcome.”
“Help them?” Mrs. Marks looked doubtful. “Well, I don’t know. I have so much work to do in preparation for our own Christmas dinner tomorrow.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Nell. “Only half an hour ago, you were bragging to me how you had preparations so well in hand that there would be nothing left for you to do from breakfast time today until late tomorrow morning. And just think of all the cookies you’ve been baking for days. Who you intended them for I’ll never know. The five of us can’t eat all of them before they go stale. We might as well donate them to St. Fiacre’s, where they’ll be appreciated.” When Nell paused for breath, Crampton cleared his throat.
“If I may make an additional suggestion,” said Crampton, “I believe canned goods are always acceptable at such establishments. If they are not used for tonight’s meal, they can be easily saved to be served at some future time. Hunger is not confined to the holiday season, and St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board serves meals all the year round. Now, the cellars below this kitchen are filled with food that will be useless if Marlowe House is soon to be closed. The executors of Lady Augusta’s estate will be forced to find a means of disposing of all of those cans. We could carry some of them to St. Fiacre’s today.”
“I don’t think Lady Augusta would approve of your idea, Crampton,” said Mrs. Marks in a stern tone of voice.
“Believe me,” Carol told her, “the Lady Augusta I know would wholeheartedly endorse Crampton’s wonderful idea.”
“Do you really think so?” Mrs. Marks appeared to be puzzled by Carol’s assured tone, but after a moment she nodded, accepting the notion that Lady Augusta might have been more generous than her cook had ever realized. “Well, in that case, seeing that this is the holiday season, I could make another batch of bread and send it to the church.”
“Thank you.” Carol paused, then asked, “If I buy a turkey to contribute to the cause, could you have it cooked in time to take it to the church hall late this afternoon? I’m not certain what time the dinner is to be served. And, I confess, I wouldn’t know how to roast a bird on my own.”
“Here now, I’m not sure about all of this,” Mrs. Marks began, puzzled again and a bit upset by so many unexpected suggestions.
“The doors of the Bountiful Board open at five o’clock this afternoon,” Hettie stated. “Oh, Mrs. Marks, let’s do it. I know Lady Augusta was never one for charity work, but Mr. Kincaid has always been nice to me. I go to St. Fiacre’s every Sunday,” she confided to Carol.
“I suppose we could do our bit to help out, just this once, since it is Christmas Eve.” Mrs. Marks looked at the small, plain roll on Carol’s plate and at the cup of tea Nell was pouring for her. “That’s not much of a breakfast. I could cook an egg or two for you, if you’d like.”
“I would love it.” Carol sat back in her chair, well satisfied with the response of Lady Augusta’s staff to the first part of her plan to change the future. “Two eggs, scrambled, if you please. And thank you very much, Mrs. Marks.”
Carol spent the morning in a burst of last-minute Christmas shopping. The first order of business was the turkey. She bought the biggest, plumpest bird she could find and carried it back to Marlowe House herself.
“I wanted to be sure you would have enough time to cook it,” she said to Mrs. Marks, “so I didn’t wait for the delivery service.”
“Hah. At least you know how to shop for a crowd.” Mrs. Marks regarded the turkey with satisfaction. “That ought to feed a fair number of people. I’ll fire up the big oven, the one we used to use for great roasts in the days when Lady Augusta’s father was alive and still entertaining. Now, where are you going? I thought you were going to help us.” This last exclamation was addressed to Carol’s back.
“I never learned to cook,” said Carol, one hand on the door knob. “I leave that to experts like you, Mrs. Marks. I have more shopping to do. I will be back in time to assist in carrying everything to the church.” She did not add that she was feeling increasingly nervous about this charitable project of hers, or that she was comforted to know the servants would be with her so she would not have to meet the Kincaids on her own.
“While you are gone,” Crampton put in before Carol could leave the kitchen, “I shall call the Reverend Mr. Kincaid and inform him of our intentions. He should know of them in advance, for it may be that with our additions to his menu, he will be able to invite more hungry folk than he originally planned to feed.”
“That’s a good idea, Crampton. I’m glad you thought of it.” She was more relieved by his suggestion than Crampton could possibly guess. It was cowardly of her to let him smooth the way for her with the Kincaids, but Carol was afraid the rector and his wife might not be glad to see her after her rudeness to them on Monday afternoon. The episode after Lady Augusta’s funeral seemed years ago to Carol, but to the Kincaids it was only a few days in the past. They could not have forgotten it.
With a silent prayer that she would be forgiven her earlier sharp words and permitted to do what she could to help the good people of St. Fiacre’s, Carol let herself out the door before Mrs. Marks could think of any reason why she ought to stay and help with the cooking. Now, with the turkey in the cook’s capable hands, Carol could begin the rest of her errands. She headed toward Bond Street first and then to Regents’ Street.
Within a very short time she bought a bottle of toilet water and a jar of hand cream in the same scent for Nell, whose hands were often red and rough from housework and who Carol suspected often longed for feminine pleasures she could not afford. For Crampton, Carol purchased a book about the historic houses of England. Next she selected a pretty blouse for Mrs. Marks. Finding a gift for Hettie was a bit of a problem, since the scullery maid did not seem to have any interests beyond her work at Marlowe House and Carol knew from the vision of the servants’ holiday dinner shown to her by Lady Augusta that Hettie could not read very well. A book would not suit but, recalling Hettie’s remark that she went to St. Fiacre’s every Sunday, Carol at last settled on a felt hat decorated with a sprightly red feather.
It had been years since she had bought a gift for anyone, and in those earlier, youthful days Christmas shopping had always seemed like an unpleasant chore. It was not so today. Every present she bought represented in some way a gift of love, and the cheerful “Merry Christmas” that she regularly heard during those hours was music to her newly blossoming spirit, a sound almost as joyous as the Christmas carols being played in the stores she visited.
“This is fun,” Carol said to herself with a sense of wonder. “I never guessed that shopping for presents to give to someone else could make me feel so wonderfully happy.” She knew it would be even more fun if the man she loved could be with her, but she refused to think about her own longings. She was engaged in a project to ensure that same man a long and happy life. Knowing that she was succeeding would be enough for her.
Her arms filled with packages, she paused outside a confectioner’s shop. She thought Lady Penelope Hyde would have appreciated the gaily decorated and cleverly arranged boxes of chocolates and other sweets in the window. The Pen who lived in the far future loved sweets. Taking a chance that Abigail Penelope Kincaid also had a sweet tooth, Carol went into the store and selected a large box of assorted candies.
“A merry Christmas to you/’ the shopkeeper called after her as she left.
“Merry Christmas,” Carol replied, giving him a bright and totally sincere smile.
She stood outside the shop for a moment, trying to balance all her parcels and realizing that she could not possibly carry anything more. Hailing a taxi, she returned to Marlowe House a second time, to sneak in by the front door and carry everything up to her bedroom, there to hide the packages in her closet in case Nell should come into the room for some reason. Having deposited the gifts on the closet floor, she straightened to look at her wardrobe. It was not large, and all of her clothes were in shades of brown, black, or gray.
“Not very cheerful,” Carol noted. “I will have to do something about that. And I still need decorations for St. Fiacre’s hall and for the church. Do I have enough money left?”
After scraping together every pound note and coin she could find, she went out again. This time she bought a packet of pretty but inexpensive wrapping paper and some ribbon, then purchased a green silk scarf and a bright lipstick for herself, before ending her Christmas shopping at the florist’s shop where she had purchased roses and narcissus just a few days previously. There she selected an assortment of red and white flowers and holiday greenery for the altar at St. Fiacre’s Church, a table arrangement for the buffet, and three wreaths with red bows on them.
“We can deliver these,” said the shopkeeper when Carol explained why she wanted so many decorations. “I am closing the shop in half an hour, and I will be happy to take everything to St. Fiacre’s myself. In fact, I’m helping to serve the dinner tonight.”
“Then I’ll see you there,” Carol said.
“If you are working with Mrs. Kincaid, you certainly will.” The young woman smiled at her. “Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, merry Christmas!” Carol cried. “Until later, then.”
Back at Marlowe House, the kitchen was filled with the good smell of roasting turkey and sage and thyme. Hettie was packing cookies into large tins for transportation to St. Fiacre’s, Nell was wrapping loaves of still-warm bread, Crampton was sharpening a carving knife, and a slightly frazzled-looking Mrs. Marks was bustling about giving orders to everyone.
“I don’t know how we will get that turkey to the hall,” Mrs. Marks fussed.
“I shall carry it,” Crampton told her, “and I shall carve it, too. You have done a lovely job on it, Mrs. Marks. The bird will provide the perfect centerpiece to the main course.”
“They already have two turkeys, you know,” said Hettie, closing the last tin of cookies. “There are people in the kitchen over at St. Fiacre’s carvin’ them right now.”
“Nonetheless, / shall carve this one where everyone can see it,” Crampton responded. “The sight of an entire bird beautifully roasted to a perfect shade of brown will add to the festive air of the meal.”
“Exactly right, Crampton,” said Mrs. Marks.
“I suggest that you ladies retire for twenty minutes or so, in order to prepare yourselves, and then we will leave,” Crampton said.
Smiling to herself at the way in which the formerly standoffish servants were warming to the plans she had instigated, Carol hurried to her room to hide the last batch of parcels in her closet. She pulled out a simple gray wool dress and changed into it, wrapping the new green scarf around her throat and fastening it with a gold pin in the shape of a leaf. It had once belonged to her grandmother and for sentimental reasons, Carol had refused to part with it when she gave up all other traces of past luxury.
The group from Marlowe House made a merry parade through the streets to St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board, where the rector greeted them at the door. Carol quickly discovered that she need not have worried over the way she would be received. Lucius Kincaid gave her the same friendly smile he bestowed on the others with her. Carol also found that his almost Victorian manner of speech no longer irritated her. Rather, knowing now the kind of person he really was, she thought his speech was charming.
“Good heavens,” Lucius Kincaid said, surveying the food they carried. “I knew you were coming to help us, but I never expected all of this. My friends, you have made Christmas immeasurably happier for many souls tonight.
“And please do notice,” he added, waving an arm to indicate the decorated front door and the interior of the hall, “that an anonymous donor has sent us wreaths and flowers. It’s quite remarkable, really, to find someone so sensitive and so generous. Few people remember that even those who live in the direst poverty can appreciate beauty when it is shown to them. Of course, we need food to nourish their bodies, but we ought not to forget to feed their spirits as well.”
“Amen to that.” The florist with whom Carol had dealt earlier in the day had spoken from behind Lucius Kincaid’s back, and she winked at Carol.
When the Reverend Mr. Kincaid moved away to show Crampton where to put down the turkey, Carol stepped closer to the florist. “Thank you for your discretion on the subject of the decorations,” Carol murmured. Looking around, she added, “But I never ordered this many flowers. There is a bouquet on every table, and there are wreaths on all the walls and even on the door into the kitchen.”
“Isn’t it amazing how much pleasure can be derived from giving a gift to someone who has no idea who sent it?” said the florist, laughing. “I wish I had discovered that simple fact of life before today.”
“Are you saying that you donated the extra bouquets?” Carol asked, wondering how she was going to pay for this largesse if the additional flowers were not a donation.
“You inspired me,” the florist answered. “My shop will be closed for the next two days. Anything left there this afternoon will surely be dead by Monday morning, so I thought, why not bring all the flowers here, for these people to enjoy? They are just leftovers, you know, but Lucius Kincaid was so happy to have them that I felt guilty for not doing this long ago. I think from now on I will send all of my unsold flowers here to St Fiacre’s. I’m sure Mr. Kincaid will know who would appreciate them. Perhaps I could donate bouquets for the altar each Sunday, too, if it’s agreeable to him.”
“I’m sure it will be. That’s very kind of you.”
“The idea was yours, Miss Simmons, and it was a good one. Will you excuse me? I am supposed to be helping in the kitchen.”
With moist eyes Carol looked after the young woman, astonished to discover how quickly her own modest gesture had affected someone else’s behavior. Surely, this was what Lady Augusta meant when she said that the smallest change in the present could make a major difference in the future. True, it was only a few flowers, yet the gesture might lighten someone’s heart enough to produce a correspondingly kind chain reaction in a more important area.
Then Carol spied Abigail Penelope Kincaid, in a bright red skirt and green turtleneck sweater, just as she had been dressed in Carol’s vision of this night. Clutching the box of candy she had brought along, Carol hurried forward to intercept the rector’s wife.
“Merry Christmas,” Carol said. Not knowing exactly what to say next, and still more than a bit embarrassed over her unkindness at their last meeting, she thrust the decorated box into Mrs. Kincaid’s hands. “This is for you. Please be just a little selfish and keep it for yourself. I want you to have it.”
“You and the others from Marlowe House have already been so generous,” Mrs. Kincaid said. “Lucius and I were quite surprised. Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that when we met the other day, you weren’t at all interested in what we are trying to do here.”
“I wasn’t myself the other day,” Carol said. “Not my true self, the self I am supposed to be. I’m not making much sense, am I?” She ended on a nervous little laugh.
“Perhaps more sense than you think.” Abigail Penelope Kincaid gave her a shrewd look. “You are different now. If you were to ask my opinion, I would say that you have had a revelation of some kind.”
“You would be very close to the mark,” Carol told her. “Perhaps one day, when we know each other better, I can tell you exactly what has happened to me since Monday and Lady Augusta’s funeral. You and your husband are among the few people who might believe me.”
“Of course we will believe you. And I have a feeling that we are going to become very good friends.” Abigail Kincaid linked her arm through Carol’s. “Now, come and help us serve this wonderful dinner that you and so many other generous people have helped to provide.”
Carol went with the rector’s wife and did her best to be useful. After serving up vegetables at the buffet table, she helped to clear off the empty dishes and then set out the donated pies, cakes, and cookies. Meanwhile, Mrs. Marks’s cooking skills and Crampton’s carving ability were much admired. Mrs. Marks’s cookies in particular were widely praised, and every last one of them was eaten, a fact which pleased the cook enormously.
Someone from Marlowe House—Carol never discovered who it was, but she suspected Nell— had whispered the secret of her birthday to Lucius Kincaid. At the end of the main course, and just before dessert was served, the Reverend Mr. Kincaid rapped a spoon against a glass and called for attention.
“We all know that this is a blessed night, the holiest night of all the year,” he said. “For one of our contributors here with us at this feast, December twenty-fourth also has a personal significance. It is her birthday. To the well-named Miss Carol Noelle Simmons, we wish the happiest of birthdays, and a joyous year ahead.”
The company did not sing “Happy Birthday.” Instead, they offered three cheers to her. As “Hip, hip, hurrah!” rang through the hall, Carol stood between Lucius and Abigail Kincaid and tried her best not to cry.
“Speech, speech,” called a voice from the crowd.
“They will expect you to say something,” Abigail Kincaid whispered to Carol.
“Thank you, and a merry Christmas to every one of you,” Carol responded to her audience. “This is easily the best birthday I have ever had. But there is a far more important Person whose birthday we will celebrate in just a few hours. I hope to see all of you in church.”
“I second that particular sentiment,” declared Lucius Kincaid, to general laughter. “Miss Simmons, why don’t you cut the largest cake? Symbolically, of course, since it is not, strictly speaking, a birthday cake.”
“It is the very best kind of cake,” Carol told him, “because it was made and carried here in a spirit of love and generosity.”
Following the serving of desserts, Carol, Mrs. Marks, the florist, and Abigail Kincaid took charge of pouring coffee or tea for the grownups and milk for the youngsters. Later, when the meal was over and most of the guests had left, there were dishes to wash and put away, while Hettie and Nell helped to sweep the floor and a few male volunteers folded up and stored the chairs and tables. Everyone worked with a cheerful will, but all the same, they just barely got to the church in time.
Carol had been standing for hours, and her feet were aching, she was tired—and she had rarely in her life been so contented or felt so completely possessed by the Christmas spirit. Nor was she alone in being affected by the evening and by the welcome they had received at St. Fiacre’s.
“Hettie isn’t the only one who comes here,” Mrs. Marks confided to Carol in a remarkably friendly way. “I try to sneak out for early service each Sunday.”
“It’s a lovely old church,” Carol whispered back, “but it needs a lot of work.”
“There’s little money in this parish,” said Mrs. Marks. “And what there is goes to meals like the one you saw tonight. At one time I hoped that Lady Augusta would leave something to St. Fiacre’s in her will, but I should have known better.”
“Perhaps it’s not too late,” Carol murmured. She watched Abigail Kincaid and her three little children arrive and take their seats, a signal that the service was about to begin.
In the church Carol could see evidence of her own good intentions, for the flowers and greens she had ordered for the altar now filled the lovely old vases—and there were extra vases of white chrysanthemums, which she had not ordered, sitting on either side of the pulpit. She glanced toward the florist, now standing with a young man who had joined her during the course of the evening. The florist looked at Carol and smiled, letting Carol know that the white flowers were her contribution.
“There is hope,” Carol said aloud.
“Perhaps there is,” answered Mrs. Marks. “Every Christmas I believe that anew.”
Then they stopped talking because the choir began to march in and the strains of “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” filled the old church.
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning before the contingent from Marlowe House returned home.
“A most rewarding evening,” remarked Crampton, setting down the turkey platter and the carving set. “I am glad we participated.”
“So am I,” said Mrs. Marks. “Thank you for suggesting it, Miss Simmons.”
“Yes,” said Nell. “And the church service was beautiful, too.”
Hettie’s only comment was a long, noisy yawn.
Wishing each other some rather sleepy variations of “Merry Christmas,” they separated then, but Carol stayed up until well after two o’clock, wrapping the Christmas presents she had bought earlier in the day.
She slept long and well that night, entertaining no ghostly visitors and not plagued by visions of Christmases in the past, present, or future. When she wakened at mid-morning it was to the sweet scent of paperwhite narcissus. The red bowl of bulbs she had purchased three days earlier and set on the table beside her bed now presented flowers in full bloom, and the fragrance filled her chamber.
“No matter where I may be during the rest of my life,” Carol said, touching a petal with one gentle finger, “the smell of narcissus will always remind me of this incredible Christmas. Fresh, pure flowers blooming in the dead of winter to symbolize a new beginning. In fact, a whole new life.”
She swung her feet out of bed and hastened to dress, eager to meet whatever possibilities this special day might bring to her. She pulled on a beige skirt and matching sweater and slid her feet into low-heeled beige pumps. For a bit of cheerful color she-added the green silk scarf, once again fastening it at her throat with her grandmother’s pin.
“We all got up so late,” Nell whispered to Carol when she finally reached the kitchen, “that Mrs. Marks has decided to serve the Christmas feast in early afternoon, so she can skip making lunch. She says we can be satisfied with just tea later, instead of a regular dinner.”
“From what I have seen of her preparations for today’s big meal, a cup of tea will probably be all any of us will be able to swallow by nightfall,” Carol responded. Raising her voice, she added, “Mrs. Marks, can I help you in some way?”
“You can set the table,” came the prompt answer. “Crampton will show you where everything is. Make certain you do it right.” Hearing this admonition, Carol and Nell grinned at each other, smothering laughter.
Except for the addition of a small Christmas tree decorating the sideboard—a joint contribution from Nell and Hettie—the holiday meal that followed shortly after noontime appeared to be just as Carol had seen it when Lady Augusta showed it to her in the second of her remarkable nights with that ghostly apparition. However, there was a definite change in the spirits of those who gathered in the servants’ dining room.
“After last night I do feel much more in the spirit of the holiday,” Mrs. Marks declared. “This meal reminds me of the Christmas dinners my dear mother used to make when I was a child.”
“Indeed,” said Crampton. “This has been a most memorable Christmas. I no longer feel quite so useless as I once did when contemplating the retirement soon to be forced upon me. I had begun to believe that I would be put out to pasture, so to speak. I thought there was no place for a man of my years in today’s busy world. But last night the Reverend Mr. Kincaid asked if I would be interested in overseeing the production of meals at St. Fiacre’s Bountiful Board. He says the meals have become so popular that he and his wife no longer have time to do the work involved and still keep up with parish affairs and their many other duties.”
“Crampton,” exclaimed Carol, “your experience as a butler should make you ideally suited to that job.”
“I told Mr. Kincaid I would seriously consider his offer,” Crampton responded. “However, since for lack of funds it must be a volunteer position rather than a paid one, I fear I cannot afford to accept it. My pension is too small to allow me to continue to live in London. It is a pity, for I would like to be of some use to my fellow man.” He ended on a sigh.
“Perhaps something can be done to enable you to take the job,” Carol murmured.
“I do not think so. But it is enormously cheering to discover that my services could still be of use despite my advancing age. Now, let us not dwell upon the uncertain future,” Crampton urged. “Let us instead enjoy this Christmas to the fullest. Allow me to propose a toast to the five of us who, most unexpectedly during the last few days, have, I believe, become friends.”
Crampton poured out the brandy—Lady Augusta’s finest stock, just as in Carol’s vision of this scene—and they drank the toast to themselves.
“And to Lady Augusta,” said Nell, lifting her glass a second time. When Mrs. Marks snorted her disapproval of the suggestion, exactly as Carol expected her to do, it was Carol who interceded.
“I have only recently begun to appreciate what a fascinating woman Lady Augusta was,” Carol said. “I never troubled myself to learn about her early personal life or to discover why she was so difficult and so miserly. I think now that she had a wounded heart and hid her pain beneath a shell of nastiness. Perhaps she wished for someone who would love her in spite of the unpleasant front she presented.”
“If anyone had tried,” Mrs. Marks stated bluntly, “Lady Augusta would have pushed that person away.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Carol said. “But we aren’t here to analyze her. Let us just drink to Lady Augusta’s memory and wish her spirit well, wherever she may be tonight.”
“Certainly,” said Crampton, refilling glasses all around. “In the spirit of Christmas, let us drink to Lady Augusta.”
With my very best brandy.
Carol could have sworn she heard the echo of a ghostly voice that no one else in the servants’ dining room discerned.
With the brandy glasses still half full and a fresh pot of tea steeping, Carol brought out the presents she had purchased the day before and gave them to her new friends.
“I never thought,” exclaimed Mrs. Marks, “I mean to say, we have never exchanged gifts before and I did not expect—Miss Simmons, I have nothing to give you in return, and I’m sure Nell and Hettie haven’t, either.”
“I don’t want anything in return,” Carol said. “I enjoyed choosing each gift. And the friendship you have given me is worth more than anything that comes in a package.”
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Marks tried to wipe her eyes without anyone noticing. “What a Christmas this has been. What a Christmas!”
“It ain’t over yet,” noted Hettie, who, upon opening the box from Carol, had immediately donned her smart new hat with the scarlet feather on it. “Mr. Kincaid says Christmas lasts till Twelfth Night.”
“He’s right about that,” Carol told her, thinking of Lady Augusta’s claim that she had been given until Twelfth Night to change Carol’s character.
“We shall make the most of the joyous season,” declared Crampton. “More brandy, anyone?”
“I do believe just a small drop more would be in order,” murmured Mrs. Marks.
“Who could we toast next?” asked Nell, holding out her glass to Crampton.
“Who needs a toast?” Hettie giggled. “Drink up. Drink up.”
“Now, now,” cautioned Crampton. “Moderation at all times, if you please.”
With amusement and genuine fondness Carol watched these new friends of hers. She still sorely missed both Nicholas and Nik, and she knew she always would. But she was not sorry she loved them, and she found that her emotional anguish had diminished somewhat as she tried to make the holiday a happy one for others. It scarcely mattered to her now what her own personal future might bring. She would continue to do the work she had set for herself and pray that in doing it she would improve the future for those she loved. Perhaps, some day, Lady Augusta would find a way to let her know if she was succeeding.
To Carol’s surprise, the dignified Crampton now produced a supply of Christmas crackers, those paper-wrapped party favors so beloved of the English for their holiday celebrations. The cardboard tubes were covered with red and green tissue paper and decorated with gilt. When a long strip of paper at one ruffled end was pulled, a loud pop could be heard, after which it was possible to extract tiny treasures from within—and a funny paper hat.
“We must all put them on,” declared Hettie, who, after imbibing a bit too readily during the toasts, could not seem to stop giggling. “0h, Mrs. Marks, yours is a crown.”
“How very appropriate,” said Nell, upon which the two younger women fell into fits of laughter. Unabashed, Mrs. Marks did place her crown upon her gray hair.
“I note that I am a dunce,” said Carol, unfurling a bright blue tissue-paper cap with a long point that stood straight up when she donned it. “Open yours, Crampton, and let us see what you are to be.”
“Did you hear something?” asked Crampton, holding up one hand. “Hush, please, and let me listen. I thought I heard someone at the front door.”
Into their startled silence fell the loud noise of the seldom-used door knocker.
“Who could that be so late on Christmas Day?” asked Mrs. Marks.
“There is only one way to find out.” Straightening his jacket and smoothing his hair as he went, Crampton left the servants’ dining room and headed for the steps to the upper level of the house.
“Well, I’m sure I wasn’t expecting guests,” said Mrs. Marks. “Were you expecting anyone, Miss Simmons?”
Carol did not answer, but only shook her head because she was listening intently. She could hear voices from the entrance hall above. Crampton and another person were talking together. The second voice sounded oddly familiar, though muffled as it was by the intervening walls, she could not place it exactly. Automatically, without thinking about what she was doing, Carol put up her hand and removed the blue paper dunce’s cap. Then, intrigued by the continuing sound of male voices, she left the servants’ dining room and went into the kitchen, intending to go up to the front hall to discover who was there. Just as she put a foot on the bottom step Crampton came through the door at the top. Behind him loomed a taller figure.
“Crampton?” said Carol. “Is anything wrong? Who is that with you?”
“There is nothing wrong,” Crampton informed her. “It is only that Mr. Nicholas Montfort has arrived somewhat earlier than expected.” Crampton moved down a step, making room for the person behind him, who advanced to the upper landing, where Carol could see him more clearly.
He was tall and rather slender, although she could not doubt that beneath his well-cut suit there were hard muscles. His hair was black and straight and his eyes were green. That strong, thrusting jaw, that long slash of nose— it was, and yet it was not. . .
Carol grabbed for the banister, praying she would not faint.
“Good evening,” said Nicholas Montfort, looking straight at her with no sign of recognition. But then, why should he recognize her? He had never seen her before in his life.
“Oh, my God,” Carol gasped. “Lady Augusta, why didn’t you warn me about this?”