Christmas dawned on a sunny, snowless morning and Lily sitting in a chair near Phil’s bed, patiently waiting for Phil to rouse herself.
Which she did, with a start, then realized she was alone and had been for the entirety of the night, alas.
Lily popped out of her chair. Her uniform had been starched so stiffly that it might be capable of standing up without her. Phil had meant to tell her and Preswick to be comfortable on Christmas. Though Preswick was probably more comfortable in his livery than in a cardigan and corduroys.
“Happy Christmas, madam.”
“Happy Christmas, Lily.”
“Shall I have Mr. Preswick order breakfast?”
“Yes, indeed. Though I took the liberty of requesting a special meal for three, you and Mr. Preswick and me, to be served in front of the tree.”
“But Mr.—”
“Yes, I know, but we have a busy day and you want to have plenty of time to open your presents, don’t you?”
“Oh yes—I mean, if you wish, my lady.” Lily bobbed a curtsey and nearly ran from the room.
Phil lay back in satisfaction. She had gone a bit overboard, and she couldn’t prevent one of the many words of advice her mother had drummed into her innocent head from asserting itself now. “Do not be too friendly with your servants. They will take advantage of your leniency.”
Phil drove the thought from her head. She had broken down finally and sent her family Christmas wishes in the form of a card, but that was all she was willing to endure from that corner of the world. From now on her familial feelings would not be reserved for those who were related by blood, but for those whose loyalties and caring had earned hers in return.
Shaking off her moment of retrospection, she climbed out of bed and donned the robe de chambre Lily had draped carefully over the dressing screen.
By the time she’d done up the buttons, Lily had returned to unbutton them again and dress her mistress in a tea gown of large red roses. It had been one of her rather spontaneous purchases and not altogether successful, but if Lily wanted red roses on their first Christmas together, then Phil would wear it festively.
Lily and Phil arrived at the parlor just as two waiters rolling laden trolleys came through the front door.
It was a mistake, of course. Lily and Preswick had already breakfasted. And Phil, for one, and she suspected Lily, was too excited about opening the presents to be hungry. As soon as coffee had been poured and the waiters departed, Phil gave up the notion of eating and said, “Presents first.”
And she got up to pass out her largesse.
There were ice skates, much to Lily’s dismay. And Preswick’s exclamation of “I haven’t skated in years,” said in such a way that Phil knew he would be out on the rink at the soonest available occasion. And she wondered if she had been wise to give a man of his years something so fated to result in injury.
There were scarves and mittens and handkerchiefs; chocolate-covered cherries and marzipan in the shape of fruit. Lily had monogrammed Phil a set of lace handkerchiefs; Preswick had found a copy of A Pocket Book of Poisons and Their Antidotes.
Soon the gifts were spread around, and only the two from their elusive Father Christmas remained to be open.
Preswick lifted the heavy, oddly shaped package and placed it before Lily.
She just stared.
“It says, ‘To Lily.’” He showed her the note card attached to the ribbon.
“But what is it?”
“Open it and let us see,” Phil said.
Lily tore into the paper covering. A huge metal tulip emerged.
“It’s a phonograph,” Lily said, in awe.
A round black disc was already positioned on the rotating table. Preswick gave the crank several impressive turns until sounds rose from the tulip, indistinguishable at first, then finally blossoming into a triumphant “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”
Lily and Phil both clapped their hands in appreciation.
“Now yours, Mr. Preswick,” Lily said, and handed him the one rectangular package left.
Phil knew before he opened it what it would be, and she marveled at how her elusive, infuriating mystery man had known the perfect gift for each of them.
The paper fell away to reveal The Return of Sherlock Holmes.
She had looked everywhere, and Mr. X had done the impossible. Maybe he wasn’t so infuriating after all.
“But what about you, madam?”
“Oh, I expect he’ll think of something,” Phil said. And if he couldn’t, she certainly would.
At noon they traveled down to Chambers Street and the Newsboys’ Lodging House, where the dining hall was filled with tables and one long serving table with more turkeys than Phil had ever seen.
At first the other volunteers were flummoxed to have a countess in their midst, which Phil had never intended to divulge if it hadn’t been for one enthusiastic reporter who recognized her and insisted on taking a photograph for the New York World Christmas edition.
All afternoon they fed hungry newsboys: tall ones, short ones, thin, and thinner ones. Boys who were almost men; boys who were hardly old enough to count their change. They all came empty-handed and left with plates piled high with turkey, ham, potatoes, yams, turnips, peas. All topped by a thick slice of bread that, more often than not, went directly into pockets to be savored later.
After an hour or so, Phil was surprised by a familiar face.
“Ah, Just a Friend, I was hoping to see you today to say happy Christmas.”
Just a Friend nodded brusquely, and said, “Best if you act like you don’t know me. ’Cause you don’t know who’s listening.”
“Of course, very smart idea.” She handed him a plate with a solemn expression. He took it and went off to join his compatriots.
But when Phil, Lily, and Preswick were leaving after the dinner had been opened to others in need, they were stopped by a hiss from the end of the street. Just a Friend motioned them to join him, then ducked into a narrow walkway between the buildings.
“I’d better go first,” Preswick said, and cut in front of Phil and Lily.
Lily reached for her ankle and hurried to catch up. Phil brought up the rear.
Just a Friend was waiting with another, taller boy. They were alone, so Phil muscled her way past her protective staff, frowning at Lily to put away her stiletto as she passed.
“What’s afoot?” she asked.
“This here’s Big Nose Mike.”
“How do you do?” Phil said.
Big Nose Mike scrunched up his face, which accentuated his namesake.
“He sells papers over round the docks where those guys took ya. He’s got somethin’ to say.”
Big Nose Mike didn’t look like he was about to say anything.
Just a Friend gave him a jab in the ribs.
“I seen him. The man what with the big car.”
“A very large man?” Phil coaxed.
“Yeah, in a big silver car.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Phil asked.
“Ain’t gonna squeal. They’d do me for sure.”
“Who?”
“Them.” He turned to Just a Friend. “Now gimme my nickel.”
Just a Friend reluctantly shoved his hand into his pants pocket.
“Wait a minute, my good man.” Preswick held out a dime. “Do you know what kind of car it was?”
“Gorn. It was one of them new ones everybody’s talking about. I seen pictures of it. The Silver Ghost.”
“A Rolls-Royce?”
Big Nose Mike nodded sagely. “Ain’t ever seen one in person before.”
“And you’re certain it was a Rolls?”
“Not likely to mistake it for a horse buggy. I’m gonna have me one of those one day.”
Just a Friend snorted. Big Nose Mike cuffed him. Preswick flipped them each a dime.
“Thank you very much,” Phil called over her shoulder as Preswick herded her and Lily out of the alley.
But the boys had already disappeared into the shadows. Phil couldn’t help but think of Mr. X and wonder if he’d learned his similar skill of vanishing on the streets of New York.
By eight o’clock the next morning, their bags were packed, Bev was scheduled to arrive soon, and Phil called Preswick and Lily in to receive their Boxing Day envelopes.
Lily took her envelope, looking confused. “But you gave us presents yesterday.”
“Mr. Preswick will explain,” Phil said, adding this tidbit of information to the little she knew of Lily’s past. Lily didn’t know about Boxing Day envelopes, so she’d not been a servant in England; well, that had been obvious from the start. And not a resident of any house in England that gave its servants a little something extra on the day after Christmas.
It didn’t matter.
The Lily of the present was her own person, so much so that Phil had stopped being concerned about her past. And had stopped prying. Until she’d visited Mrs. Toscana and had seen the picture of that lady as a young girl, and for a stabbing second, thought it looked like Lily.
It wasn’t, but still, the familiarity of the image lingered in her mind. And she had a fairly good notion as to whom it resembled. And why.
As soon as Preswick and Lily left to prepare for their day off—there had been mention of teaching Lily to ice skate in Central Park—Phil sat down to wait for Bev.
She checked the safe once more, but like the proverbial watched pot that would not boil, the notes had still not been returned. Hopefully, her mysterious comrade knew they would be gone today and would take their absence as an invitation to let himself in and return the notes before Marty discovered them gone.
Bev arrived an hour later, a Christmas miracle, since in the old days Bev would just now be getting home from a night on the town. Marty was bundled up under blankets and pillows in the back seat of Bev’s yellow Packard.
“She’s treating me like I’m an invalid,” Marty groused as Phil climbed into the front next to Bev, adjusted her goggles, and tied her motoring hat tightly around her chin.
“Enjoy it,” Phil called back.
“And they’re off,” Bev yelled delightedly, and swerved into the line of traffic.
Phil held her hat to her head and leaned back to enjoy the ride.
Bev drove east, then turned down Second Avenue, steering the Packard in and out of traffic with ease. Soon soon they were speeding over the bridge and through the other communities that had built up on the far side of the river.
The day was cold but sunny when they first started out, but grew cloudy the farther they got from the city. The houses and businesses gave way to trees and farmland, the fields brown and brittle as the earth hunkered down for the winter.
“You may get your snow yet,” Bev yelled over the roar of the engine and the wind whizzing past Phil’s ears—her frozen ears. She looked back to see how Marty was faring, but she was fast asleep.
Less than an hour later they were turning into the lane to Holly Farm.
“Is this it?” Marty asked, sitting up to look around.
“Holly Farm!” Bev announced, taking one hand off the wheel to flourish it in the crisp air.
Bev was in her element, Phil thought, as she took a moment to revel in the unexpected paths their lives had taken. Her flirtatious, trouble-loving, scandal-creating friend was now a savvy racehorse breeder and businesswoman.
And Phil? She wasn’t certain what she would call herself, but she was committed to doing it with all her energy.
Bev stopped in front of the cottage, and Tuttle came out to greet them just as Bev shut off the engine and the first snowflake fell.
“Wonderful,” Phil said.
“We better not get snowed in,” groused Marty, and let Tuttle help her out of the auto.
“It’s wonderful to be back,” Bev said, throwing off her goggles and hat and taking several deep exaggerated breaths. “I feel like I’ve been gone for ages.”
The stablemen must have heard the Packard’s engine, because a score of them came out of the barn and headed down the hill toward the house.
Bobby Mullins arrived ahead of the others. He’d lost several pounds since last spring. Farm living seemed to agree with him, though Phil knew for a fact he was still enjoying himself with the ladies of the theater and frequenting those watering holes that kept him in the know about the underground goings-on of Manhattan.
And Phil planned to have a lengthy discussion with him before the day was out.
He pulled the wool cap from his head, releasing untamable orange hair now showing just a few strands of gray. “Mrs. Reynolds; your lady-ness.” He nodded to Marty.
For the next few minutes, Bev flitted about, handing out envelopes of Christmas bonuses, ending with Bobby, whom she invited to come down for a drink once they got settled.
With many thanks in many accents, the staff hurried back to the stable and no doubt back to work.
Phil, Bev, and Marty followed Tuttle into the cottage.
It was warm and toasty inside, and someone, probably Tuttle and Mrs. O’Mallon, had filled the doorways with greenery. The sofa and chairs had been rearranged around a roaring fire, while crystal vases of winterberries sparkled in the light of the flames.
“Ah,” said Bev. “I feel like I’m home.”
Tuttle immediately appeared.
“Now, Tuttle. Just see that we have food and drink and be on your way. Have a nice day off. We’ll serve ourselves, and make do.”
“Thank you, madam. Luncheon has been set up on the dining table. Dinner is in the refrigerator. Mr. Mullins will send down his cook to heat it for you.”
“Thank you, Tuttle. Now go home and have fun.”
“Yes, madam.” Tuttle bowed and took himself off.
“Now, let’s get cozy.”
Bev insisted on Marty lying down on the sofa, and covered her with a knitted afghan.
“Bev, I appreciate your solicitation, but you’re going to drive me crazy. I’m perfectly fine.”
“You were mugged, for heaven’s sake, and half your face is black-and-blue. Less well-trained servants than mine would have gasped in shock to see you.”
Marty fought with her frown and gave up, laughing and holding her head in reaction. “Those so-and-so’s. What a way to go into the new year. Speaking of which…”
“I wondered how long it would take you to get back to your investigative reporting,” Bev said. “But first, you have to try my new and improved Christmas cocktail.”
Marty groaned.
“No, really, this one is quite good.”
“Okay, let’s get it over with.”
“Phil?” Bev said. “What are you doing?”
“Enjoying the view.” Phil had walked over to the window that overlooked the little pond that in summer was home to a family of ducks. The snow was floating down like fairy wings, and dusted the ground like powdered sugar. And Phil was surprised by the memory of skating on the lake at her father’s country seat. Racing her siblings to be the first on the ice. Falling and pulling each other over in the soft snow.
But that was in the past. Like Lily, Phil was a new person with a new future. Her past seemed like a dream in comparison.
She turned back to the room to see Bev holding a pitcher of red liquid. Phil steeled herself for Bev’s latest concoction.
Bev handed her a glass. Phil looked at it skeptically and took a small sip. Took another.
“Bev…” she began.
“Oh Lord, it’s good,” Marty said.
“Whew!” Bev took a healthy swallow, shook her shoulders, and said, “Now, that’s what I call a Christmas cocktail.”
They ate, drank, sang carols, and watched the snow come down.
“I just hope we don’t get snowed in. I have deadlines to catch up on,” Marty said, and snuggled beneath the blanket.
Phil had just been thinking how peaceful it was, but she had to admit she was a little impatient to find Tommy’s killer and enter the new year with a clean slate.
So, when they heard a knock on the door, followed by Bobby Mullins in the flesh, it didn’t take long for the conversation to turn from the snow and horses to the demise of Tommy Green.
As soon as he’d sat down with his tumbler of whiskey, Phil apprised him of Tommy Green’s murder.
“Lord, you’re at it again, your … lady … countess-ship.”
Marty’s mouth opened. Bev rolled her eyes.
Bobby had never managed to arrive at the proper form of address when talking to Phil. Bev said it was because he’d been hit in the head a few too many times, but Phil thought it gave him a certain charm, so she never corrected him.
“That reporter fella. Yeah, I heard. Thought he was mugged.”
“I was mugged,” Marty said. “Tommy was murdered.” She was sitting up now, and alert. Her newsman’s nose practically twitching for all of them to see.
“Murdered? You mean like on account of who he was, not on account of what was in his wallet?”
“He was found at the docks, but he was killed at the Theatre Unique on Fourteenth Street,” Phil said.
“Oh, tarnation, your lady-ness. How do you know that? No, don’t tell me. You have your ways, but I’ll be damned to know how.” He scratched his head, unleashing his freshly pomaded hair. “Does Becker know you know?”
“He might. I’m not sure. But he did see me talking to Mrs. Toscana at Tommy’s wake.”
Bobby slapped his forehead. “Sally Toscana? What are you doing talking to somebody like her? She’s connected in so many ways that even I can’t keep track.”
“Connected?”
“You know, like to Tammany and that crowd. And Becker and his thugs.” He stopped to rub his fingers and thumb together. “And some others I rather not name.”
“Like the Black Hand?”
Bobby drank off the rest of his whiskey. “Bunch of thugs. Best to stay away from Sally. She’s a fine one, but all the same, she’s got some powerful gentlemen making sure she don’t get out of line. ’Course, being a smart woman, Sally keeps their reins pretty tight in return.”
Bev refilled his glass.
“She might pay them protection money,” Phil said. “Not that it did her any good. Did you know her place was just bombed?”
“Naw, don’t tell me.”
“And since someone had kidnapped me the day before on my way home from the wake after meeting her…”
Bobby slapped his forehead.
Bev gasped.
Marty reached for something, probably her notebook, but it was out of reach.
“You were kidnapped?” Bev said. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“With everything else, I haven’t had time. And I didn’t want to alarm you. They were told to kill me, but I was rescued by some quick thinking on the part of Just a Friend.”
“Who?” Bev, Marty, and Bobby exclaimed in chorus.
“The newsboy on the corner.”
“That’s what he calls himself?” Bobby chuckled. “That kid is gonna go far in this world.”
“Wait? What about the kidnapping?” Bev said.
Phil held up a finger. Marty had found her bag and her notebook and was searching for a pen.
“No reporting,” Phil ordered, and turned back to Bobby. “I’m worried that there will be reprisals.”
“On the kid?” Bobby asked.
Phil nodded, and quickly told him how Just a Friend had clung to the back of the automobile, then gathered his troop of newsies to rescue her. “Maybe he could come be a stable boy?”
“He’s gonna go far, I tell ya. If he stays alive long enough. But I already offered him a place here for the winter. He won’t leave you, your … He’s got a mission, saving your—uh, ladiness. He’s…”
“True blue,” Phil finished.
“Like I said.”
“But who kidnapped you?” Bev demanded.
Phil told them about waking up in the warehouse, the Fireplug threatening her. “But he wasn’t alone, there was another man, he was the one who told his thugs to kill me.”
“Do you know who it was?” Bev asked, wide-eyed.
“I have an idea. Bobby, who drives a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost?”
This time Bobby’s hand covered his entire face.
Finally, he looked up. Chewed on his lip. Took another swallow of whiskey. “Don’t have too many of them in town.”
“I didn’t think there would be.”
“You sure it was a Silver Ghost?”
“I didn’t see it. They chloroformed me. But that’s what Big Nose Mike said, that’s his paper beat, but it’s best that we leave him out of this.”
“You sure do get around,” Bobby said, shaking his head. More hair sprang out from his head.
“Who is Big Nose Mike?” Bev interjected.
“You gotta watch yerself, your—ness. You really gotta watch yerself. In fact, maybe you oughta go on vacation for a while.”
“I have a hunch who it is already,” Phil told him. “I just need your confirmation.”
“Well, there’s only one I know in town. They ain’t even come out yet. It belongs to Samuel Trout. And you don’t want to cross him.” Bobby smacked his forehead. Phil was beginning to worry he might knock himself out. “You ought’na get involved with any of those folks. It ain’t like Trout to make a personal appearance when he’s having somebody iced. And I never known him to give nobody a second chance.”