Chapter Fifteen

“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,” said Scrooge. “But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change.”

~Charles Dickens

Early the next morning, Ben awoke to Mary’s voice, shrieking good news from the next room: “Look! Snow! George, come and see. It’s beautiful!”

Instead of rolling out of bed to join them at the window, Ben grunted and flipped onto his side. He covered his ear with a pillow. He respected that other people, like Mary, saw the beauty in snow. They admired the feathery drifts that lilted toward earth from a shapeless sky and the way it blanketed everything—lampposts and cobbled stones and tree branches—and transformed the earth into a bright-white, foreign, temporary land.

But most of Ben’s experience with snow had been unfavorable. He rated it anywhere from bothersome, as it wetted trouser legs and needed shoveling away from porches, to dangerous, causing car accidents that clogged hospital emergency rooms and bringing freezing temperatures that left the elderly in homes without heat.

Hours later, his opinion of snow was utterly validated as he lifted a lumber plank high above his head and caught an unexpected drift of snow from the plank smack in his face. He didn’t have time—or an extra hand—to wipe it away, so he shook his head with a grumble and carried on.

He and Fletcher, Joe, and Mac had spent the past three hours dismantling all the festival booths. They started early this morning, so that normal village traffic could resume as soon as possible. Ben had thought this meant that the Christmas festivities were well over but remembered that tonight, he had a front-row seat to watch George play Scrooge, and tomorrow night, Mary’s ladies’ choir would give a Christmas Eve concert to cap off the Dickens Festival.

Ben had just struggled to lug a section of Mrs. Tucker’s quilting booth into the van when Mac called his name. Out of breath, Ben pivoted to see him carrying something under his arm. “What’s this?”

Mac produced a box with a picture of tools on the outside.

“’Tisn’t wrapped. A sort of Christmas present,” Mac explained, handing it over. “Thought you could use your own set. Consider this your starter kit.”

Ben tilted the box to examine the picture of the kit’s contents—nails and screws and hammers and drill bits, even a leveler and portable sander.

“Mac, it’s too much. Really…”

Mac chuckled then squinted through the steady snowfall. “Son, you’ve clocked in nigh a hundred hours for free. This is the least I could do. You’re reliable. I can depend on you. And that counts for everything. You’ve more than earned it.”

Ben balanced the gift under one arm and extended his other hand in a hearty shake. “I’ll put this to good use.”

“I know ye will.”

“Hey, you two lazy bums! Back to work!” Fletcher approached them, smiling that generous American smile.

Glad for the distraction, Ben took the opportunity to slip away to the van and stash his early Christmas gift for later. The gesture touched him, and he realized that in the span of a fortnight, he’d grown closer to Mac MacDonald than he ever had his own father.

 

“Hold still, dear,” Mary ordered as she filled in the last corner of George’s eyelid with charcoal-gray liner.

“How much longer?” he mumbled.

“There.” She stepped back to assess her handiwork. “All finished. That will do, Ebenezer.”

George crinkled his thick fake eyebrows and attempted his best stern-scary face, making Mary giggle. “Yes, that will certainly do.”

“Twenty minutes ’til curtain!” someone called from the other side of the room. The cast and crew of the Scrooge production had set up shop inside the church hall. For the past hour, the hall had seen the hustle and bustle of makeup, costumes, and line rehearsing.

Mary could sense George’s nerves growing. She gripped his shoulders and looked at him squarely. “You will do fine,” she said. “More than fine. And if you forget a line, fake it.” She leaned in for a whisper. “Or just peek down at your hand.” Minutes ago, she’d caught him scribbling lines inside his palm.

“Agreed,” Ben said, joining them. “We have full confidence in you. And besides, you had a pair of great coaches.”

“I hope I can live up to it.”

“Anything I can do?” Ben offered.

“We can’t seem to find his hat,” Mary said, looking about.

“What does it look like?”

“Gray top hat, black rim.”

“No worries. I’ll find it,” George said, patting Mary’s arm. “I think I know where I might’ve left it. Be right back.” He climbed out of his chair to go hat hunting.

A minute later, above the brassy ruckus of overlapping voices finalizing important details, Mary heard a woman screeching, “Help! Please, someone! Help me!”

The volume of the entire room dropped to a hush in a split second as people identified the cry. In the corner, Caroline Lamb, a schoolteacher helping out with the costumes, crouched over her nine-year-old son’s limp body. Mary held her breath and watched in horror.

Immediately, a familiar figure rushed toward Caroline. Mary watched Ben, cool and methodical, crouch over James Lamb and ask the mother questions in a calm, low tone as he checked the boy’s vital signs. Ben’s hands knew exactly what to do.

Mary heard only parts of the frightened mother’s broken answers, “Allergy… peanuts… stopped breathing…”

Ben asked, “Do you have epinephrine?”

Caroline shook her head, tears streaming down. “I’d run out… we had an appointment next week, so I thought—”

“Where’s the doctor?” Ben shouted at the crowd.

George, who had returned with hat in hand, responded, “He’s out of town on holiday.”

Mary’s chest tightened as Ben asked, “Can you show me his office? Is it nearby?”

Mary and George nodded in sync, and Ben scooped the boy into his arms. A string of curious onlookers followed at a respectful distance as they hurried toward Dr. Andrews’s cottage. Fortunately, it was located only a half block from the church. Their hasty footsteps created new imprints in fresh snow. At the door, Mary remembered they had no way inside.

“Mrs. Cox has the key, I think.” Mary started to turn and find her.

“There isn’t time,” Ben said. He handed the limp boy gingerly over to George then slammed his foot against the door. On the third strike, the wood cracked and splintered as the lock gave way.

Ben ushered Caroline inside and relieved George of the boy. Mary and George followed behind, leaving the other villagers outdoors to fret.

Inside, Caroline led the way, past the reception area, through the back door, and into an exam room. Mary flicked on the light switch while Ben placed James on the table.

“Dr. Andrews keeps it here.” Caroline pointed to a glass cabinet then rushed back to her son. “It’s all right,” she whispered, stroking her son’s forehead with gentle fingers.

Ben tried the door on the cabinet—it didn’t budge. He wriggled out of his jacket and balled it up around his elbow. “Stand back,” he said then smashed the glass.

He found what he needed and approached the table.

With steady hands, he held the boy’s leg at the kneecap then pushed one end of the injector firmly against the boy’s thigh and held it there for several seconds. Mary could see the calm return to Caroline’s face, confirming that Ben was doing all the right things.

When he removed the device, he bent over and put his ear against the boy’s mouth. “He’s breathing.”

Caroline gasped her thanks, and Ben stepped back so she could be with her son, whose eyes had fluttered open.

“Mum?” he whispered. She could only sob her response as she rocked him.

Ben ran a hand through his hair, his gaze steady on the boy.

Mary moved toward him, her shoes crunching on broken glass, and said quietly, “That was incredible. You saved his life.”

Ben’s eyes remained on the boy, but Mary knew he’d heard. He stepped back over to the boy, checking his vital signs again. Caroline gave him the necessary space, and when he nodded his approval, she clasped both hands around one of Ben’s. “Thank you.”

By then, the whole of the village had been alerted, and Mary could hear voices buzzing in the reception area.

“George, would you go out and tell them it’s all right?” she asked. “I think Caroline needs some privacy.”

“Certainly.” He gave her arm a loving squeeze before he went.

Ben had stepped away from the boy again—this time, clear back to the corner of the opposite wall. Mary couldn’t tell if he was shaken from the incident or was simply giving room to mother and child.

She didn’t want to pry, but she had to know. Approaching him, she whispered, “How did you know what to do, Ben? You were so calm.”

He folded his arms and finally made eye contact. His hesitation told her that he was sifting through his mind for the right words. Finally, he said, “I’m a physician,” confirming her suspicion. “A surgeon.”

Mary nodded, hoping he would offer more details later.

Within the hour, the little boy was safe and sound in his own cottage, and Mrs. Pickering had cleared away the broken glass while Mac had fixed the busted lock. With all the excitement, some had assumed the play would surely be cancelled, but Mrs. Dalworth announced, “The play must go on.” And so it did.

Ironically, the earlier excitement had actually stolen away the nerves of the cast, and they performed flawlessly. George made a brilliant Scrooge, and Mary mouthed half the lines along with him from her seat in the audience, with Ben at her side. After the incident, Ben had insisted on going immediately back to the cottage, likely eager to avoid questions from the villagers. But Mary, knowing how much his support would mean to George, had convinced Ben to stay. She’d suggested that he leave during the curtain call so he could sneak away without being smothered by people’s curiosity.

She stole a moment during the Ghost of Christmas Past’s speech to glance at Ben—Dr. Ben. He seemed absorbed in the play, and as she saw him in a new light, she realized that the more she discovered about him, the less she actually knew.

 

“And how about my final line? That got quite a chuckle.” George beamed at the thought of it.

“Yes, dear,” Mary agreed. “One of the many highlights of the night. You were wonderful.” The sleigh bells jingled along with the mare’s steps as Mr. Elton steered the carriage around the outskirts of the village.

Mary had thought the sleigh ride would be a nice way to cap off an overly eventful night. She was in desperate need of peace and quiet. So, after the play and a quick round of drinks at the pub to celebrate the play’s success, Mary and George had headed for Mr. Elton’s horse-drawn carriage at the end of Storey Road.

“I still can’t believe what happened,” Mary mused, curling the thick blanket closer to her chin. The cold nearly made the ride unbearable. She wasn’t certain how long she could last…

“Quite an evening,” George agreed.

She attempted to lower her voice so Mr. Elton couldn’t hear. “Ben told me something tonight.”

“What?”

“Well, I got nosy and asked how he had the knowledge to save that boy’s life. And he told me he’s a surgeon! Can you believe that?”

George raised his eyebrows. “Well, that explains the way he handled things. I suspected some level of medical knowledge. But a surgeon…”

“Indeed. And it also explains the expensive watch,” Mary said.

“And a great many other things. Like how he would never accept money.”

“And how he speaks.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he always sounds educated. Well-refined. Not from around here.”

“Excuse me,” George protested. “I’m from around here.”

“Of course, dear.” She patted his arm. “You know what I mean. He wasn’t exactly the vagabond we first thought he was.”

“No, not at all.”

“I wonder why he hid it from us all this time,” Mary said, more to the night air than to George. “Is he ashamed of it? Of being a surgeon?”

“None of it makes any real sense.”

Mary recalled first seeing Ben motionless in the snow, and she watched his shoulders rise and fall with shallow breaths. Weeks later, several pieces of his life’s puzzle were still missing. She might not know the details of his past, but Mary was more convinced than ever that a life-altering event had happened to Ben the Surgeon to make him leave his life behind, creep away into a dark night, and end up on her cottage doorstep.

While Mary and George spent the rest of the ride in silence, an awful thought gripped Mary. What if tonight’s events scared Ben off? She might walk into Mistletoe Cottage to find him gone, for good.