Aunt Dimity's Christmas (16 page)

“Judging by the expression on your face, she must have been the bearer of glad tidings,” Willis, Sr., observed.

“The gladdest,” I said. “But it's a long story, and Julian looks as though he could do with a cup of tea—”

“Not burdock root, I trust,” interrupted Willis, Sr., his patrician nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Earl Grey?” I offered.

“Splendid.” Willis, Sr., cocked an ear toward the baby monitor. The twins were moving about in their cribs, which meant that naptime was over. “Father Bright,” said Willis, Sr., turning to the priest, “would you care to help me with my grandsons?”

Julian's eyes met mine, then turned toward Willis, Sr. “I'd be delighted.”

While the men went up to the nursery, I set up the twins' playpen in the kitchen and pulled out a pair of breadsticks for them to gum, then put the kettle on and piled angel cookies on a plate.

The boys preferred playing to eating after naptime, and Willis, Sr., would be content to sip tea and nibble a cookie, but I suspected that Julian would welcome a change of pace from Saint Benedict's “simple, nourishing meals.” With that thought in mind, I made up a selection of finger sandwiches, warmed the chicken soup, and put out a loaf of crusty homemade bread and a pot of sweet butter.

Since the dining room was chockablock with unused Christmas decorations, I set the kitchen table, and when everything was ready, called the men into the kitchen. Rob accepted confinement in the playpen with his usual placidity, but Will, fascinated by Julian's goatee, required an extra five minutes in the priest's arms before he would consent to his imprisonment.

A look of rapture came to Julian's face when he caught the soup's rich aroma, so I filled a bowl for him and pushed the finger sandwiches his way. I had the satisfaction of
watching him go through three bowls of soup, two-thirds of the sandwiches, and half the loaf of bread while I told the tale of Kit Smith's stay at the now defunct Heather-moor Asylum.

“After he closed down Heathermoor,” I concluded, “he turned up in Great Gransden, where he saved Blackthorne Farm. Then it was on to Oxford—”

“—where he saved my life.” Julian shook his head, bemused. “I've heard it said that angels walk among us. Perhaps one lies in the Radcliffe Infirmary.”

“Skellingthorpe,” Willis, Sr., said thoughtfully. “Did you say that the Heathermoor Asylum was located at Skellingthorpe? In Lincolnshire?”

“That's right,” I replied. “Skellingthorpe's a sort of suburb of Lincoln now. Apparently, Kit stayed at the Wayfarers' Refuge in Lincoln before he checked himself into the asylum. Why? Does Skellingthorpe mean something to you?”

“Possibly. But I must first check my facts.” Willis, Sr., excused himself and left the kitchen.

Julian reached for an angel cookie. “I've been meaning to tell you,” he said, “that these confections of yours are heavenly. You could make a fortune if you ever decided to sell them.”

I blushed with pleasure, but gave credit where credit was due. “My father invented the recipe.”

Julian finished the cookie in two bites, then brushed the crumbs from his fingers. “Will you be seeing your parents over Christmas?”

“No.” I got up to clear the table, dreading the awkward pause that always followed my next words. “They're both dead. My mom died a few years ago and my father died when I was very young.”

“And you're carrying on the family tradition.” Julian brought his soup bowl to me at the sink. “I must say that it's a delicious one.”

I glanced up at him gratefully. The subject of death was, more often than not, a guaranteed conversation-stopper, but Julian had defused the awkward moment with grace and a touch of humor. On top of that, he hadn't scolded me for dragging him out to the cottage for no apparent reason. Perhaps, I thought, Kit wasn't the only angel walking among us.

I started to take the soup bowl from him, but Julian kept hold of it.

“Lori,” he said, “what's troubling you?”

“Nothing,” I assured him. “I'm fine.”

Julian eyed me doubtfully. “You didn't sound fine when you rang me.”

I ducked my head. “Sorry about that. I guess I was just anxious to hear from Miss Kingsley.”

“Is that all?” Julian asked.

“What else would it be?” I pulled the soup bowl from him and put it in the sink, then stood staring down at the soapy water. How could I tell Julian what was troubling me when I wasn't sure myself?

“Lori,” Julian began, but he fell silent at the sound of Willis, Sr.'s voice.

“I thought so,” called Willis, Sr. “I knew Skellingthorpe sounded familiar.” He entered the kitchen brandishing the book I'd borrowed from Luke Boswell.

“Is that what you've been reading?” I asked, wiping my hands on a towel.

“I found it on your bedside table,” Willis, Sr., informed me. “It is a general history of Bomber Command,” he explained to Julian. “I believe it contains information pertinent to our discussion of Mr. Smith.”

Julian and I stood over Willis, Sr., as he opened the book to a map labeled
Bomber Command: Group Headquarters and Main Airfields, February 1944
. The black dots denoting bomber bases stretched all the way from Durham in the north to Hertfordshire in the south. There was even a base at Lossiemouth, on the northeast coast of Scotland.

“You see?” said Willis, Sr., pointing to the map. “There was a bomber base at Skellingthorpe, one of a cluster of bases located in Lincolnshire.” He tapped the page with the tip of his index finger. “If Mr. Smith were planning to tour airfields in Lincolnshire, he would do well to select Lincoln as a jumping-off point.”

Julian nodded. “Just as he chose Blackthorne Farm as a jumping-off point for the Cambridgeshire airfields. Is that what you're saying?”

Willis, Sr., leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers over his pin-striped waistcoat. “I am merely suggesting that the scope of your search may be too narrow. Thanks to Mrs. Somerville and Miss Kingsley, we can now trace Mr. Smith's movements to two parts of the country that contain large numbers of abandoned airfields—Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire. If he was, as you posit, praying for the men listed on the scroll, I would suggest that he had as his goal the entire network of bomber bases.”

“But the scroll contains thousands of names.” I gestured toward the map. “And there must be over a hundred bomber bases.”

“Those are simply the main airfields,” Willis, Sr., reminded me. “The map does not account for subsidiary fields.”

“But if Kit traveled to each one of them …” I sat abruptly, feeling slightly dazed. “He must have been on the road for
years
.”

“It would explain his physical deterioration,” said Willis, Sr.

“I agree,” said Julian. “An itinerant life tends to age one prematurely.”

“But
why
?” I demanded. “Why did he live an itinerant life? Anne Somerville said that he was well educated. Why didn't he get a job and buy a car and drive from base to base? Why did he make it so hard on himself?”

“One may as well ask why he risked his life to come to the cottage,” said Willis, Sr. “The answers, I fear, are not self-evident. Perhaps, when Mr. Smith emerges from his coma, he will provide them.”

“I can't wait that long.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “I'm going to call the refuge in Lincoln right now. Or maybe we should just drive up there, Julian. It's not that far, is it? And it'd be worth the trip if someone at the refuge knows—” I flinched as Willis, Sr., snapped the book shut with a bang.

“Lori.” Willis, Sr., stood and faced me. “Your curiosity about Mr. Smith is understandable, but you cannot go to Lincoln.”

I stared at him, puzzled. “Why not?”

Willis, Sr., spoke patiently, as if to a small child. “Today is December twentieth. Four days from now, thirty guests will be descending on the cottage, expecting to find festive food as well as festive decor. Unless you are content to serve them rewarmed chicken soup and welcome them to a Christmas party without a Christmas tree, I do not think you will have time to travel to Lincoln.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Your father-in-law's quite right, Lori,” Julian chimed in. “I'll ring the Wayfarers' Refuge. If need be, I'll drive to Lincoln. But you must stay here, where you're needed.
Mr. Willis,” he added, taking up the book on Bomber Command, “would you mind if I borrowed this?”

“Not at all,” said Willis, Sr. “I believe you will find the chapter on the Pathfinder force particularly interesting. Are you familiar with the Pathfinders? …”

While the two men talked, I tried to reconcile myself to the thought of staying at home. I couldn't argue with Willis, Sr.'s logic—it would take me at least three days to prepare for the Christmas Eve party—but something in me balked at letting Julian carry on without me. Still, what choice did I have? I was, as Julian had pointed out, needed at home.

“You'll let me know the minute you find out anything,” I said to the priest.

“The very second.” Julian cocked an ear toward the hallway as the clock in the study chimed the hour. “Good heavens, is that the time? I'm afraid I must be off.”

“And I must prepare for tonight's rehearsal,” said Willis, Sr. “It is our last before our performance on Christmas Eve.”

“Are you sure you're feeling well enough?” I asked him.

“After hearing your account of the vicar's sermon,” said Willis, Sr., “I would not miss tonight's rehearsal for the world. If you will excuse me, Father Bright …”

Julian watched Willis, Sr., go, then turned to say goodbye to the boys. As I came to stand beside him, Will lifted his arms to the priest and chirped, “Papa.”

Julian laughed heartily. “That is, without doubt, the finest compliment I've ever been paid.”

“I'll get your jacket,” I said, and hurried down the hall, blushing crimson.

Julian was still grinning as he slipped into his leather jacket, but as he turned to say good-bye, his face grew
serious. He looked down at me in silence for a moment, then reached out to cup my chin in his hand. “You're sure you're all right?”

“Uh-huh,” I managed, as the warmth from his hand spread downward.

“I still have your cell phone,” he said. “If you need me, night or day …” He dropped his hand and opened the front door. “Ring me.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I stood in the doorway until Saint Christopher was out of sight, then returned to the kitchen and looked pointedly at Will. “That's
Father
Bright,” I told him, brushing my knuckles lightly across my chin. “Not
Papa
.”

I
was in bed and asleep before Willis, Sr., returned from the rehearsal, so I didn't hear about it until he joined me in the nursery early the next morning. Rob was fully dressed and playing in his crib while I sat on the floor, dressing his brother.

“What a beautiful morning!” Willis, Sr., exclaimed. He lifted Rob from the crib and waltzed him to the window. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful day?”

“Why do I have a beautiful feeling that everything's going your way?” I pulled Will's pants up over his fresh diaper and reached for his socks. “The rehearsal went well, did it?”

Willis, Sr., kissed Rob's nose and beamed out at the world in general. “It could not have been more satisfactory. Mrs. Kitchen's costume no longer jingles, Mr. Farnham did not once topple from the stage, and Lady Eleanor's performance was flawless.”

No more sicking up
, I thought, chuckling softly.

“Yet it must be said,” Willis, Sr., continued, “that the
most pleasing aspect of the entire evening was Mrs. Bunting's transformation. Everyone spoke of it, but I believe Mr. Barlow put it best. ‘The vicar's sermon,' he said, ‘put a bit of snap in Lilian's stockings.”'

“William!” I protested, laughing.

A distant look came to Willis, Sr.'s gray eyes as he turned to face me. “I wish you could have seen her, Lori, ordering Mrs. Kitchen to remove the drapery rings from the hem of her costume. Mrs. Bunting was”—he struggled to find a word adequate to the situation—”
magnificent
.”

“No comments on your American accent?” I hazarded.

“None at all,” Willis, Sr., replied. “Mrs. Bunting is a most discerning woman and a brilliant director.” He sat on the window seat and shifted Rob to his lap. “A humanitarian as well.”

“She should be,” I said, twiddling Will's toes. “She's the vicar's wife.”

“It was in her capacity as director, however, that Mrs. Bunting made the unilateral decision to donate the play's proceeds to Saint Benedict's Hostel for Transient Men.”

I straightened. “How did she know about Saint Benedict's? I didn't tell her about it.”