Aunt Dimity's Christmas (19 page)

Julian put his shoulder to the door and pushed it shut. “It's pretty nasty out,” he said, wiping the sleet from his face. “I left Saint Christopher in Oxford, but we'll be fine on the tube. The station's—” He broke off suddenly and stepped toward me. “Lori, you're trembling.”

“Why don't we repair to the vicarage?” Father Ray-wood, too, was gazing worriedly at me. “It's across the—”

“
I can't
,” I cried, and fled blindly into the church.

“L
ori?” Julian's voice echoed in the incense-heavy air. “It's just me. The others have gone.”

I made no reply, but stood, shivering, before the statue of the Virgin, striking match after match, trying feverishly to light a candle.

“Here, let me.” Julian loomed beside me, a moving shadow in the gloom, and I stumbled back, leaving the chained matchbox holder swinging like a pendulum from the wrought-iron candle rack.

A match flared, bright as a star. Julian lit one candle, then another.

“Light them all,” I said hoarsely.

“The offering,” he said, making a wry face. “I don't think I have enough—”

“I do.” I tossed Kit's carryall toward a pew, upended my shoulder bag onto the mosaic floor, and scrabbled for my wallet. “I have enough.” I emptied my wallet and began stuffing bills into the offerings box, forcing great wads of them through the narrow slot, gouging my palms and
bruising my knuckles on the wrought iron until Julian seized my wrists and pulled me into his arms.

I stiffened, struggled frantically, then melted against him, pressing my face to his leather jacket, burrowing into him, trying to escape the howling inside my head. He hushed me with wordless murmurs and gently tightened his hold until the tension in my body eased and I leaned against him limply, soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest, by the scent of incense mingled with the fragrance of warm leather.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You've been under so much pressure at home. I should never have asked you to come here tonight.”

I tilted my face back to look up at him. “I didn't come because you asked me. I came because I had to.”

He gazed down at me, bewildered. “Why?”

“Because …” I leaned my forehead against him briefly, then stepped away from him to stare out over the empty pews. “Because Kit's
haunting
me. I can't get him out of my mind. When I close my eyes, it's his face I see. When I dream, I dream of him.” I ran a hand distractedly through my disheveled curls. “I've never dreamt of Bill, but I dream of Kit
every night
.”

Julian's palms came to rest on my shoulders. He steered me to the high pew where I'd tossed Kit's carryall, sat beside me, and leaned forward, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. “Tell me about your dreams.”

“My dreams?” I gave a sobbing laugh. I'd expected Julian to be dismayed, perhaps disgusted, by my obsession with someone other than my husband. I hadn't expected him to ask about my dreams. “They're always the same,” I told him. “Kit's healthy and happy and galloping down the bridle path on a big horse. The horse throws him, and by the time he hits the ground, he's sick and dressed in rags. He
lands right in front of the cottage, he even watches me through the window, but I don't see him. Then he falls over, holding Anne Somerville's stuffed horse. His hands …” I looked down at my bruised knuckles and swallowed hard. “They're black and shriveled, like claws.”

Julian nodded slowly, then rose and walked over to gaze up at the Blessed Virgin. He took up the matchbox and began lighting candles, one by one, until all of them were ablaze, their flames like fingers pointing heavenward in the still air. The candles' limpid glow revealed the scattered mess of belongings I'd dumped from my shoulder bag onto the floor. I knelt to gather them up.

“Have you ever been thrown from a horse?” Julian asked.

“I've never even ridden one,” I replied.

“But still, you've been thrown.” Julian lit the last candle, and knelt to pick up a gold-inlaid fountain pen that had skittered under the candle rack. He rolled it between his fingers, letting the gold catch the candlelight, before handing it to me. “Have you always been wealthy?”

“Are you kidding?” Julian's questions made no sense to me, but I welcomed the distraction from my own turbulent thoughts. “My dad died just after I was born and my mom raised me by herself. We weren't poor, but we weren't even within shouting distance of wealthy.”

“But you grew up knowing what it was to do without,” Julian observed.

“Not really.” I sat back on my heels. “My mom was the one who did without, so that I could have pretty much everything I wanted. When I left my first husband, I had no idea how hard it'd be to start over again from scratch. I had nothing.”

“Apart from a fine mind,” Julian put in.

“I was too depressed to use it.” I retrieved a tortoise-shell
brush from under the pew and slipped it into my bag. “Then my mom died and the depression got worse. I had no family left, no real home, and I was barely making ends meet. One night I began toying with the idea of giving my wrists a close shave.”

Julian paled. “Dear Lord …”

“I didn't do it.” I pushed back the sleeves of my cashmere coat and held my unscarred wrists out to him.

“That you considered it is terrible enough.” Julian brushed his fingertips across my wrists. “What stopped you?”

I smiled sheepishly, the howling wind forgotten. “A letter from a rich lawyer,” I said. “From Bill, my husband, in fact. Little did I know when I set out for his office that night—” I caught my breath and sank back against the pew, dizzied by sudden revelation. It was as if a thousand candles had flickered to life, illuminating memories I'd tucked carefully in the darkest corner of my mind. “That night,” I repeated, gazing at a scene only I could see.

“What happened that night?” Julian's voice seemed to come from somewhere up among the banded arches and the redbrick domes.

“The wind was howling.” I spoke slowly at first, then faster, as the vision became more vivid. “An April blizzard had blown in. The sleet hurt my face and the streets were covered with slush. I was weak-kneed with hunger, and by the time Bill opened the door, I couldn't feel my toes. If he hadn't opened the door …” My voice sank to a whisper. “It could have been me, Julian. Kit could have been me.”

I gazed into the middle distance, aware of the chill seeping up from the mosaic floor, of the crushing darkness just beyond the pool of candlelight. I knew how precarious the light was, how quickly the darkness could close in, and I knew, better than most, that it could happen to anyone, anyone at all.

Julian said nothing, but quietly gathered up the rest of my belongings, then drew me up to sit beside him on the hard wooden bench. “Is it any wonder that you dream of Kit instead of Bill?” he said finally. “You and Kit have shared experiences that your husband can never truly understand. Kit was a part of you before he ever stumbled up your drive.”

I nodded, acknowledging the truth of Julian's words. Bill had grown up in a world of wealth and privilege. He'd never known what it was to be cold, hungry, and alone in the world. But I had.

“I'd forgotten,” I said, half to myself. “I
tried
to forget.”

“Evidently it's time to remember,” said Julian.

I ran my palms along the sleeves of my cashmere coat and the fine tweed of my custom-tailored trousers. I thought of the overstuffed sofa in my living room and the overstocked pantry in my kitchen. The cottage was a snug nest, a comfortable cocoon in which bad things did not happen. Was it too comfortable, too snug?

I looked up at the face of the Virgin, hovering above us like a pale moon in a starless sky. “My mother used to say that too much comfort is as corrosive to the soul as too little.”

“Your mother,” Julian observed, “was a wise woman.”

And a good woman, I thought, which is more than can be said for her daughter. I bowed my head to avoid the Virgin's gaze.

“Julian,” I said, a low-voiced confession, “the first time I saw Kit, I didn't want to touch him. It wasn't my idea to call out the RAF for him, and I wouldn't have visited him at the Radcliffe if someone else hadn't insisted on it. The truth is, I'm not at all like Kit. I've got a shriveled, selfish soul. The only reason I helped Kit was—”

“Because he landed in your front yard.” Julian nodded. “Hard to ignore something like that.”

“It should be,” I said miserably, “but it isn't. I ignore men like Kit all the time. Sometimes I wish they were invisible. They're so …” I left the sentence hanging, too ashamed to finish it.

“Repulsive?” Julian suggested. “I agree. They're smelly, ugly, weak—they're totally useless.” He put a comforting arm around my shoulders. “I can think of only one good reason why we should bother with them.”

I peeped up at him. I knew he was baiting me, and I thought I knew what he wanted me to say. “Because they're human?” I ventured.

“No,” said Julian. “Because we are.”

In the silence that followed, the vicar's voice seemed to ring out from the empty pulpit:
Let us be thankful for blessings received and eager to share those blessings with others
. I'd been thankful for Dimity's many gifts, but I hadn't done much sharing. I'd used her bounty to create a beautiful world in which no one hungered, froze, or sickened, and I'd turned my back on the sorrows that lay beyond its narrow borders. Perhaps Kit was an angel, I thought, sent to the cottage to shake me out of my smug complacency.

“I've a proposal to make, Lori.” Julian crossed his long legs and leaned back. “If, by some miracle, I manage to keep Saint Benedict's going, why don't you come along and lend me a hand once in a while? I could use your help in the kitchen, and the men you meet there will give that shriveled soul of yours a chance to blossom.” He inclined his head toward mine. “But it'll still be up to you to do the real work.”

“What's that?” I asked.

He raised an admonitory finger. “See to it that no one
who crosses your path is invisible.” He extended his hand and I clasped it to seal the bargain. Far above us, strangely muted in the church's cavernous reaches, Saint Joseph's bells began to chime the hour.

“Ten o'clock.” Julian pursed his lips. “A bit late to set out for Belgravia.”

“I'm not leaving London before I speak with Kit's sister,” I said stubbornly.

Julian shrugged. “Then we'll stay here for the night and see her first thing tomorrow morning. Father Raywood said there are cots downstairs, and the kitchen's warm enough for us to—”

“No.” I straightened slightly, but couldn't bring myself to edge away from the warm circle of his arm. “I don't think that's such a good idea.”

He gave me a playful shake. “Not afraid of spending the night in a church, are you? Don't worry, you'll be safe with me.”

“But
you
might not be safe with
me
.” Exasperation made me speak without thinking. “Oh, for Pete's sake, Julian, haven't you figured out yet that I find you attractive?”

“You … what?” Julian's look of blank astonishment told me plainly that the thought had never crossed his mind. “Don't be ridiculous. You can't possibly find me attractive.”

“Oh yeah?” I retorted. “Well, watch out for lightning bolts, because if the Virgin can read my mind at this moment, she'll probably fry me.”

Julian carefully removed his arm from my shoulders and folded his hands in his lap. “I'd no idea.”

“Now you do.” My blush should have outshone the candles. “You know the old saying: I may be married, but I'm not dead.” I glanced heavenward. “Yet.”

Julian faced forward, clearly disconcerted. “I could
understand it if you harbored romantic notions about Kit,” he reasoned. “Kit's a fine-looking man, but I've got a face nice a … a …”

“A basset hound,” I offered.

“Precisely,” he agreed, unfazed. “I wouldn't call a basset hound attractive, would you? Unless …” He raised a hand to his goatee. “Is it the beard? Perhaps I should shave it off.”

“It's not the beard,” I said, coloring to my toes. “It's nothing to do with your looks. It's your passion, your tenderness, your humility. You're a good man, Julian, and goodness is tremendously attractive.” I snatched a quick breath and thought: In for a penny, in for a pound. “And in case you think I'm being unbearably high-minded, let me just add that you've got a beautiful voice and exquisite hands, and let's face it, Julian, you've got a body to die for.”

“Good Lord,” Julian said weakly. “Do I?”

I pressed my palms to my burning cheeks. “Take my word for it. It must come from hauling around all those vats of boiled cabbage.”