Christmas Carol (40 page)

“A
lot
of restoration. I am capable of
noticing such things on my own, Miss Simmons.” He spoke in a severe
tone, but his eyes were dancing with green fire when he stopped to
catch her shoulders and turn her around to face him directly. “I
suppose you want me to restore Marlowe House to its former glory,
too?” he teased.

“It would be lovely if you could. Such a
beautiful old house should not be allowed to fall into ruin.”

“I have always been fond of the place.
Perhaps I will keep it instead of selling it as I first planned to
do.”

“I know Lady Augusta would be pleased to hear
you say that.”

“Once again you pretend to know her thoughts
and her wishes.” He looked distinctly skeptical.

“It is not pretense. I am telling you what I
know
about her.”

“Really?” From his amused expression Carol
could not tell what he thought of her claims.

“Believe me or not, as you please,” she said.
“It really doesn’t matter so long as you help Lucius Kincaid and
also do something for the staff at Marlowe House.”

“Why, Miss Simmons?” he demanded. “Why is
this so important to you? Is it because of something my aunt said
or did? I am fairly good at reading character, and I think you are
hiding something from me.”

He was still holding her by the shoulders and
looking deep into her eyes. Carol gazed back at him, wishing she
dared to move a step or two closer to him and lay her head upon his
chest. The desire to feel his arms around her tore at her heart.
But he was awaiting her response and she gave him the only one she
could.

“I can’t get into this at the moment,” she
said. “I don’t want you to imagine that I have lost my mind, which
is what I am afraid will happen if I say too much before you know
me well enough to believe my story. I promise, I will tell you when
the time is right.”

“I thought at first that you might be a con
artist, someone who was trying to get money for herself from my
aunt’s estate, after having failed to convince her to write you
into her will.” He continued to look at Carol as if he could read
her very soul and he spoke as if he were talking to himself.

“I can’t blame you for thinking along those
lines,” Carol said. “After all, you don’t know me. But Mr.
Montfort, I assure you, I would not know how to begin to be
dishonest.”

“You haven’t asked for anything for
yourself,” he said. “It is all for other people. What is this
mystery, then? What motivates you?” Still he did not remove his
eyes from hers. Carol was only dimly aware of cars moving along the
street and of people waking past them and glancing curiously at the
couple who were gazing into each other’s eyes so intently.

Nicholas
, her heart sang.
Nik,
Nicholas, Nik. My Love
.

“Miss Simmons?” he prompted.

“Call it a spiritual renaissance,” she
whispered.

“Yours, or my aunt’s?” he asked.

“Both,” she breathed. “Both of us have
changed beyond recognition, beyond returning to what we once
were.”

“You are real,” he said, his hands tightening
and then loosening on her shoulders as if he wanted to reassure
himself that his assessment of her was correct. “You are not a
ghost, and something tells me that you are not an angel,
either.”

“I am alive,” she responded. “As I have never
been alive before.”

“You make it sound like a miracle.”

“It is,” she said. “Dear Mr. Montfort, it is
a miracle. Now all I have to do is convince you of it.”

“Crampton said you wanted to see me.” Carol
paused in the library doorway, looking around at the shelves
crammed full of books, at the oriental rug on the floor and the
polished desk. Nicholas raised his head from the papers he was
working on. A pair of narrow reading glasses was perched on the end
of his nose and his face was serious.

“Come in. I have a few more questions for
you.” He waved a hand, indicating the chair placed directly across
the desk from where he sat. “Tell me, Miss Simmons, what are your
plans, now that your employer has died?”

“I don’t know,” Carol said. “I have been
wondering what to do, but I haven’t decided yet.”

“You appear to be well acquainted with my
aunt’s affairs. Would you consider staying on to assist me here at
Marlowe House?”

I would stay anywhere, do anything, to be
with you
. Acknowledging to herself her fear that he might not
find her work acceptable, Carol was completely honest when she
answered him aloud.

“I did act as Lady Augusta’s secretary when
she needed one, but I must warn you, Mr. Montfort, I do not have
much in the way of office skills. I can barely type, and if you
were to show me a computer, I would probably run away from it.”

“You won’t need to type, or to file. That is
not the kind of job I meant. Perhaps Joanna Bascome can teach you
to use a computer, but it won’t be absolutely essential.” He leaned
back in his chair, watching her every reaction to his next words.
“Miss Simmons, I detect in you a remarkable sensitivity to the
needs of others. Having made a large fortune, I now feel duty-bound
to distribute at least part of it in ways designed to do the most
good for people who could use some help in getting their lives onto
the right path. Would you be interested in acting as my
assistant?”

“Oh, yes. It’s exactly what I want to do. To
make people happier, to improve their futures and thus, perhaps, to
change the future world for everyone who comes after us—I can’t
think of anything more wonderful. But Mr. Montfort, how can you
make such a hasty decision? You don’t know anything about me. I
might be an embezzler who will steal your entire fortune.” Carol
stopped when Nicholas began to laugh. The carefree sound made her
heart leap with pleasure.

“Miss Simmons, if Aunt Augusta hired you to
work for her, I am certain she ordered a complete security check
done on you. The results are probably in her solicitors’ office. Of
course, I will have you checked out again, just for my own records,
but for work of this kind I do prefer to trust my own judgment— and
my judgment tells me that you are exactly the person I need.

“Now,” he went on, apparently assuming that
she was already hired, “tell me what you know about Aunt Augusta’s
servants.”

Quickly, Carol sketched the situation for
him, pointing out Hettie’s illiteracy and the desperate need of
both Hettie and Nell to find new jobs when their present ones were
terminated.

“I don’t think either girl has much chance of
getting a well-paying job,” she said, repeating essentially what
Lady Augusta had revealed to her during their invisible excursion
into the servants’ quarters. “Crampton and Mrs. Marks are slightly
better off because they do have small pensions, but I don’t think
they will be able to live very well after they retire.” She went on
to tell of the offer Lucius Kincaid had made to Crampton, and
Crampton’s sorrowful comment that he would have to refuse it. As
she spoke, an idea took shape.

“Mr. Montfort, this morning you told Lucius
Kincaid that you wanted to continue to help his efforts at St.
Fiacre’s. The poor man is much too busy. Could you set up a fund to
pay a supervisor for the Bountiful Board? Then Crampton would be
able to take the position, possibly with Mrs. Marks as his
assistant. If they were in charge of the soup kitchen, Mr. Kincaid
would be free to concentrate on his pastoral duties. All three of
them would be relieved of a great deal of stress, and thus they
would all be much happier people.

“As an added benefit, Abigail Kincaid
wouldn’t have to work so hard, either. At the moment, she is the
one who does most of the planning for those meals. And, if you fund
the Bountiful Board, perhaps the Kincaids wouldn’t feel obligated
to put so much of their own money into feeding the poor and Abigail
could occasionally buy something brand-new for herself or her
children to wear.” Carol finished in a rush of excitement.

“This is exactly the kind of creative
thinking I want to hear from you.” Nicholas sounded enthusiastic.
“Miss Simmons, I do believe that you and I are going to make a very
good team.”

Later, Carol, Nicholas, and Crampton
inspected Marlowe House from its attic to the sub-basement.
Crampton pointed out repair work that needed to be done, and Carol
made notes.

“It’s such a shame the original house was
divided into two,” Carol said. “The old Marlowe House was so lovely
and spacious.”

“So it must have been.” Nicholas was looking
at her as if he was wondering how she could possibly know what kind
of house it originally was.

“I have heard rumors,” said Crampton, “that
the lease on the house next door, which once was part of Marlowe
House, will soon become available. The information might be
pertinent to your future plans, Mr. Montfort.”

“Thank you, Crampton.” Nicholas looked
thoughtful.

That Sunday afternoon and again on Monday
morning, Carol put her limited typing skills to the test. Under
Nicholas’s direction she made up a list of necessary repairs for
the house, and then typed a proposal for a fund to aid St. Fiacre’s
Bountiful Board.

“I believe Lady Augusta would want a portion
of her estate to go into the fund,” Carol said to Nicholas.

“It will take quite a while to settle her
estate,” Nicholas replied. “Therefore, we will begin with my
money.”

“Could you set up the fund in her memory,
then?” Carol asked.

“What a persistent woman you are, and how
certain of what my aunt would have wanted. Very well, we shall call
it the Lady Augusta Marlowe Memorial Trust Fund. Is that grand
enough for you?”

“It sounds perfect. I know she will be
pleased.”

“Wherever she may be,” Nicholas added in the
dry tone she was coming to know well.

When Carol was finally freed of office duties
she hurried down to the kitchen. She was afraid that Mrs. Marks,
who could be temperamental, might be upset by the additional work
involved in having three extra people living in the house after
Nicholas’s associates arrived on Monday evening, and further
annoyed by the festive meal for six that was scheduled for the
following night. To Carol’s surprise, Mrs. Marks appeared to be
energized by these challenges. In fact, she was in her glory,
ordering Hettie around the kitchen until the poor girl was
thoroughly confused, and driving Nell half mad by insisting that
only the best china, silver, and crystal should be used but that
every piece must be washed and polished first.

“I can see you have everything under
control,” Carol said to the cook.

“It’s time this old house came to life again,
if only for a little while,” Mrs. Marks responded. “Ill show Mr.
Montfort some fireworks—culinary fireworks! I’m not ready for
retirement just yet. Oh, we will have a grand feast tomorrow night.
Hettie, where is that copper pan I wanted?”

William and Joanna Bascome were, as Carol
expected, twentieth-century versions of the Bas and Jo whom she had
known in the future. She recognized them at once, although like
Nicholas, they did not know her. In Will Bascome, Carol also saw a
resemblance to the Earl of Montfort’s butler who had unwillingly
let her into the earl’s house on a December afternoon in the
distant past.

I must remember to ask Lady Augusta about
this
, Carol thought.
Does it always happen this way, with
the same people coming together again and again over the
centuries
?
If so, why was Penelope Hyde in love with Alwyn
Simmons in the past and Pen with Al in the future, yet in this
time, she is married to Lucius, who will one day be Luc? It’s very
confusing
.

To Carol’s delight, Will and Joanna Bascome
were soon chatting with her as if they were all old friends. They
enjoyed an early dinner and then the new arrivals retired, blaming
the inevitable jet lag after their long trip from Hong Kong.

“By way of Majorca,” Joanna said. “We stopped
to visit my parents, who are retired there, which is why we did not
arrive with Nicholas.”

Some time later Carol mounted the steps from
the kitchen, where she had been conferring with the servants on the
schedule for the next day. Still smiling at Mrs. Marks’s bustling
rejuvenation, she stepped into the main hall, then paused,
listening. From the library at the back of the house came the
strains of a well-remembered waltz. Carol hurried toward the
sound.

Nicholas was sitting behind the desk, reading
some papers. He had put on Lady Augusta’s stereo and was playing
one of her old records. He glanced up as Carol came through the
door.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, peering at
her over the rims of his reading glasses.

Carol found his quizzical expression
endearing. If only she dared to go to him, to put her arms around
his shoulders, perhaps to sit on his lap and rest her head upon his
broad chest. How wonderful it would be if he would hold her in the
tender embrace for which she longed. Telling herself not to forget
that so far as Nicholas Montfort was concerned they were still
strangers, she responded to his question as coolly as she could
with a hauntingly familiar tune filling her ears.

“No problem at all,” she said. “I heard the
music and I couldn’t resist coming in here so I could hear it
better. I love that waltz.”

“So do I. It is odd, because I usually prefer
something more modern, but that old song has always had the power
to move me. I don’t know why.” Tossing down the papers he had been
reading, he rose and came around the desk to her. “Since you like
it, too, would you care to dance to it, Miss Simmons?”

Carol could not protest that a library was a
peculiar place in which to dance, for she knew better. When
Nicholas Montfort held out his arms, she went into them like a
weary traveler who has finally returned home. His strength, his
graceful movements, the sparkle in his green eyes, the touch of his
left hand clasping hers, the way his right hand on her waist guided
her easily around the room, all raised images in her mind of past
and future moments with him that blended together into a few
exquisite minutes in the present. It seemed to Carol as if the very
walls of the library held music and tender memories.