How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas (32 page)

But Sara's question tore at my heart. “No one can know the future, my love,” I answered gently. “The ocean is quite wide, but people can cross any distance if they want to badly enough. Who knows? Instead of me returning to Canterbury, you might come to the New World instead. Then we could have a wonderful reunion there!”

Sara sniffled, probably as much from holding in tears as from the winter wind. “I think that after you leave, we'll never see each other again. I hate it. Why can't you stay? If you and your husband miss each other so much, he can just come back to England.”

I thought of my own frustration with Parliament's banning of Christmas, and how Nicholas would despise it, too. At least in the New World, he had Dutch and French colonists who welcomed his gift-giving. “Right now, England isn't a place where my husband would feel welcome,” I replied. “Sara, you know I'm going to miss you, too. I love you as though you were my own daughter. It has been one of the great joys of my life to share these past five years with you.”

And this was true. I realized Sara was not a perfect child. There has never been one. Sometimes she was a little too proud of her own intelligence, since her ability to read and write and do sums was so far superior to her friend Sophia's, and Sophia was herself a very clever girl. Often, Sara indulged her natural shyness, giving in to the urge to hide from almost everyone and refuse to talk when it would have shown great maturity on her part to overcome her bashfulness and behave more appropriately. And there had been, lately, some testy flare-ups between her and her parents. At thirteen, Sara was beginning to consider herself a full-fledged adult, and it was certainly true that some girls her age were already married, and a few had children of their own. Alan and Elizabeth, naturally, still thought of Sara as their little girl, and sometimes she responded too sharply when she felt they were treating her like a helpless child rather than a responsible grown-up.

But those bad habits paled beside all her good qualities, which included offering her unqualified love to those she knew best and trusted—her mother, her father, and me. Sara had a generous heart, too. It hurt her deeply to see people in need. If her parents had permitted it, she would have given away all her clothes and food to the beggars who lined Canterbury's streets (the poor, in fact, lined the streets of every English town). And Sara had great spirit. She refused to limit herself to those basic things society allowed young working-class women of her time. It had been her great good fortune to be allowed to study with Sophia, but Sara had also worked hard and taken full advantage of that opportunity. She did not intend to marry some local farmer and spend her days doing chores and raising children, the life working-class girls like her were supposed to accept, whether they wanted to or not. Nor did she intend to become her best friend's lady-in-waiting, accepting that servant's role because Sophia had been born rich and she had not. Instead, Sara planned to somehow find a way to travel the world and do good deeds. She believed in this fine future as deeply now at thirteen as she had when I first met her five years earlier. What a precious, special girl, and how hard it was going to be for me to go on without her.

So we walked in silence for a few minutes, each thinking our own thoughts, until Sara suddenly blurted, “But you can't go to America if Sophia's father puts you in jail.”

I whirled toward her. “What are you talking about?”

Sara sighed, the sort of sigh traditionally heaved by teenagers when adults fail to understand the obvious. “I know all about your plans for Christmas Day, Auntie Layla. You and my parents and that man Arthur are going to lead a parade or something through the city streets to protest Christmas being taken away.”

My heart was pounding. “Sara, where did you ever get that idea?”

“Oh, Auntie Layla,” she said disdainfully. “All those nights when I've gone up to my bed and the four of you have sat downstairs talking around the table, don't you think I could hear every word being said? Just because you couldn't see me, that didn't mean I couldn't hear you.”

“It isn't nice to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, young lady,” I said sternly. “But why would you say that Sophia's father might arrest me?”

“Well, not
you
in particular,” Sara replied. “But Sophia says her father has heard there will be some sort of demonstration, and he's getting ready to put it down and impress everyone in London with his firmness. She thinks he'll arrest some of the demonstrators and keep them locked up for a while, to teach everyone else that it's futile to try to save Christmas.”

We had guessed all along that Avery Sabine would hear some rumors about the protest, of course, but now I wanted to be sure he didn't know everything about our plans.

“Has Sophia said how many protestors her father is expecting?” I asked. “I don't want you to betray your friend's confidence, of course, but anything you feel you could tell me would be helpful.”

“Sophia never has secrets because she talks too much to keep any,” Sara said. “I don't think her father is expecting much trouble. But that's one reason I asked you to come on this walk. I don't want you to go to jail, or my mother or father, either. I think the three of you should stay home on Christmas Day, and let whoever else wants to march get arrested instead.”

“I thought you loved Christmas, Sara,” I said.

In the silver light from the stars and moon, I saw her give me a sharp look. “Of course I love Christmas, Auntie Layla. I'm going to miss it very much now that it's against the law.”

“And why will you miss Christmas, my love?” I asked. “Is it the presents you will no longer receive, or perhaps the goose we had for Christmas dinner on those years when we could afford it?”

Sara snorted. “I haven't expected presents from Father Christmas since I was eleven! Last year we didn't have goose, and it was still a wonderful holiday because we sang carols and thanked God for sending Jesus. I love Christmas because it's happy. You can forget all the sad things in life for a little while. I'm going to miss there being one special day when everyone is friends with everyone else, and we are reminded of all the good things we have.”

“Then if Christmas is such a precious day, don't you think it is worth trying to keep?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sara replied, “but I still don't want you being arrested. They'd put you in that big ugly jail by the West Gate. I don't want you or my parents there. It would be horrible for you.”

I put my arm around her. “My darling, you're right that it would be horrible. I certainly don't want to go to jail, and I know your parents don't either. But we will, if it comes to that.”

Sara jerked away from me, and, in the faint silvery light, I could see tears finally streaking her cheeks.
“Why?”
she whimpered. “Why would you take the chance of going to jail?”

I reached out for her hand. At first she tried to pull her hand loose from mine, but then she relented. “Sara, I'm going to tell you something very important, and I hope you'll remember it. In life, no great achievement is possible without equally great risk. Anything worth having comes with a price, my love. A few moments ago, you described perfectly why Christmas is so important, as a time to thank God for sending us his son and a time when even the poorest, saddest people can have moments of hope and joy. The men who control England now don't understand this, either because they are genuinely mistaken or because they simply don't want to. They say they have taken Christmas away because it is sinful, but there is more involved than that. Taking Christmas, even though most of the English people want to keep it, is a way of demonstrating that they have complete power over everyone else. And if we let them take Christmas, who knows what they might decide to take next?”

“I don't care about that,” Sara said stubbornly. “I just care about my mother and my father and you.”

I gently turned her face toward me. “You may not care now, Sara, but someday you will. No, don't argue. I know you as well as I know myself. Any time a great wrong is being done—and taking away Christmas is completely wrong—those who know better must not allow it to happen. If we do, then we are as much at fault as the people who are doing the bad thing. Here in Canterbury on Christmas Day, a thousand or more men and women are going to bravely stand in front of the mayor and tell him they will have their Christmas whether he agrees or not. There will be too many for him to arrest, I believe, and so he will have to stand and watch. Then the story of what happened will begin to spread—not just back to London and Parliament, but all over England. In other counties, other towns and cities, all the people who cherish the holiday will be inspired to do the same thing, until finally the men in power realize that, despite all the laws they might pass and the threats they might make, they cannot take Christmas away. It may take another year, or ten, or twenty, but there will be waits singing carols in our streets again and we will all enjoy the grateful fellowship that only Christmas can really bring.”

“Do you really believe that's going to happen?” Sara said doubtfully.

“I have always believed in Christmas because I have always believed in the best of human spirit,” I told her.

We walked a little more, both of us silent and thoughtful. Then, just as I was about to suggest that we'd been out in the winter cold long enough and should turn back toward the cottage, Sara said something that surprised me.

“Will you let me march with you on Christmas, Auntie Layla?” she wanted to know.

“I thought you found the possibility of prison quite horrifying,” I said. “What if you marched, and the Trained Band was called out, and you were the one they arrested?”

Sara shrugged. “I would take that chance. You're right—we must all stand up for what we believe in, and I believe in Christmas.”

I was proud of Sara, but wanted her to think it all through. “If you marched, my darling, you would have to be among strangers, and they would look at you and talk to you. You're the girl who runs to the loft whenever anyone but your parents or I are in the cottage. Are you certain you could overcome feeling so shy?”

“I'm not sure,” Sara said honestly. “But at least I would try.”

“That's all any of us can do,” I said. “Well, angel, this isn't my decision to make. You must discuss it with your father and mother. If they agree, you may certainly come with us, provided that you understand the risks and are willing to accept them. If the mayor or Mrs. Sabine happen to see you, at the very least you would never again be allowed to play or study with Sophia, and she is your best friend. How would you feel about that?”

“Mrs. Sabine doesn't think I'm as good as her daughter,” Sara replied, and she sounded resentful, which I could certainly understand. “She reminds me in many little ways that she could keep me away from Sophia any time she chooses. I wouldn't care if I never saw Mrs. Sabine again.”

“But I asked you about Sophia,” I reminded her.

Sara was silent for several moments. “Sophia and her parents will move to London soon,” she finally said. “Since I don't want to be her lady-in-waiting after she gets married, I suppose I won't see her anymore. I'll be sad about that. She isn't like her mother. She mostly treats me like we're equal. Sometimes she even says we're like sisters. But deep down we both know we're not. We'd be separated soon anyway. But—” and here her voice broke a little—“I'm going to miss her.”

I pulled Sara close, and we walked that way a while, moving back toward the cottage where a warm blaze roared in the fireplace. We had almost arrived when Sara tugged free, ran ahead a few paces, and called back to me, “I'm going to lose Sophia, and I'm going to lose you, but I'm not going to lose Christmas!” By the time I came through the door, she was already huddled with Alan and Elizabeth at the table, making a case for marching with us on Christmas Day. I could have joined them, but I decided this was something for parents and child to work out among themselves. I lay up in the loft bed for more than an hour, and Sara was correct—I could hear every word being said. She insisted she had the right to stand up for what she believed in, and they talked about the possibilities of the Trained Band using violence to disperse the marchers. Elizabeth flatly informed Sara that she would not be allowed to come, but Alan was wavering, and then they finally sent Sara up to bed so they could discuss it further themselves. An hour later, when Sara was finally asleep, her mother and father were still talking about it, but now I could tell Elizabeth was beginning to change her mind. In the morning, Sara was informed she could march, but only at the back of one of the groups, and that at the first sign of possible violence she was to turn and run back to the cottage.

“Will you promise you'll do this?” Elizabeth asked, looking her daughter straight in the eye.

“Will
you
run away, too, if it gets scary?” Sara shot back. “Will my father? Will Auntie Layla?”

“We'll certainly try not to be hurt,” Elizabeth replied, which really didn't answer Sara's question. They both knew it. But Sara was pleased that she would at least be allowed to march, and so she didn't press her mother further.

When Arthur and I spoke later, he assured me there should be no real danger to Sara. “I know of several other parents who will be bringing their children on the march,” he told me. “Their presence should make it even more certain that Mayor Sabine's constables and the Trained Band won't resort to violence. Think of the massive public reaction if children were injured as they demonstrated on behalf of Christmas Day! I think Sara will be fine, Layla.”