Star Carol for Celeste (2 page)

Chapter Two

Micah Anderson is teaching at my school. Dear Lord, why isn’t he working as a musician somewhere?
And how long has he been in London?

Her mouth dry, Celeste sank onto the chapel piano bench, grateful her legs had carried her this far without stumbling. She put the books beside her, and pointed at the back of
the piano. “Stand there, if you please.”

The boys took their places, and propping her elbows on the closed piano cover, Celeste balanced her chin in her hands. “So. Why were you fighting?”

“He called me a sissy,” Noah grumbled. “Just ‘cause I told him I help my ma with the cooking sometimes.”

Ralph frowned in answer. “Well, my dad says cooking is women’s work.”

“Whatever works for your home about chores is right,” Celeste told them. “Now, I’ve heard both of you singing in the schoolyard, so I want you to sing for me now. Do either of you read music?”

They nodded, and a frisson of hope surged through Celeste. “Do you know any Christmas carols or hymns by heart?”

“Away in a Manger,” Ralph said.

“Joy to the World,” Noah added proudly.

“Very well.” Celeste took the hymnal she brought from home and opened it to the Christmas section. “Let me hear you sing Away in a Manger. I’ll give you four measures so you can hear the tune in your heads.”

They shuffled their feet, but listened carefully to the music before they began to sing. The sound they produced was not unpleasant. In fact it was quite good and right on pitch. Then their voices faltered and stopped. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“That’s all I know without a hymnal,” Ralph admitted.

“Me too,” Noah said. “Why’d you want to hear us sing, Miss?”

“Headmaster has entered Saint Alban’s in a singing competition,” Celeste said. “We have less than a month to get ready, so we must form a choir as quickly as possible and learn a carol or two.”

“You mean, sing in public?” Noah gasped. “Not in a church?”

“In front of how many people?” Ralph demanded.

“I don’t know yet, but I think both of you will do quite nicely.” Celeste lowered the keyboard cover. “Can you promise not to fight while we’re getting ready?”

The boys nodded and Noah asked, “Is there a prize for the contest, Miss?”

“Yes,” and this time Celeste did not hold back her sigh. “One hundred pounds.”

“Lord save us!” Noah declared and Ralph whistled in amazement.

“My sentiments exactly. I’ll let you know when we’ll start rehearsals. Go back to class and please try to be nice to Mr. Anderson.”
Even though I’d like to throw a punch or two at him myself.

When they had gone, Celeste lowered her head into her hands. Not in
her wildest dreams, no, make that nightmares, did she ever think she would see Micah Anderson again. Any dreams of romance or happily ever after had long been discarded.

There had been admirers since then, including
two proposals from decent men who would have provided her with a comfortable and secure life.

But neither would have “allowed” her to go on teaching, a choice that her independent streak could not accept. Their astonishment at her insistence on continuing to work after marrying had sealed her decision.

Still more importantly, neither inspired any great passion, or even love. And if Celeste had learned one thing from her own parents’ unhappy marriage, it was “never settle.” If she couldn’t have it all—her teaching career as well as a happy marriage to a
man she loved—she would remain alone.

But
like it or not, Micah Anderson was back in her life. Just seeing him today
had ripped off the protective cover she had stitched around her heart, forcing her to admit a reluctant truth.

She had never stopped loving him.

But she’d be blessed if she would let him know it, even if she was forced to ask him to play piano for Saint Alban’s yet-to-be-formed
Children’s Choir.

Chapter Three

“Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all.” Micah closed the grammar book as the wall clock chimed the hour of three.
“We shall see each other tomorrow. Noah, Ralph, may I have a word with you?”

The other boys bolted toward the door, stopping only long enough to grab coats and hats from the wall pegs. After exchanging worried looks, Noah and Ralph trudged forward to stand before Micah’s desk. “Yes sir?” they asked with one voice.

“I want to thank you for not disrupting class and for resolving your differences,” Micah told them. “I hope we shall get along together and that there will be no more problems?”
His voice rose in question.

“Nah,” Noah drawled. “Miss Celeste asked us to be nice to you, so we will.”

“She might not let us sing in the new choir if we don’t act right,” Ralph added. “So you’ve no more problems from us, sir.”

“How very thoughtful of you,” Micah said dryly, certain neither would catch his sarcasm. He eyed the pair, taking in the neat but worn clothing and the scuffed shoes. Both needed haircuts, but their faces and hands were clean. Poor boys, but well cared for. Did he expect “little gentlemen” in uniforms
like at his other posts? Little spoiled brats was more like it. Give him Ralph and Noah’s East End honesty any day of the week.

“May we go now, sir?” Noah asked. “I’ve got to go help my dad.”

“Yes. No, wait a moment.” Micah hesitated before asking. “You’re very fond of Miss Celeste, aren’t you?”

“Everyone likes her, sir,” Ralph declared stoutly. “She was my teacher when I first came here and it was her who helped me learn to read.”

“She’s funny,” added Noah helpfully. “Does a spot-on imitation of the Queen, but respectful-like
, if you know what I mean.”

Recalling Celeste’s talent for mimicry lifted Micah’s mouth into a smile. “Yes,” he chuckled. “I do.” His words hit Micah with the force of a
fist to his lungs, knocking the air from them. “Yes,” he managed to say. “I do.” Let’s take all in yellow out.

“Mr. Anderson.” Celeste’s mouth puckered into the disapproving pout so often seen on the portraits of Her Majesty’s and shook a finger at him. “We are not amused by your disrespectful rendering of Misters Gilbert and Sullivan’s When I was a Lad. Stick to the lyrics as written, please and not your own—ahem!—naughty version.”

Fool, his own voice accused, driving away his humor. You poor, stupid fool.

Micah’s fingers threatened to curl into fists. Instead, he folded his hands and said, “Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer. Good afternoon.”

The boys scurried away, and Micah tidied
his desk. He hadn’t seen Celeste since their encounter this morning. There was
no sign of her in the dining hall at noon, and as much as he
preferred to eat at his desk, his absence would have been noticed and attention was the last thing he wanted. His students had not bothered to hide their curious stares at his
misshapen fingers. But they were only children and not yet learned in the niceties of false civility. Of course they would stare. He took his coat from the back of his chair and pulled it on. The end of his first day.

“Micah?”

He turned to find Celeste in the doorway, hovering as if one word would send her scurrying away like Noah and Ralph.

“Come in.” It was all he could think to say.

She moved across the room to stand by his desk with the same eye pleasing grace he remembered. The freckles bridging her nose to either side of her cheeks stood out against her skin made pale by—what? Distress? Anger? Sorrow?

How the devil did he remember that?

“How was the rest of your day?” she asked.

“Fairly calm. At least there were no more fights.”

“Good.”

“And your day?”

“Children in the first form are always lively.” Some of the color returned to her face as she added, “The trick is staying one step ahead of them.”

“So I’ve learned in my other teaching positions,” he agreed. “Best to have a large bag of tricks to pull out at a moment’s notice.”

“Micah, what are you doing at Saint Alban’s?”

“I should think that’s
rather obvious, Celeste.” He bit of the words. “I’m teaching.”

“I mean what happened to your position at Grace Cathedral in Norfolk? You had a guaranteed position there.” The unspoken question of, “and why aren’t you married?” hung between them.

The old anger surged through him and Micah held
up his hands. “Rather hard to make a living as church organist when your fingers won’t work the way they once did.”

Her gasp only increased his rage as her gaze took in his damaged fingers. “Oh my Lord,” she whispered. “What happened?”

“Pub fight,” he said. “Chap with too many pints in him took exception with my not agreeing his rugby team was the best one in the Norfolk League. He followed me and proceeded to take out his anger on my hands and knees. Metal-toed boots make a surprisingly effective weapon for breaking bones. He started on my fingers, and worked his way down. I suppose my telling him I was a musician was a mistake. By the time my hands
healed, my position at Grace Cathedral was long gone, and my ability to play much diminished. I’m lucky I can still
hold a pencil or shave myself.”

“Micah, I am so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“And why should you?” He turned and limped to stand by the room’s one window to avoid seeing the shocked pity in her eyes. “As I recall, you left the Academy rather abruptly.”

“There didn’t seem to be any reason to stay.”

Hearing her gentle accusation, he pivoted to face her. “I suppose I deserve that. Well, you have your revenge on me, Celeste. Not only did I lose my livelihood, but my patron’s daughter changed her mind about me as well. The attentions of a baronet’s only son were far more pleasing than those of a church organist who can’t play any more and walks with a nasty limp.”

He returned to his desk, well aware her gaze followed his progress. “So I am as you see me,” he announced bitterly. “Not fit for much more than teaching. No family, no future as a musician. Only this.”

“Your parents are dead?”

He recoiled at the sympathy in her voice. “Died from influenza while I was recovering.”

“Didn’t you have a brother? Edward, I think his name was.
”

The memory of his gentle older half-brother— explaining the notes on the staff as they sat side by side on the piano bench—pierced Micah’s heart
. His father’s attitude to their mother’s first-born
eventually forced him from the house as soon as he was old enough. Micah hadn’t seen or heard from his brother in years.

Ignoring her question, Micah perched on the edge of the desk. Is
there something I can help you with?”

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face as if trying to determine from his expression whether to continue. “I came to ask if you could accompany Saint Alban’s new choir on the piano
while I directed them. Headmaster has entered the school in the London Children’s Choir Competition and…”

He laughed, hearing the bitterness in it. Are you mad? I’m crippled, Celeste.” He held up his hands again in evidence. “You’d do well to remember that.”

And with that he exited the room with more speed than he would have thought his limp would allow.
.

***

“Let’s try that again,” Celeste urged, looking over the piano’s top at the assembled children. “Hold your music up and look at me. You all know the words to
Angels We Have Heard on High,
so try concentrating on hearing your parts. Singing in unison won’t even get us close to winning the contest. Stand straight and sing from your lungs and not your throat. One, two, sing.”

She began to play and the children sang with more enthusiasm than style. But under the music she could hear Micah’s anguished voice.

“I’m a cripple, Celeste.”

“Metal-toed
boots are a good weapon for breaking bones.”

“He started with my fingers and worked his way down.”

Recalling Micah’s deft touch and skill at playing Mendelssohn and Bach, sympathy tightened around Celeste’s heart. He had been the academy’s star pupil, with his teachers predicting a brilliant future, either as a church musician or as a performance artist. To have such a gift and all hopes for your future destroyed by a drunken lout was too much to consider.

And then recalling the hungry kisses they had shared, the fevered embraces when they could steal a rare moment alone together, tears pricked Celeste’s eyes. She had loved him so much, thought he had loved her. But how could she have competed with the wealth and secure future offered by his patron and his beautiful daughter when all Celeste had to offer was herself?

She pulled herself out of her memory as the children began the second verse and tried to focus on their singing.

It was clear that Celeste had her work cut out for her. Some of the children could sing their parts, but the others quickly fell back into singing the tune. At least it was on pitch and there was a certain purity of tone that suggested
with some work, they just might be able to render a pleasing version of the traditional carol.

“That’s fine,” she praised at they finished the last verse. “I’m sure we’ll have it ready in time.”

“Are we going to sing this one, Miss?” a boy called.

“I’m not sure yet,” Celeste told him. “Perhaps we should try
Joy to the World
or
Away in the Manager
, or…”

“Ah, there you are,” Samuel Dobbins’ cheerful voice interrupted her as he entered the chapel. “Hard at it, I see.”

“Yes, Headmaster.” Celeste rose from the bench and turned to face him. “These are the pupils I have chosen for our choir.”

“Very good, very good.” Dobbins beamed and stroked his old-fashioned mutton chop whiskers.”
I have come to share that I’ve learned who one of the competition’s judges will be. Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of him, not that I’d know of course. Ever hear of a fellow named Phillip Tate, Miss Stillwell?”

An old dread forced
Celeste’s pulse slamming
against her wrist. “Phillip Tate?” she repeated. “From the Hartwell Music Academy in Kent?”

“I think so,” Dobbins said absently, taking out his pocket watch and studying the time. “Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes,” Celeste said as another old memory arrived without an invitation. “Yes indeed.”

You call yourself musicians?
A pack of braying mules is more like it!
Handel is either rolling in his grave with laughter or about to exit it with the intent of taking his revenge on you for slaughtering his music!
The image of the lean, raven-haired Phillip Tate, choral director of the Hartwell Music Academy rose like one of Scrooge’s specters before Celeste. Feared by Hartwell students—
not to mention many of the staff—
Phillip Tate had dominated the choral department at the Academy. His insistent and constant demand for perfection was legendary, and his scathing criticism had reduced more than one student to red-faced humiliation and tears. Few met his rigorous requirements, and only twice had Celeste received more than a “That will do, Miss Stillwell.”

“Well, if you know him, perhaps that will be a plus for our little choir.” Dobbins snapped his watch shut and

returned it to his pocket. “I’ll leave you to your practice, Miss Stillwell.”

Watching his retreating back, Celeste sighed. If Phillip Tate was indeed one of the competition’s judges, it would take a miracle to impress him. Even an uninjured Micah at the keyboard wouldn’t be enough.

She turned and found the children staring at her, eyes wide with expectation. Smiling, she sat on the bench and placed her hands on the keyboard.
“Let’s try that again, shall we?”