Star Carol for Celeste (3 page)

Chapter Four

Thursday afternoon

‘“Miss Stillwell? Might I have a word with you?” Without waiting for permission, Micah entered her empty classroom. He had avoided her for days, and as if by some unspoken agreement, she had not sought him out. Mercifully, the boys in his class had behaved since Monday, keeping her from entering
his classroom to help him out.

But for the last three nights, her image had haunted his sleep, calling up memories of days best left in the past. Hopefully talking to her today would exorcise her from his dreams.

Wearing her coat and hat proved she had been on the verge of leaving for the day. Surprise at his re-appearance parted her lips, and she hugged her satchel to her chest like a protective shield.

As if she needed protection from him.

“I thought you were gone,” she said, her green eyes wide in watchful hesitation. Those same eyes once lit up with happiness when she saw him, and the wariness in them
started the old guilt tugging at Micah’s conscience. She
deserved far better than he had given her all those years ago.

“And so I was
,” he agreed, coming to stand before her. “But good manners required me to return.”

“Good manners?” she repeated.

“I wasn’t very nice to you earlier this week, Celeste,” he said, dropping all pretense of formality. “I had no right to be so abrupt. I hope you’ll accept my apology and forgive me.”

And maybe one day forgive me for letting my arrogance take me away from you.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose I can do that. We wouldn’t want to set a bad example for the children by quarreling in front of them or to let the other staff know we. . .” Her words trailed off.

“Share a past?” Micah prompted.

A rosy blush flamed her face. “Something like that,” she said.

“Well, if anyone on staff asks
, we shall simply tell them we studied music together” Micah said. “That is true enough. May I take you to tea to make up for my earlier rudeness?”

“Well…”

“Just one cup?” Micah persisted. “There’s a shop around the corner. Please?”

A shadow of the smile he remembered lifted the corners of her mouth. “Very well. One cup.”

He stepped aside for her to lead them from the room. After she closed the door and locked it, they left the school and walked the short distance to the brightly lit tea shop around the corner where Micah ordered tea and scones. The smiling waitress soon returned and
set it before them. Celeste served
, taking only one scone for herself. After a sip of Earl Grey
, he asked, “Is that all you’re going to have?”

“I’m having high tea with some friends later.”

Something like jealousy pricked at Micah. “Am I
keeping you from them?”

“No. But Duncan always puts on such a spread for us after our lessons
, that if I eat now, I won’t have an appetite
later and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“Lessons? Do you have another teaching job?”

She smiled. “Not exactly. I’m helping some retired soldiers improve their reading and writing skills. They’ve rented a house together to stretch their pensions.”

“And you go there without a chaperone?” Micah teased. “Miss Stillwell, is that proper?”

“Have you forgotten that
I often didn’t care for what was proper?” Her smile became a mischief-filled
grin, and his heart turned over at the memory of how outspoken and
non-traditional
she could be. How could he have forgotten that and
that grin?

How could he have chosen to leave her?

“They’re a good bit older than me, and very protective,” she said. “It’s like having a house full of uncles. I couldn’t be safer.”

“Every young lady needs a house full of uncles,” he agreed, taking another scone. “How did your rehearsal with the children go this afternoon?”

Her grin vanished with the speed of a conjurer’s smoke. “Well enough until Headmaster told me that Phillip Tate will be one of the competition’s judges.”

“Our Phillip Tate? From the Hartwell Academy?” Micah whistled a long, low note, and for a moment, their pasts were joined. “That raises the stakes, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, resignation coloring her tone. “Headmaster seems to think if we just sing a ‘carol or two’, all will be well.”

“Headmaster obviously doesn’t know who Phillip Tate is,” Micah said dryly. “Singing before the Grand Inquisitor would be easier. Are you sure you want to subject the children to Tate? I doubt their youth
will make him any more merciful.

“But they’re already so excited, and the entry fee is paid,” she said. “We’ll just have to hope and pray that the approaching Christmas season will soften Tate’s heart.”

“You’ll have to summon up
all three of the spirits that frightened Scrooge into redemption to accomplish that,” Micah warned. “It would take that kind of miracle to soften Tate’s heart—
if he has one.”

A twinkle brightened her eyes. “I’ll see if there are any
soothsayers in London for the holiday to help with the summoning. Perhaps an advertisement in the papers’ agony columns would do.”

They shared a laugh and after draining her cup and setting it aside, she rose. “Thank you for the tea, Micah. I need to catch the ‘bus.”

He stood. “I’ll walk you to the corner.”

After he paid their bill, they stepped outside and he offered
his arm. She hesitated a second, then wrapped her now
gloved hand around it. He matched his long stride to her shorter one, and their steps fell into a comfortable rhythm. Above them the pewter gray sky suggested
snow.
More
than one storefront they window they passed was decorated with evergreens
, gift selections and yards and yards of ribbon. A young girl
holding a battered hat sang carols to the passersby while an older boy accompanied her on a flute.

“I’ve often thought,” Micah said, breaking the silence, “that Robert Browning got it wrong. About London, I mean.”

She canted her head in his direction. “How so?”

“I would
have written, ‘Oh to be in London, now that Christmas’s near.’ The lights, the shops, the throngs of shopping people. There’s no place quite like it, is there?”

“None,” she agreed. “And the music. Don’t forget the music.”

“No,” he said softly. “One could hardly forget that.”

They reached the corner as a ‘bus pulled up. She moved her hand and held it out to him. “Thank you for the tea, Micah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

His misshapen hand covered her far smaller one. “Until then, Celeste.”

She smiled, boarded the ‘bus, and a few minutes later it pulled away. Micah stood watching it weave into the late afternoon traffic. Then ignoring the throbbing in his leg, he started the long walk back to his rooms.

****

Celeste leaned her head against the ‘bus’s window and closed her eyes. The brief time with Micah had left her exhausted. Sadness clung to him like a well-worn coat and she felt the sting of tears beginning as her own old sorrow flooded her heart. An afternoon at Hope House was just what she needed.

The ‘bus stopped at her usual corner and she followed the other passengers to disembark. Once on the sidewalk, she hurried down the street to the familiar house. A giant wreath hung on the door and a basket filled with pinecones and bright red sprigs of holly berries sat in a corner of the porch. She knocked the familiar tattoo before opening the door and calling, “Hello the house!”

Music drowned her words, trapping her for a moment in the tiny alcove. She shed her coat and hat, leaving them on the
table and followed the sound to the parlor where

amazement halted her in the
doorway, taking her breath away.

Grouped in a circle, sat the residents of Hope House. Duncan and Toby had violins tucked under their chins;
Timothy played a viola while Jasper’s knees gripped a shining cello. A little to the side, Bart played an upright piano. When had it arrived?

Lost in their concentration of a simplified version of Handel’s
For Unto Us a Child is Born,
the men were oblivious to her presence. Celeste sank into the chair by the door and waited, letting the music wash over her as the words echoed in her head.
Wonderful! Counselor! Almighty God, the everlasting Father…
.

“Miss Celeste!” Toby’s voice interrupted her thoughts and their playing. The others, red-faced to the man, swiveled in their chairs. Bart turned his head in her direction and put his hands in his lap.

“We forgot it was Thursday, lads,” Jasper moaned. “Miss Celeste always comes on Thursdays.”

“Getting the piano for Bart must have driven that right out of our heads,” Toby said glumly.

“Clean out,” Tim agreed.

“And now
she knows our secret,” Duncan sighed.

“Why wouldn’t you want me to know you were musicians?” Celeste cried, coming to stand before them. “You sound wonderful!”

The four string players traded glances. “’Cause you told us you once studied music at a fancy school,” Duncan said at last. “We just kind of scrape away at it.”

“What I heard was not scraping,” Celeste argued, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused at her friends. She looked over them at the silent Bart. “Bart, that was beautiful. Where did you learn to play?”

“I took lessons from my father when I was a boy,” he said. “He was quite talented, but it wasn’t the same after he died. I really didn’t want to study with anyone else, but I continued to play for my own amusement, even though my step-father thought playing the piano was unmanly. There were
no end of rows when my mother insisted my younger brother also study music.
He
was the one with the real talent. The fighting got too much and when
I was old enough I left and eventually joined the Army.”

“’e told us that last week,” Toby told Celeste. “And since we all had our own instruments, it didn’t seem
right for ‘im not to have one. So we rented ‘him a piano. It wasn’t the prettiest one in the shop, but the clerk swore it was a good one.”

“It is, Toby,” Bart assured him. “And since I can’t see it, it doesn’t matter what it looks like. It sounds recently tuned to my ear. And—”a droll expression crossed his face and he wiggled his eyebrows. “Since I have perfect pitch, I can assure you, it sounds quite fine, as do we all. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Celeste?”

“Oh, my goodness.” A sudden thought set Celeste’s skin tingling with excitement and she had to grip the back of Toby’s chair. “Would you gentlemen consider playing for the new children’s choir at Saint Alban’s?” And she told them what Headmaster Dobbins had done. “We’re probably only going to sing a traditional carol, but to have a quintet play with us would be wonderful!”

“Is this contest important?” Jasper asked.

“It’s one of the most important in London,” Celeste said. She did not add that one of the judges was a positive ogre.

“You don’t want to find some real musicians?” Tim added his own question. “We wouldn’t want to mess it up for you and those children of yours, Miss Celeste. What we do here at Hope House is like Bart says, for our own amusement, not like we was professionals.”Tim’s grammar isn’t always correct, so I’d like to leave it as.

The others, Bart included, nodded and a wave of affection brought tears to Celeste’s eyes. “I’d be proud to have you play for the choir,” she said, fighting against the wobble in her voice. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

“Then we’ll do it,” Duncan said. “Just tell us what you need us to learn. How long do we have?”

“Several weeks,” Celeste said, relief replacing the worry she had carried since Headmaster announced his scheme.
“Then let’s have our tea and talk about it,” Duncan suggested. “I’ve made
a chocolate cake with walnuts to go along with the pasties and sliced ham.”

The men stood and Celeste guided
Bart into the kitchen. Once they were seated and Duncan had served them, she asked, “So musical talent runs in your family, Bart?”

“Yes. My younger brother was brilliant, particularly at the organ.” Bart’s usual wistful expression relaxed into a smile. “Years after I left home, I heard a rumor he won a scholarship to some academy in Kent, but my step-father
made it clear he would find a way to bring
charges against me if I tried to have contact with my family, so I never learned the details.”