Star Carol for Celeste (5 page)

Even though we are so cold,

We hurry on for night grows old

Even though we are so cold,

We hurry on for night grows old

Guided by the starry glow,

Showing us the way to go.

The bell-like quality of the voices in three part harmony filled the room with their warmth while the strings and keyboard wove a tapestry of shimmering sound around them.
Micah’s heart swelled with pride as he watched the woman he loved conduct children—who until just a few weeks ago had never sung outside a church—sing now for a room full of professional musicians. A quick glance at the crowd took his breath away, and he gently touched Bart’s arm.

“Barty,” he whispered, using his childhood name for the brother he had found. “The audience. They’re standing.
They’re standing.
”

“Steady as she goes, brother,” Bart whispered back. “We’ve got three more verses.”

See the baby lying there.

In the manger rough and bare

See the baby lying there.

In the manger rough and bare

While high above angels cry again,

Peace on earth, goodwill to men.

The singing stopped and the quintet played on, the music of the strings and keyboard cradling together
the tune Micah had composed for the children of Saint Alban’s Choir. The music floated and soared gently wrapping the listener’s in a cocoon of sound. A nod from Celeste, and the children sang again.

Mary gives us a gentle smile

And bids us stay and rest awhile

Mary gives us a gentle smile

And bids us stay and rest awhile

So Joseph leads us to where we can see

This tiny king of Galilee.

Micah looked at the judges and choked back the gasp rising in his throat. Rochelle Durham was openly weeping. Daniel Hastings was blinking hard as if trying his hardest not to cry, and Phillip Tate sat in open-mouthed amazement while the audience remained standing as if waiting for some signal to start breathing again.

And so like them we all do sing

Praises to our Heavenly King

And so like them we all do sing

Praises to our Heavenly King

Sent to us from high above

This God of peace, this God of love.

The harmony dissolved back into the melody, and the children sang again as one, becoming softer
, until the final notes from voices and instruments hung in the air like
a perfect glittering jewel until nothing remained but silence.

But only for a second. A roar of approval swept around the concert hall accompanied by a thunderous wave of wild applause. The sound spun Celeste around and Micah choked back a sobbing laugh at her expression. She quickly moved to stand between the children and the quintet, gesturing at them both. The men stood, the string players clutching their instruments, while the children remained on the risers, their faces calm as if this kind of thing happened to them every day.

And then Toby came to take Micah by the elbow, lead him to Celeste and pull
them both forward to stand before the crowd. Micah had just enough time to see the quintet and the children clapping too
. Another roar rose and Micah reached for Celeste’s hand. “I think we did it,” he whispered.

“Hush,” she mouthed back.

Who knows
how long the applause might have gone if an ashen-faced Phillip Tate hadn’t turned to face the crowd, put two fingers in his mouth and issued a piercing whistle that brought them to silence. He bent forward for a second’s consultation with Rochelle and Hastings before straightening and staring back at the last group of musicians for
the day.

“While intended for amateurs, this competition is designed to celebrate and honor the best of the best,” he said. “And occasionally we are surprised, even astonished by what we hear. Just we are today
. I think it safe to say that our lives would be in danger if we didn’t do the obvious and right thing, and award, and deservedly so, the first place prize to Saint Alban’s Children’s Choir and the Hope House String Quintet.”

The crowd roared its approval once again. The children remembered they were children and jumped up and down on the risers, hugging each other and cheering, while the quintet slapped each other on the back and shook hands.

And then as the applause began to fade, Celeste asked, “Do you remember that question you asked me to think about?”

Micah’s heart punched against his ribs. “You mean about asking you to marry me?”

“Yes. I’ve thought about it.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Micah whispered, “And?”

Her smile as she turned to him held all the promise of tomorrows to come. “What do you say to a Christmas wedding, my love?”

Micah let out whoop
that rang against the rafters. “She said, yes, everyone!” he shouted. “She said
yes
!”

The kiss he planted on her lips left the crowd in no doubt of the question he had asked her, and they cheered and whistled again. The children began a mad dance around them, while “the lads” immediately began to play
Hallelujah
from Handel’s
Messiah
.

But Micah and Celeste, wrapped in their
kiss—one that needed no mistletoe—didn’t even notice.

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If you enjoyed The Comet that Came for Christmas please check out Karen Hall’s other Historical Christmas story The A Christmas Proposal:

A Christmas Proposal

London December 1897

“You said no to a proposal from Viscount Ramsfield’s son?” Great aunt Tilda Mason’s shrieked words rivaled a banshee’s cry. “Quick, Hildegarde. My smelling salts!”

From her place by the fire, Cassandra Barnwell watched the lady’s maid rush forward, the ever-ready bottle of Crayfield’s smelling salts in her hand. It was a great pity Cassandra had never invested in Crayfield’s. With the number of times her great aunt called for them each day, Cassandra’s fortune would be twice as large at it was.

Of course if Aunt Tilda would just loosen her stays and get more exercise, her old friend the vapors would probably leave on a permanent holiday.

“There, there, ma’am,” Hildegarde soothed, waving the bottle below Aunt Tilda’s nose. “You’ll soon be as right as rain.”

“I’ll probably die from palpitations by tomorrow,” Aunt Tilda wailed. “Tell me why, Cassandra. Why did you say no?”

Feeling like a Jane Austen heroine, Cassandra said, “Because in spite of being a Viscount’s son, Edward Ramsfield has nothing else to recommend him. He is quite opposed to women winning the vote and said if suffragists had husbands and homes to attend to, they would give up the notion of voting. Ergo, my refusal.”

“Mercy, you didn’t try to speak Latin to him?” Aunt Tilda clutched at her lace-covered bosom.

“If I had, I doubt he’d have understood a word of it,” Cassandra said matter-of-factly.
“Edward Ramsfield may be a Viscount’s son, but he’s a perfect dunce, and that’s being kind. I’m surprised he finished at Harrow, much less university.”

“Cassandra!”

Holding back her sigh of impatience, Cassandra said, “Hildegarde, why don’t you make Aunt Tilda a tisane or something that will calm her?”