The Christmas Candle (4 page)

Edward's curiosity mounted as the couple's cups emptied. He was soon drumming the table with his fingers. “What is this all about?” he finally asked.

Elizabeth looked at James. He bore a heavy salt-and-pepper beard and a mop of matted hair. He pulled off his hat and wrung it like a wet rag and looked toward Elizabeth, who urged him on by pressing her lips together.

“The missus and I have a request.”

A request? Edward was puzzled.

James squeezed his hat again and shifted forward in his chair. “Me and Elizabeth were wondering . . . You know I never ask anything of you, Edward. I always pay what I owe.”

“That you do,” the chandler offered. “So how can we help you?”

“My luck ran out. A couple of months back I was rollin' quite nice in a game in the pub. All cards were comin' my way. I knew I couldn't lose, so I bet it all. I even bet the next six months' earnings. Every shilling.”

Elizabeth groaned.

James looked down at the floor and said, “I lost.”

“You lost?”

“Everything. Elizabeth still has a few pence, but that's all we have left.”

Edward scratched his head. “Well, I can't say that I know much about cards, but if you're looking for some advice, I know a fellow in Bibury—”

“The candle!” Elizabeth blurted.

“The candle?” Edward asked.

“Edward,” offered Bea in a firm tone, “the Christmas Candle. After the angel's visit. They would like us to give them the candle.”

“We're broke, Edward,” James said. “The lord of the manor wants his rent money, and, well, he has been wanting it for two months now. He's talking eviction.”

“Oh, I don't think . . . Surely he would listen to you.”

“He won't. We've tried. Edward, you're our only hope.”

“I see.” Edward looked at Bea for a few moments, then at the floor and back to his friend. “Well, you know, James, your need poses a bit of a problem.” He cleared his throat. “We're still a week from the angel's coming, and many people have already stopped by.”

Bea kept her hand on Elizabeth's as Edward continued his explanation. The same explanation he had given the farmer whose oldest son had broken his leg just before harvest, leaving the farmer shorthanded. “I left a year's earnings in the field. I could use a miracle.”

The same explanation he had given to Widow Leonard. Too old to work, she lived on what she took in from renting out the back of her house. She told Edward how new tenants were hard to find and how there wouldn't be enough money to buy coal for the rest of the winter.

“The Smith family needs help too,” Edward continued. “They have twins, you know, sweetest little things. Have you seen them? Why, when Mrs. Smith walked in my shop with one in each arm—”

“Edward,” Bea interrupted, once again bumping him back on track.

“Oh yes. Well, she fears for their health. And then Phineas Austen dropped by. Let's see, Bea, was it last Friday? Saturday? No matter. His wife is losing her sight. You've seen her. She's using a cane now. All those years of making . . . What is it she makes, dear?”

“Bonnets, Edward. She stitches lace on bonnets.”

“She's going blind, and that's what I thought Phineas wanted to discuss. But he is more concerned about their son. He's in trouble with the law, and they fear”—by now Edward was lighting his pipe—“that he may”—he stopped midsentence to take a couple of puffs from his pipe—“end up in prison.”

James stared at the floor, and Elizabeth leaned her forehead into her fingers.

“And who was it that came yesterday after Sunday services, Bea?”

“I believe you've made your point, Edward.”

“I have?”

“Yes, you have,” James assured. “Many requests. Many requests. I just thought . . . We just thought that, well . . .”

Bea slid her chair next to Elizabeth's. “We do understand. And we will pray. That's all we can do. Pray. We don't know why God has given us this gift. But we pray that he will direct us. He did before.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I think often of Charles Barstow,” she said. “Twenty-five years ago—before you gave him the candle—he was as directionless as a ship with no rudder. Now look at him. He is a fine man, fine indeed. You chose well.”

“God led us then, and he will again. Now,” Bea said, “we've all got work to do.”

Bea and Edward stood in the doorway as their visitors departed. Edward wrapped an arm around his wife, and she asked, “What are we going to do? So many people need the candle. How can we decide who to give it to?”

Edward said nothing.

“I've been thinking,” Bea said.

“About what?''

“That we could use the candle for ourselves. Our need is as deep as they come.”

Edward shook his head slowly. “I don't know, dear. Our family has always given it away.”

“But has any Haddington faced what we're facing?”

Edward reached across and took her hand. “We'll see. We'll see.”

Abigail passed the morning the way she had begun it: seated on a train, holding her baby, pondering the words of the letter. London streets gave way to England countryside. Even under the blanket of winter, the hills maintained their charm. Abigail could see villages in each valley marked by tall towers, gabled roofs, and clustering elms.

It felt good to be going home. She just wished for different circumstances. Her fingers twisted the corner of her baby's blanket as if her hands needed something to hold on to.
Will it be the same?
she wondered.

CHAPTER 5
SATURDAY EVENING

December 17, 1864

Guests occupied every corner of the Barstow parlor. With full bellies and filled glasses, they lingered long after the meal. Charles Barstow discussed politics with two guests from Upper Slaughter. Mr. Chumley listened politely to an elderly friend's complaints about arthritis. Mrs. Barstow relayed the latest gossip on romance and marriage.

Bea and Edward had declined the invitation to dinner. Everyone understood why. This was, after all,
the
night. The eve of the final Advent Sunday. They had preparations to make, a guest to receive.

The reverend, however, had accepted the Barstows' invitation.

“You came.” Emily brightened as he arrived. In six months the two had shared no more than six sentences, but he had noticed her watching him.

“I saw you last week joking with the Johnson children,” she noted as the two talked.

The rector smiled, pleased to be caught in an act of kindness. “I, uh, I enjoy them.

Their mother is sick, you know.”

“I know.”

“The twelve-year-old asks me many questions.”

“Does he?”

“Great questions. Questions of faith and God.”

“Like?”

The reverend's voice animated just slightly. “The other day he mused, ‘How do we know we aren't butterflies dreaming we are humans?'”

Emily smiled. “And you told him?”

“I told him, ‘That's a good question.'”

The two laughed, and his face softened.

“You should do that more often,” Emily urged.

“Do what?”

“Laugh!” She clapped her hands. “I never see you laugh.”

Richmond looked down at his tea.

“Do you find Gladstone dull?” she ventured.

“Dull? Of course not . . .”

Her eyes betrayed her disbelief, so he adjusted his response, admitting, “At first, yes. I confess, my heart was set on going elsewhere.”

“London?”

“I was raised there. My father is a friend of the bishop. It made sense that I serve in London.”

“But . . .”

“London was not an option.”

“I thought you had family connections.”

“Other factors were considered.” As soon as the words left his mouth, the reverend's face flushed, and he looked away. Emily waited for him to continue, but he didn't.

“The candle.” Emily finally changed the subject. “You must know everyone is upset that you aren't saying anything about the candle in your sermons.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I don't understand. Don't you believe in it?”

“I can't encourage false hope. I want no part of disappointing people.”

“And the candle disappoints people?”

“How can it not? One candle. A village of needs. God would not single out one person and ignore the others. It's not fair.”

Emily replied with measured words. “Perhaps he singles out one person to show the others what he can do.”

The reverend started to speak, then stopped. “Can I think about that?”

She smiled her yes.

“Excuse me, but Sarah and I are bidding our farewells,” Mr. Chumley interrupted.

“Our bedtime nears. We aren't young like you,” Sarah added. “Have you had a good evening?”

“Quite.” The minister nodded.

“Tomorrow's a working day for you, Reverend. Are you ready with a sermon?”

“Indeed it is, and that I am.”

With a wry smile Mr. Chumley looked at the young minister. “And all this talk about the candle. Are you converted yet, or do you still stand with me on the cynic's side of the fence?”

“Mr. Chumley,” Sarah interrupted her husband, “the hour is too late to wade into another discussion. Let's get your hat and cane.”

“I suppose we'll know more soon. Good night.”

“I suppose we shall,” Reverend Richmond agreed. “Good night to you both.”

The young couple watched the Chumleys leave.

After some time Richmond spoke. “I suppose I should leave as well.”

“Perhaps we could visit again?” Emily risked.

He started to speak, stopped, then continued. “I'm not who you think I am, Emily. I'm not as hard as the village thinks, nor am I as good as you think. I've made mistakes and . . .”

“And mistakes are to be put in the past.”

“Emily?” Mr. Barstow called from the door. “Can you join us? Our guests are leaving.”

“Certainly, Grandfather,” she answered but turned to the minister first and with a slight smile repeated, “in the past.”

CHAPTER 6
LATE SATURDAY NIGHT

December 17, 1864

A A dancing fire warmed Edward's shop, and two hanging lanterns illuminated it. Bea kept him company, rocking and knitting in the corner.

He enjoyed talking as he worked, and Bea didn't mind listening.

“Did I tell you about the merchant from Ironbridge I met at the pub?” He measured twine as he talked, cutting it into ten-inch strips.

“I don't think you did.”

“He told me about Thomas Trevor, a chandler who works near the coal mines. He employs four workers twelve hours a day. With the five of them, they produce nearly five thousand candles a week.”

“I can't imagine the sort.”

“Why, the most I can ever sell in Gladstone is a hundred a week. Although here I am preparing thirty for tomorrow alone.”

“Tomorrow's different.”

Edward completed his cutting and began wrapping the twine on one of the three rods of his dipping rack.

“This Trevor fellow has a tool he calls the ‘nodding donkey.' It rotates like an indoor windmill, holding six racks, with each holding thirty or so candles by the wicks as they dry. He even has a machine for cutting the wicks. He sets a dozen spools in a tray, stretches the strings across a table, and lowers the blade on them. He calls it a guillotine.”

“I can see why.”

“You haven't heard the half of it. Trevor makes some of the candles green.”

Bea lowered her needles and looked up. “Who wants green candles?”

“Mine owners do. It seems that some of their workers find the tallow tasty and have taken to chewing it. Others think the wax protects their throats from the dust. For whatever reason, miners chew the candles, eating up the mine owner's property and profits.”

“But green candles?”

“The color sticks to the mouth. When a foreman spots a worker with green lips and tongue, he boots him out.”

Bea shook her head and placed her knitting in a basket. “It's not worth a candle.”

“Indeed not.”

“I'm going to the house, but I'll be back.”

“Bundle up.”

Edward tied the last of the strips of twine to the rack, took it by either side, and walked across the shop. He lowered the thirty strings into the tub of hot tallow long enough for the waxy substance to cling and then lifted them out. As he repeated the process again and again, the candles began to thicken, and his thoughts began to wander.

Blame it on the late hour or significant night or both, but Edward grew nostalgic, reflective. “How many times have I done this? How many hours in this shop?” he said aloud to no one but himself. “My, it's been good. Good wife, friends . . . faith.”

Cold air rushed into the room. He turned and saw Bea standing in the doorway. The fireplace glow silhouetted her frame. Her face was left in shadows, and for a moment he saw her as she had looked at age twenty-five. Slim figure. Her hair burnt orange, as bright as a summer sunset, reminding him of the night fifty years earlier when they had first seen the angel.

Edward's reverie was interrupted by the sound of his wife's voice. “Edward? Did you hear me? Would you like some tea?”

“Yes. That would be nice.” Edward, content with the width of the candles, suspended the rack on eye-level ceiling hooks in the center of the shop.

Bea handed him a cup, and the two stood looking at the rack.

“Remember fifty years ago?” he asked. “The first candle we gave?”

“To Reverend Pillington. How could I forget?”

“He and I were the same age.”

“He was a year younger perhaps. But he was so desperate to believe.”

Edward nodded. “I remember feeling odd giving a candle of faith to a man of faith.”