and never night
The poem opened my mind to the depth of Sir James’s love for his wife Margaret. It made me dwell on the thought that he had no business sleeping with my mother.
He had a wife. He loved her. What was he doing allowing himself to he “beguiled” by Eve?
I was aware of a sense of guilt simply for being born. I felt bad about being the result of my mothers “moment” with a married man. I never had felt remorse because I hadn’t known any details surrounding my existence. My mother’s choice not to tell me about my father had kept me from lingering over such possible revelations. Her silence had kept me buoyant on a sea of secrecy.
I looked down at Julia’s little hand in mine and knew that no child should ever be handed the self-destructive seed of feeling guilty for being born. None of us gets to select our parents. How can any of us feel responsible for coming into this world? It wasn’t my idea to be born.
I remembered a conversation I’d had with Doralee when she was trying to find my father the second time. I told her my life must have been an accident. My guess, I said, was that my mom must have done something that “put her on God’s bad side,” and that’s why she didn’t want me or anyone to know who my father was. We were cursed.
Doralee got pretty revved up and said my life was not an accident. She said all of us start life “on God’s bad side,” under a curse. She said we all need someone who will make things right for us with God.
That’s how she explained Jesus to me. He was the only one since Adam and Eve who wasn’t locked into the curse when he was born.
“Cod is supreme,” she told me. “Your life was no mistake, Miranda. God can do whatever he wants. Isn’t it obvious he wants you?”
At the time I said I much preferred the premise that I was an accident of nature and in control of my own destiny. At least my destiny in this life. After that, I wasn’t sure what happened.
Julia gave my hand a gentle squeeze, checking to make sure I was still listening to her chatter. I gave her little hand a squeeze back and decided that going to church on Christmas morning felt right, as if a part of me was saying to God, “All right, I’m here. Go ahead. Show me what you’ve got. This is your chance. Prove to me that I’m not a fluke of evolution.”
I didn’t mean those words in a disrespectful way. I was looking for affirmation. Much like Julia squeezing my hand, I wanted to know if God was paying attention and if he would squeeze back.
As I became more curious about what awaited me at the church service, we arrived at the same charming village chapel I had walked past the night before. Sunlight spilled over the top of the spire and warmed the quilted earth that trailed from the rose bed and covered the quarried gravestones. The image was glorious. If ever I felt in the mood to set foot inside a church, this was the morning.
We arrived early because Mark and Julia had parts in the Christmas service. Julia was jumping up and down on one foot by the time we filed through the arched entrance. The inside of the stone church felt as chilly as the outside. Small electrical heaters were plugged into a long orange extension cord. The metal grates were glowing red, huffing and puffing out their heat in an effort to warm the cavernous space.
Ellie took the children to where they were to report for their part in the service. Edward and I filed into a wooden pew four rows from the church’s front. I kept my coat on after I sat down. Actually, the coat was Ellie’s and much warmer than mine. It came past my knees, and the collar was made from white rabbit fur, warming my neck and shoulders luxuriously. I was grateful that none of the well-dressed worshippers could see my casual apparel under the coat. On the outside, thanks to Ellie, I fit in.
As others from the village entered the church and took their seats, I looked around the sanctuary. The church was designed with the same feel of ornate Victorian splendor as the theater the night before. A variety of textures dominated the floor, ceiling, and walls. The stained-glass windows along the sides of the chapel seemed to come alive in the morning light, showing off the tranquil expressions of the subjects.
I gazed at all four of the tall windows that balanced each other on the sides of the chapel. I didn’t know who any of the people were supposed to be. Doralee would have known. Aside from Mary and Joseph, the only biblical character I was familiar with was Christ.
His image was the central figure in a stained-glass window at the front of the chapel, behind the altar. The representation was Anglo-Saxon looking, which I found amusing. The artist who designed the stained-glass window had given the Christ figure long, flowing blond hair. That seemed odd to me since I knew Jesus lived in the Middle East and therefore would have had dark features.
I liked everything else about the window. Christ was portrayed as a ruling king seated on a throne. Instead of appearing aloof in his majesty, this Jesus had a compelling expression. His arms were extended out in a gesture of invitation. Clearly visible were red pieces of stained glass strategically placed where the nails had been driven through his wrists.
With the sunshine so perfectly centered behind the front of the church, the emblazoned image of Christ shone with a golden intensity. I didn’t have the impression that he might lunge across the open expanse and devour me, like a one-eyed dragon might. Instead, his open arms reminded me of how welcoming Andrew was when he greeted me at the Tea Cosy with, “Come in, come in, and know me better, friend.”
Ellie slid into the pew next to me and gave my arm a pat. I smiled at her, but all I wanted to do was shrink down into the warm coat. I felt the fur come up to my ears. As warm as the coat made me feel, I couldn’t suppress a rising sense of discomfort that started in my stomach and worked its way to the top of my head. I knew this discomfort. I had felt it the day I had decided to believe in my father. That day all the old myths were abolished. The new belief took over. And that belief in my father had been true.
Adjusting my posture, I reminded myself that if—and only if—I was going to believe in God, I would have to let go of some strongly held presuppositions to make way for the supernatural. Then I remembered all the coincidences since I had arrived in England and how they begged for an explanation. Along with these coincidences was all the kindness I was being shown for no earthly reason. Could any of this have to do with God?
An even more unsettling thought came over me, intensifying my discomfort. Could it be that God was the one who had offered the first squeeze of my hand, so to speak, and now it was my turn to squeeze back?
A woman wearing a red floral shawl over a simple black dress stepped up to the front of the church with a violin and bow in her hand. The congregation hushed as she tucked the polished instrument under her chin and played. Her passion for her music was evident. This was not a production. She felt what she was playing, and it flowed from her fingertips. The beauty of her expression was something I hadn’t expected to see or experience in a church.
At the end of her piece, a man who had been standing to the side took the last note she played and began to sing a capella. The words that rolled from his deep chest were of the omnipotent God and included the words, “Wonderful,” “Counselor,” “Everlasting Father,” and “Prince of Peace.”
He concluded with a long note that resonated with such depth that it seemed to warm the pews. Stepping to the side, he made way for four children, including Mark and Julia, to tromp down the center aisle. The children took their places. Julia looked adorable in her red and white Christmas dress and red rubber rain boots. She held her hands behind her back and grinned widely at her mom. Mark stood tall and unsmiling, looking straight ahead. He was wearing a robe over his clothes and a fancy silk turban on his head.
The first boy in the lineup was dressed as a beggar with appropriate soot smudges on his face. He took a step forward and in a blaring voice shouted, “’My Gift’ by Christina Rossetti. What can I give Him, poor as I am?’“ He stepped back in place.
The next boy stepped forward holding a shepherd’s staff. He also was wearing a
robe. “’If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb.’“ He held up a stuffed lamb the size of a football.
Mark stepped forward with all the dash and drama that must run in his veins and said with perfect inflection, “’If I were a wise man I would do my part.’“
He stepped back.
Julia was still looking around, hands behind her back, grinning at every parishioner she recognized.
Whispering from the side of his mouth, Mark urged his sister forward.
She took a big step in her oversized boots. Swallowing and extending her round little chin, she said her line with sweetness. “’Yet, what can I give Him? Give my heart.’“ From behind her back, she pulled out a big red Valentine-shaped heart and held it for all to see.
The congregation’s approval was instant, though formal. If it’s possible to “feel” a room of people smiling, that’s what I felt.
Mark and Julia wedged into the pew with us. Mark sat next to his father, and Julia squeezed in between Ellie and me. She held the red heart in her lap with great care and swung her crossed ankles demurely. It was evident that the little star was quite pleased.
A minister took his position behind the carved wooden pulpit and read from an enormous book. I soon guessed it to be the Bible because the passage was about shepherds abiding in the fields at night to keep watch over the sheep. I recognized the story from watching a rerun of the old A Charlie Brown Christmas a few years ago on TV. One of the cartoon characters, I think it was Linus, recited the same lines about how an angel appeared and told the shepherds not to be afraid. Unto them was born that day a child. The angels sang. The shepherds hurried to Bethlehem where they found Mary and Joseph and the baby, who was lying in a manger.
My gaze rose to the stained-glass image of Christ, who was seated as a ruler. The Prince of Peace, with his arms extended in an invitation. Accessible. Willing to make things right with me before omnipotent God.
Access to a father. My father. That was all I ever longed for.
My eyes teared up.
The minister concluded the reading, and the congregation stood. I stood with them. The minister recited a prayer. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
Everyone around me joined in and recited the lyrical prayer, but I didn’t. I didn’t know the words. That’s because he was their Father, not mine. They could climb up on his strong shoulders and make daring leaps into the mysterious depths without fear. They had the relationship. I did not. And yet, I was invited to come.
Blinking away my tears, I stared across the watery distance. There, at the deep end of the church, the golden Savior seemed to be staring back at me.
I didn’t move. Neither did he.
Chapter Nineteen
On the drive back to the house after the Christmas service, I kept blinking. I’d gone too deep at church. Too deep into the mystery of all that couldn’t be explained. It felt as if we were driving away from a singular presence and I was dripping with whatever the spiritual equivalent might be of pool chlorine. It would be too easy for him to follow my trail. I wanted Edward to drive faster before the golden-eyed Savior came after me.
Closing and bolting the door of my heart, I didn’t peek out to see if he was still there. Instead, I pressed all my thoughts to picturing how I would finish this day. A sketchy plan formulated. First, I would draw Edward aside before Christmas dinner was served. I would lay out the facts for him, even though he wouldn’t want to hear what I had to say. I would show him the poem, the photo, and the playbill and tell him the name that appeared on my birth certificate. I would put the information out there. That was fair.
Then I would leave. I would return to the London hotel. If Edward wanted to tell his wife or anyone else, it would be his choice. If he wanted to contact me before I left London, I would leave the name of the hotel with him.
That way I wouldn’t intrude any longer on this family. If Edward chose not to believe me or take into account the evidence, it didn’t matter. I knew. I had received what I came all this way to find.
We arrived back at the house, and the children moaned that the snow was melting. Edward said he would take them into the back garden to build a snowman and sent them upstairs to change into what he called their “woolies.”
I knew that would give me the ten minutes I needed alone with Edward before slipping out of the house and returning to London. Ellie would understand. I knew she would.
In an effort to put all the mannerly pieces in their proper places, as we climbed out of the car, I said to Ellie, “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I especially appreciate the handkerchief you gave me. Are you sure it’s okay if I keep it?”
She waved her hand. “Oh yes. Definitely. I have quite a few. My mother-in-law has been embroidering them for years.”
“Margaret?” I asked. “Your mother-in-law, Margaret, embroidered the handkerchief?”
“Yes. It’s a bit of a hobby for her, really. She paints as well. You’ll meet her this afternoon when she arrives. You’ll love her. She’s a beautiful person.”
I stopped in my slushy tracks. “Margaret is coming here? This afternoon?”
“Yes, of course. She lives here with us, you know. She went to Bedford for a few days to be with Edward’s sister, Marion, for Christmas Eve. They usually come here, Marion and Gordon and their brood, but this year they decided to huddle close to the home fires. Margaret is an absolute sweetheart. You’ll see.”
“I didn’t know she was still alive.”
“Oh yes, very much alive.”
My plan to disclose my secret and then flee now seemed like a bad idea. It was one thing to tell a grown man his father had been unfaithful. That was stunning enough. To reveal to an elderly widow that I was the result of her husband’s indiscretion thirty years earlier… it felt cruel.
Ellie stepped into the house and looked at me over her shoulder. “Are you coming in? I’m going to get straight to work in the kitchen, and I will tell you now, I absolutely don’t allow anyone in there when I’m creating. I’m rather selfish that way. I hope you understand. I will accept assistance on the cleanup, though.”
She grinned and set off for the kitchen.
I stepped in under the “Grace and Peace Reside Here” motto and closed the front door. Alone in the entryway, I thought that leaving right then sounded like a good choice. The best choice. No one in Carlton Heath needed to know. Ever.
However, Katharine knew. I knew she knew. If Edward, Ellie, or Margaret ever heard of this missing piece of Sir James’s life, it shouldn’t come to them because Katharine felt compelled to speak up after I had gone. That wouldn’t be fair to the Whit-combes or Katharine, either.
I also knew that Katharine and Andrew were still planning to come to Christmas dinner because they had discussed what they were bringing when we chatted in the church after the service. I was feeling hemmed in.
Climbing the stairs to the privacy of the guestroom, I entered and closed the door. My exhaustion was real as I stretched out on the bed. I had been in England for only twenty-four hours, yet everything in my heart and life had spun off into another galaxy.
“What should I do?” I whispered. “What should I do?”
I rolled over on the bed, and a beam of winter sunlight slipped through the thickpaned window and touched the side of my face.
I bolted upright and looked around.
He was here. He had followed me into this room, through the closed door. Not literally followed me, of course, but I knew he was there all the same. He hadn’t stayed on his stained-glass throne. He had come to me and was with me now. I couldn’t shake him.
“What do you want?” I whispered in a trembling voice.
All was silent. Peacefully silent except for the pounding of my heart. And in my heart I knew why he was there. I knew what he wanted. Wasn’t it obvious, as Doralee had said? He wanted me.
Inside the silence, surrounded by the mystery, I spoke the single word that had been lying in wait
all these years. “Father.”
His name tasted like golden syrup on the tip of my tongue.
I remained still. Very still.
The only sound I heard was Mark and Julia shouting and squealing as they played in the snow in the back garden. A moment later I heard another sound. Loud, cheerful voices echoed in the entryway. Doors opened and closed. I heard Ellie’s laughter. Margaret had arrived.
I didn’t want to go downstairs. I didn’t want to meet Margaret. I didn’t want the woman who had shared her life with Sir James Whitcombe for fifty-eight years to look into my eyes and note that they were clear and blue like her husband’s.
I wanted to evaporate. To turn into a snowflake, fly out the bedroom window, and melt in the arms of some inconspicuous shrub.
But an unfamiliar sense of hope covered me and coaxed me out of my fear. He was still here. He hadn’t left me alone. Even though I had spoken no specific words nor understood entirely what had transpired, relinquishing my heart to him had been distinct and fixed forever. He had come to me, and I had folded myself into his greatness. I believed.
A light tapping on the guest-room door kicked my heartbeat up a notch or two. I didn’t respond. The knock repeated.
“Miranda?” It was Andrew’s voice, his Scottish brogue rolling the “r.”
“Yes?”
“Ah! Miranda, I’ve been sent to invite you to come downstairs and join the festivities.”
Without moving from the bed, I timidly called out, “Andrew?”
“Still here,” he replied from behind the closed door.
“Who else is here?”
“Katharine is downstairs, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Anyone else?”
“Ah! You’re wondering if my son has arrived yet. You can put yourself at ease. For the time being, the only MacGregors downstairs would be Katharine and myself. Now, shall I tell Ellie you’ll be joining us, or are you looking for a little peace and quiet?”
“I’ll… I’ll be down in a few minutes.”