I wondered if, by this grand performance, Andrew was picking up the Father Christmas gap that had been left when Sir James passed away. Whatever the reason, Andrew’s magical appearance was a gift to all of them.
“I have one more present here. Let me see. Who is this for? Oh, yes. Miranda.” His rolling brogue peeked through when he said my name. I think that one slip unveiled to Mark the identity of Father Christmas, if he hadn’t figured it out before. Mark was a good big brother, though, and kept the discovery to himself.
Andrew, or rather, Father Christmas, handed me a small gold box with a red ribbon. I thanked him politely and played along by adding a bit of a curtsey. Julia followed my cue and gave a curtsey as well, jiggling with joy.
“Happy Christmas to you, one and all!”
“Happy Christmas to you, Father Christmas!” Julia could barely contain herself as Andrew mounted the stout horse and urged it to trot away.
“Thank you, Father Christmas!” Mark called out as the endearing man and his horse etched a trail in the snow down the long driveway. “Come back next year!”
“And bring me a pony!” Julia called out.
Edward and Ellie laughed.
“May I open my present now?” Julia wiggled like a jitterbug. “Please, Mummy?”
“Of course, but wouldn’t you like to go inside first?”
“Yes, my feet are cold!”
We all agreed, stomped our feet, and returned to the comfy drawing room by the fire where we sat with our gifts on our laps.
Julia and Mark didn’t need to be invited twice to open their gifts. Julia unwrapped a little girl’s tea set and gave a squeal of delight. She immediately went to work, placing the cups and saucers on one of the end tables.
Mark pulled from his opened box a bow-and-arrow set, complete with a quiver and its long strap to position over his shoulder. His excitement was uncontainable.
Ellie and Edward exchanged glances that said, “We’re going to have a talk with Andrew about this later.”
“May I try it out now?” Mark asked. The strap was in place, the three arrows were in the quiver, and his feet were heading out of the room.
“Go in front of the house,” Ellie said, “so we can watch you.”
“And aim away from the house,” Edward added.
Mark gave his parents a gleeful smirk over his shoulder, as if they should know he was mature enough to aim the arrows in the right direction without their having to tell him.
“What did Father Christmas bring you?” Julia moved toward me, eyeing the only unopened gift left in the room. Ellie had opened the box of candy that had been given to her and Edward.
“I don’t know.” I shook the small box next to my ear. “I can’t imagine what it could be. Can you guess?”
“I think it’s a turtle,” Julia said.
I smiled at her whimsical answer. “It might be. Would you help me open it?”
I handed the gift over to our expert, and she put her five-year-old fingers to fast work, peeling back the gift wrap.
“It’s not a turtle.” She looked up, a little disappointed. “It’s only a teapot with a ribbon.”
Julia dangled the dainty Christmas tree ornament in front of me.
“Lovely,” Ellie said. “And fragile, isn’t it, Julia? We must be careful not to drop fragile ornaments.”
“I love it.” I received the gift as Julia carefully placed it in my open hands. It was the first Christmas ornament I had ever been given. I found the kindness shown to me by Ellie and now by Katharine to be far beyond my ability to understand. Were all British people this trusting and generous to strangers? Or had Katharine and Ellie sensed the same inexplicable connection to me that I felt to them?
“I know where you can keep the teapot safe,” Julia said.
“Where is that?”
“You could put it in your stocking. Your Christmas stocking.”
“That’s a good idea, Julia. I’ll do that.”
“If you like, I could put it in your stocking for you. That way it won’t get broken, will it, Mummy?”
“That’s right, darling. A stocking is a good place for a delicate ornament.”
I handed over the little teapot to Julia for safekeeping. She scampered off, and Edward went over to the front window, nodding at Mark, who was ready to take aim at a tree with his bow and arrow. Ellie tidied up the room, chattering about the explosion of gift wrap being messier than in years past.
I realized this would be a good time for me to speak up. A much better time than earlier, when the children were in the room. What I had to say was for Edward and Ellie to hear.
“Keep your elbow up, Mark,” Edward called out through the front window, pointing to his elbow. In a lower voice he added, “Andrew is going to have a piece of my mind before this week is out.”
“He was being kind to the children. So kind. And Mark is twelve, you know.”
“Of course I know he’s twelve. And he’s holding a better stance than I thought he would. Has he done archery before?”
“Last summer. At the Culliford’s lawn party. Do you remember how young Anna challenged Mark and the other boys to an archery contest and then bested them all?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. I had forgotten about that.” Edward waved and nodded at his son, as Mark made an improved shot that glanced off the side of the tree trunk. “It might be all right after all. He does have the posture, doesn’t he?”
“He’s your son.” Ellie sent a soft smile across the room to her husband’s back.
A brief pause hovered over us, and I opened my lips to speak. Nothing came out. I began to tremble. Swallowing and stepping over to the fireplace, I reached up for the framed picture. Gathering all my courage, I tried to speak again, this time with a visual aid.
“Edward, Ellie, I wanted to say something to you both, and now seems like a good time.”
They turned to face me.
I smiled.
Go ahead. Tell them.
As my lips parted, Julia skipped into the room. “Miranda, is this yours? This little blue pillow?”
Chapter Seventeen
Julia, no!” I nearly dropped the framed photograph in my hand as I rushed to snatch the blue velvet purse away from startled Julia. Her lower lip quivered.
“It’s all right,” I said quickly. It didn’t appear that she had opened the purse. “I was surprised to see you with this, that’s all. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Julia, it’s not polite to touch other people’s belongings,” Edward said with a fatherly firmness.
Realizing I was still holding the frame, I took the admonition along with Julia and returned the photo to its rightful place on the mantel.
“Sorry, Miranda,” Julia said in a small voice.
“It’s okay, sweetie.” My voice came out light and softer. I smiled in her direction, and she seemed to perk up. “Really, honey, don’t feel bad.”
“Julia loves to help out, don’t you, darling?” Ellie went to her daughter and gave her some reassuring pats. Looking at me Ellie added, “She’s forever fetching items for me. Coats and purses. Is everything all right, then?”
“Yes, fine. Sorry I jumped the way I did.”
“Don’t worry. It’s all right. Julia, why don’t you set up a tea party for us? Would you like that?”
Julia gave a timid nod and went to the end table where her tiny tea set was waiting.
“Shall I pour, or will you?” Ellie asked.
“I’ll pour, silly Mummy. It’s my party.” Julia cast a shy glance at me.
I smiled, hoping my outburst hadn’t ruined the closeness I had felt with Julia earlier.
She looked at her tea set and then back at me. “Would you like to come to my tea party, too?”
“Yes, I would like to come very much.”
“Then you can sit right there.” She went to work pouring invisible tea into one of the four cups.
The three of us “ladies,” as Julia now calle
d us, sipped our invisible tea while Edward remained at the window, watching his pajama-wearing son shoot another arrow into the air.
“It’s a wonder he isn’t frozen solid yet.” Ellie glanced over her shoulder at Mark. “We should call him inside, though. We do need to get ready for the Christmas service.”
Edward left the room, and Ellie excused herself from the tea party, thanking her hostess before turning back into the mother and sending Julia upstairs to dress for church. I offered to help in any way I could. Ellie assured me there was nothing more to do.
“The turkey is already in the oven,” she said. “I’ve managed to organize everything this year, so I think there’s only one thing for you to do, and this is only if you would like, because I can certainly do it later. But the cutlery needs to be laid out on the dining table.”
I assumed she meant I could set the table with the silverware, but I didn’t see a dining-room table in the drawing room.
“It’s all on the sideboard in the dining room, which is the room directly across from the study. I can show you now, if you’d like.”
Clutching the blue purse, I followed Ellie into the dining room where she showed me how she wanted the table to be set. The china plates were a cheerful seasonal pattern with sprigs of holly and bright red berries circling the edges. Each of the twelve places had a dinner plate and a bread plate. Silverware of all shapes and sizes accompanied the various plates and needed to be positioned on the table just so.
Down the center of the ivory tablecloth ran a winding swath of fresh evergreen boughs. The fragrance enlivened the rather small formal dining room. Tea candles were tucked here and there, ready to give a soft glow when the time came for the Christmas feast. Over the table hung a simple chandelier with red and green ribbons entwined around the dangling crystals.
Edward appeared in the doorway. “Ellie, did you have a chance to give one last look to the papers on the desk?”
“No, I didn’t. Do you need to make the decision today, or can you wait?”
“I can wait, of course, but I will be seeing Robert at the service this morning. He is eager for an answer, you know. After the party last night, he and I put our best efforts into the discussion, but I’m afraid we have failed to come to an agreement.”
“Right.” Ellie handed me the forks. “The papers are still on the desk?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come have a look. Then we really must dress for church.”
Ellie and her husband stepped into the study across the hall. I could hear their voices but didn’t think they realized how clearly their words carried from room to room.
“It does seem, Edward, that finding this paper in your father’s wallet should be reason enough to include it in the collection.”
“Robert would agree with you, of course. I was only hoping for some possible clarification.”
“What we really need is a fresh pair of eyes on this,” Ellie said.
I heard Edward’s brisk footsteps returning to the dining room. He stuck out his jaw and looked at me through the lower portion of his glasses. His stance reminded me of a scientist examining a rare bug. “Are you by any chance good at word games, Miranda?”
“Not especially.”
“Pity.” He sighed. “Would you mind coming and having a look anyway? We have a small problem with a short poem.”
Mystified, I followed him across the hall into the study. In front of us was the fabulous, wide desk. The top of the desk was covered with papers that seemed to have been placed in a specific order. The handwriting on all the pages matched. Some of the pages were filled with words and spaced like a handwritten letter. Other pages had only a few words. Even though the pages were upside down from where I stood, I could see the consistent slant of the author’s penmanship.
“It’s this one.” Ellie pointed to a piece of paper in the far corner. The page at one time had been folded into a small rectangle and was now yellowed along the many creases.
“We’re trying to make a final decision on several pieces of my father’s works, which are under consideration by the British Theatrical Preservation League for a historical collection. We’re certain the piece in question is in his handwriting. It matches all the other pieces. However, this poem simply doesn’t follow the pattern or logic of his other works.”
“In other words, none of us understands what the poem means,” Ellie said.
“We believe it was an original piece and not copied from a quote. The challenge is that we’re being asked to provide some reference data and, quite frankly, we’re puzzled. If there is a meaning to the piece, it certainly has escaped us.”
By that point in the conversation, my heart was pounding. These were my father’s papers. I was looking at his letters, in his handwriting.
Stepping to the other side of the desk, I held my racing pulse in check as I read the five lines that solidified my birthright.
by lake shore in moon glow
first time only time
as it was at the beginning of time
beguiling eve once
now ever in this jailed heart
I knew what the poem meant.
I knew all about the moonlit night beside a lake on a feathery bed of moss. James Whitcombe slept there with beguiling Eve Carson, the actress, and the memory of her had never left him. It was the first time, the only time, he was unfaithful to his wife. My mother had taken the photo from his wallet, and in its place he had inserted this small clue. A poem. An ode to beguiling Eve, and perhaps a temperate reminder to his failed vow of faithfulness.
“It’s a mystery.” Ellie shook her head. “I’m not sure anyone can explain the meaning. Apparently, it was special to him. That is the part we can choose to honor.”
I clenched my jaw, hoping my expression wouldn’t give away any of the emotions that came rushing forth. Long ago I had chosen to believe in my father. After seeing the photo, seeing the name of his community theater on the playbill, and hearing this poem, I knew my father was real. His name was Sir James Whitcombe. The sweetest part about these words, written in my father’s hand, was that my mother had meant something to him. He had carried a memory of her in his wallet.
“Any thoughts, Miranda?” Edward turned to me with his bug-examining expression.
I hesitated far too long. Edward and Ellie stared at me until I finally spoke, my voice cracking as I said, “I think the poet was writing about a woman. The woman was named Eve. He wanted to remember her.”
By the stunned expressions on their faces, I knew they never had considered the possibility that the “eve” in the poem might be a person and not a reference to the time of day.
Ellie read the words again and shook her head. “That couldn’t be right. If it’s a love poem, the name would be Margaret. Not Eve. He and Margaret were married for fifty-eight years. He wrote a number of poems to her.”
Obviously, James had experienced a season, or perhaps only a moment, with Eve. I was the living proof of that.
“Maybe,” I said gingerly, “your father had a moment, so to speak, with another woman, and—”
Before I could finish, Edward brusquely squared his shoulders. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s certainly not probable.” Ellie gave me a sympathetic expression the way one would look at an outsider who didn’t know anything. “We do appreciate your willingness to offer an opinion. That is why we asked you. But, you see, that possibility is not probable.”
“Not at all probable,” Edward stated firmly. “Not probable and certainly not possible.”
“But she wouldn’t know that, Edward, because, after all… ” Turning to me, Ellie said kindly, “You didn’t know Edward’s father.”
Clenching my jaw and looking away I said, “You’re right. I didn’t know him.”
“We’d best be getting ready for church, Edward.”
The two of them turned to leave the study, but I longed to stay where I was, right there, in the midst of my father’
s letters.
Edward stopped at the doorway and cleared his throat.
I looked up and with my bravest smile said, “Would it be all right if I stayed in here?”
“Certainly,” Ellie answered. “It’s a wonderful room, isn’t it?”
“Would it also be all right if I had a look at the rest of these papers?” I knew my request was bold, but I longed to touch something my father had touched. I knew these papers might be the only chance I would have to glimpse his heart.
Ellie looked to Edward for his answer to my strange question.
“You’re not a reporter or anything, are you?”
“No, I’m not a reporter.”
I’m not a lot of things. But I am the daughter of Sir James Whitcombe, whether you think such a thing is possible or probable or not.
I waited a moment. Did I only think that, or did I say it aloud? Edward and Ellie didn’t look shocked. I must have only thought it. How disastrous if that declaration had slipped out.
Edward looked at Ellie’s kind eyes and then back at me. “I don’t mind your having a look as long as everything remains as it is.” As an afterthought he added, “We’ve nothing to hide.”
Chapter Eighteen
We left in a flurry for the Christmas morning service. Julia sat beside me in the car’s backseat. Holding my hand, she chattered like a little bird. I was glad for her prattle because it meant Edward and Ellie weren’t compelled to converse with me about what else I might have seen in the letters in the study.
Most of the papers were cordial correspondence, thanking a colleague for a dinner invitation or a theater critic for a good review. One of the letters was a note to his brother Robert, expressing appreciation for a pocketknife Robert had bought James on a trip to Switzerland in 1975.
One other poem in the collection, the one that referred to “Margaret of the Midnight Sun,” preoccupied my thoughts as we drove to church.
you touch
with light
the arctic hollow of my
pilgrim soul
margaret of the midnight sun
with you
i journey through always summer