A Magical Christmas Present Read online

  “Well?” Stephen prodded impatiently.

  Jason was already bounding off for the gangplank, yelling over his shoulder to Stephen, “We must hurry to the Simmons Hotel at once—and pray that we are not too late!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Let there be time. Please, God, let there be time.

  This was Jason’s fervent prayer as he and Stephen rushed in the doorway of the Simmons Hotel half an hour later.

  At once, he spotted Annie conversing with her father at the top of the stairs. He saw the shattered look on her face, and his heart went cold. Oh, God, Oscar must be telling her that he had deserted her.

  He saw her begin to collapse. Desperately, he bounded up the stairs.

  “Annie!” he cried.

  He watched her turn, saw the look of raw joy on her face as she spotted him. But it was too late, for she had already lost her balance. He saw her ashen-faced father reach for her, too late….

  With a strength that astounded him, Jason sprinted upward and swept Annie up into his arms in the nick of time.

  “Annie! Oh, Annie darling!” he cried, clutching her close.

  “Jason—you have come back!”

  You’ll come back on Christmas Eve. All at once, Jason laughed aloud as at last, he realized the rhyme’s meaning. He had come back—to save the woman he loved!

  “Yes, I’ve come back—to stay, darling, if you’ll have me,” Jason said passionately. “Please, Annie, say you’ll forgive me!”

  Her reply could not have delighted him more. “I love you, Jason,” she whispered.

  “I love you, Annie,” he said.

  Followed by Stephen and Oscar, Jason carried Annie up to her room. Stephen bid her a happy Christmas and tactfully took his leave.

  Jason sat in the chair next to Annie’s bed, holding her hand. Oscar stood in the doorway, looking much sobered.

  Annie glanced over at her father and smiled. “I’m going to marry Jason.”

  Oscar nodded and stepped inside. Torment twisted his voice. “Annie, I too must beg your forgiveness. Because I foolishly believed that marriage to Stephen was best for you, I interfered in your life and almost caused your death. Why, I wasn’t even going to give you the Christmas present Jason brought you earlier today.”

  “Jason came by here—today?” Annie cried. “And you did not tell me?”

  Oscar sighed heavily. “You see, my dear, Jason didn’t desert you. I bought a steamer ticket and gave it to him, telling him that it came from you.” Shuddering, he glanced from Annie to Jason, then back to his daughter. “Then, moments ago, when I watched you almost tumble to your death—and even in the midst of that peril, saw you looking at Jason with such love…” His voice breaking, Oscar paused to wipe a tear. “Why, ’tis the same look that was on your dear mother’s face the day she first told me she loved me.”

  “Oh, Father.” Annie’s face reflected her poignant joy.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” he asked abjectly.

  “Of course, Father.” Annie held out her arms.

  Oscar rushed to his daughter, and the two embraced for a long moment. Then a much-relieved Oscar stood, offering his hand to Jason.

  “I’m trusting you with my daughter’s future, you know,” he said sternly, shaking the younger man’s hand.

  Jason nodded soberly. “I’ll do my best to make her happy, sir—and to provide for her.”

  “Very good. I’m sure you will.” Abruptly, he smiled. “Indeed, right before you arrived, I was speaking with Old Spencer downstairs. He’s distraught over losing you. In due course, I’m sure you will be running the Bloomsbury Times.”

  An awkward silence ensued, and Annie caught her father’s eye. “Could you leave Jason and me alone a moment?”

  Oscar appeared taken aback. “But daughter, that would not be—”

  “You may leave the door ajar. And I promise you that Jason and I will come down and join the rest of you in only a moment or two.”

  Oscar nodded. “Very well. But are you sure you are up to entertaining tonight?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Oscar left, and Jason sat down on the bed, hugging Annie tightly to him. “Darling, I’m so relieved that I arrived in time,” he whispered against her hair.

  She laughed. “Believe me, so am I.”

  He drew back to stare at her questioningly. “But I do wonder something.…”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you tell me that you loved Stephen, that you wanted to marry him, when none of it was true?”

  A guilty smile curved her lips. “Because I wanted to do what was best for you. I thought that if I could convince you that I truly was happy with Stephen, then you could return to America with a clear conscience and peace of mind.”

  “Oh, Annie!” Jason was shaking his head at the irony. “In wanting what was best for each other, we almost lost everything.”

  Annie regarded him with adoring eyes. “Still, in my heart, I always hoped that you did love me, that you would come back to me tonight. And I was convinced that you would at least stop by to say good-bye. That is why I was so stunned when Father told me…”

  He kissed her hand. “I know, darling. And I’m so sorry for putting you through so much grief.”

  “We are together now, and that is all that matters.” She regarded him curiously. “What changed your mind, Jason? What brought you to your senses—and back to me?”

  There, Jason had to chuckle. “My darling, that is a very long story.”

  “But one you will tell me?”

  “Oh, yes, when the time is right. However, for the moment, I think we had best join the others downstairs—before your justifiably irate father comes charging up here.”

  “Very well. Only, you’ve forgotten something.”

  “I have?”

  Her smile was joyous as she curled her arms around his neck. “You have yet to give me a proper kiss.”

  He did.

  A few minutes later, Jason and Annie joined the guests in the parlor. One and all were thrilled to see Annie and Jason there together, and Old Spencer in particular was delighted to hear that Jason was prepared to return to his post.

  Jason helped Mr. Holcomb drag in from outside the giant Yule log, and a cheer went up from the guests as the two men dropped the huge chunk of wood into the fire. There followed wassail for all, served up with the traditional Christmas Eve “dumb cake” that the two spinsters, Miss Media and Miss Mary, had baked. The refreshments were accompanied by several rounds of “Merry Old Christmas.”

  Later that night, after the guests had departed, Oscar, Jason, and Annie left in the coach to go to midnight candlelight services together. The cold London night was ablaze with a million stars and alive with the sights and sounds of Christmas—pipers playing in the streets, carolers singing outside the ancient Tower of London, Christmas trees glowing in the windows of homes, and everywhere, the beautiful church bells tolling out the coming of Yule. Sitting close to Annie and holding her hand as they clattered through the streets, Jason had never felt happier or more filled with joy and hope.

  At St. James Church, they listened with awe and reverence as the vicar read the story of the coming of the Christ child. Then the three held their candles high and sang together, “Joy to the World.”

  It was well past one when they returned to the hotel. A heavy snow was starting to fall. As the three navigated carefully up the slippery front steps, Oscar said to Jason, “Stay the night with us, why don’t you? You must not head home in this blizzard.”

  Jason was only too eager to agree.

  Inside the warmth of the hallway, Annie turned to her father and said, “I want to marry Jason right away.”

  Both Annie and Jason glanced at Oscar expectantly. Jason added, “Sir, I would be delighted to arrange for the license immediately after Christmas.”

  Oscar nodded. “Of course.”

  Then Oscar hugged them both. After Annie’s father went upstairs, Jason pulled her close beneath the
kissing bunch—and the two lovers long-savored that glorious tradition….

  Early on Christmas Day, Jason joined Annie, her father, and several of the hotel guests in the drawing room. A mood of great gaiety consumed all as they ripped open their presents. Jason was thrilled when Annie presented him with a blue sweater she had knitted—she was equally delighted with the fur muffler he had given her. Annie and her father were mystified to open a package from America which contained a fruitcake from none other than the mysterious Finias Fogg, who had also enclosed a brief note apologizing because neither he nor one of his representatives had been able to travel to London!

  Her expression astonished, Annie turned to Jason. “Isn’t it odd that Mr. Fogg never even mentioned you?” she whispered.

  He leaned over and whispered back, “Don’t worry, darling. One day, I’ll explain all about how I got here—and we may even go to America to meet Mr. Fogg!”

  At noon, Mrs. Chandler served up a sumptuous feast—roast turkey with sausage stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, English peas in cream sauce, and hot yeast rolls. Afterward, everyone clapped as the smiling cook brought in the flaming plum pudding. Everyone savored the rich, brandy-flavored dessert.

  Following coffee, the yawning guests retired upstairs to nap off the feast. Jason left to go by his boarding house and pack his things.

  That night, when all was quiet, Annie came to Jason in his third-floor room. He answered her knock to find her standing in the corridor in her gown and wrapper—and gazing at him with so much love!

  “Annie, you shouldn’t be here,” he scolded in trembling tones.

  Wordlessly, she shut the door and moved into his arms.

  With a groan he clutched her close and kissed her. “Oh, Annie.” He felt as if he held heaven itself in his arms.

  “I wanted to wish my husband-to-be a proper Merry Christmas,” she murmured, kissing his jaw.

  He stared down into her beautiful, golden eyes. “Oh, my darling! You’ve already given me the most joyous Christmas gifts ever. You’ve given me back hope—and joy, and love in my life.”

  Taking Annie’s hand, Jason drew her over by the fire. They knelt together on the rug, kissing and caressing in the gilded light.

  “Someday,” he murmured, kissing her soft neck, “I shall tell you how a lovely ghost brought me to you.”

  “A ghost?” she retorted, dimpling adorably. “And a pretty one? Now I am jealous!”

  “You shouldn’t be, darling,” he teased back tenderly, “for it was you. You are my beautiful ghost of Christmas past, Annie.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Annie regarded him with awe and delight. “And you are the light of my life—now and forever.”

  Soon their clothing lay discarded in a pile on the floor, and Jason carried Annie to his bed, pressing her beneath him. They lay with bodies tightly coiled, their fevered kiss burning with all the love they felt. Jason tenderly kissed Annie’s breasts while she caressed him boldly, wrapping her fingers around the warm steel of him until he groaned with unbearable need. When he pressed to bring them together, she took him eagerly, deeply.

  “Oh, Jason,” Annie cried, feeling filled to her soul with ecstasy and love. Running her fingers through his hair, she murmured, “I want one more Christmas gift from you, my soon-to-be husband.”

  “And what is that, my soon-to-be wife?”

  “I want your child.”

  “Oh, Annie.”

  There in the glow of the fire, the last Christmas gift was lovingly given—and, with love, was received.

  LISA CACH

  A Midnight Clear

  To Bill Yeaton

  CHAPTER ONE

  Woodbridge, Vermont

  December 1, 1878

  Her breath misted before her, a faint drifting ghost in the cold night air. The train platform looked empty, illuminated by a yellow gaslight that was dim and soft against the winter darkness. All was quiet but for the hiss of the engine’s steam and the rumbling of a freight door. Catherine stepped down from the train onto the wooden planks, her heeled shoes thudding on the hollow surface. She was used to the frantic rush of New York, and had forgotten the slower pace of home. Only a few others were disembarking at this station, already walking toward the exit, leaving her alone beside the blackened steel wheels.

  With each stop the train had made, each familiar place-name called out, her excitement had built, and she had peered blindly out the window at the depths of the night, searching vainly for some known landmark, restraining herself from telling the others in the carriage that this was where she was from, this was where she was born and raised. And here she was at last, standing on the planks of the Woodbridge platform, unable to believe she had finally arrived.

  “Catherine!” her father’s voice called.

  “Papa!” she cried, her nearsighted eyes searching him out, and finding him at last, a figure that became clear as he moved toward her. She hurried to close the distance, the long back hem of her velvet skirt, with all its folds and flounces, dragging fashionably across the wood, the opening of her silk-and-mink coat flapping. She was showing unseemly enthusiasm, she knew, and Aunt Frances would not have approved.

  Her father caught her in a hug, enveloping her in the scents of wool and pipe tobacco, reminding her for a moment of her childhood. He patted her on the back, his broad hand over-strong in his enthusiasm, and then released her. He blinked rapidly, a suspicious sheen in his eyes.

  “Did you get something to eat? Was the trip comfortable?” he asked. “Did you have any problems switching at White River Junction?”

  “I’m fine, Papa, just tired. Two o’clock in the morning is a weary time for a train to arrive.” Her original train had left New York at four in the afternoon, and she was stiff and sore from sitting on the poorly padded seats, her tight, elegant travel ensemble a constant reminder to sit straight and not lean back. She was exhausted, and the space between her shoulder blades ached with tension.

  “Your mother is waiting up, and I shouldn’t be surprised if Amy is still awake as well,” he said, leading her into the station, where porters would bring in her trunks. “Your visit is all Amy’s been able to speak of for weeks.”

  “I’ve missed her.”

  He glanced at her, the sheen still in his eyes. “We’ve missed you, too,” he said, then looked away. “Porter!” he called, his voice loud in the quiet station, and went to fetch her luggage.

  “Good gracious, where did you get that?” Amy asked, staring with wide green eyes, the plumed purple hat in her lap forgotten. The young girl was sitting cross-legged atop her bedcovers, clad in a white nightgown.

  Catherine looked down at herself, at the red French corset and white silk chemise she’d just revealed by removing her bodice and camisole. “In Paris. There are dancers there who wear nothing but scarlet corsets and short petticoats, and they lift even those up to show their legs to the men.”

  “You saw them?” Amy asked, incredulous.

  “Once. Aunt Frances thought it would be educational to go to such a dance hall show. She says that one can on occasion be daring if one is sure to behave like a lady whilst doing so. Of course, she also said it is even better if one can count on the silence of one’s friends.”

  “What was it like at the dance hall? Were there ladies of the night there?” Amy half-whispered, eyes widening on the forbidden words.

  Catherine laughed. “And what would you know of them?”

  “I would know much more if anyone thought I was old enough to discuss them.”

  “You’d find them more sad than fascinating.” She went to hang her bodice in the wardrobe. Talking with her younger sister was increasing the sense of unreality she felt, back in the room in which she had grown up. Amy in person was somehow different than Amy in letters, where Catherine had let her imagination fill in her sister’s spoken intonation and expression. Was this Amy the same girl she had thought she had stayed close to through the mail? Eve
n Mama had been altered, more gray in her hair, her cheeks a little fuller than Catherine remembered, her figure a little heavier. It was a surprise to realize that her family had been living their own lives while she had been away, growing up and growing older.

  “So there were such women there?”

  “I don’t know for certain. Aunt Frances forbid me to gawk, and it was too dark and smoky to see much, anyway.”

  Amy’s eyes went once again to the corset. “Mama doesn’t have anything like that.”

  “Do you like it?” Catherine asked, striking a pose with one hand on her hip, the other lifting her skirts to show a bit of stockinged leg.

  “Do I! I got my first corset this year, you know, but it’s a plain thing, all white cotton without any trim or lace or anything. I don’t even need it yet,” she complained.

  Catherine smothered a smile. “You wouldn’t remember, but I was the same shape as you at thirteen. In two years you won’t recognize yourself.” She remembered as well her own young fascination with pretty underthings, and how they had seemed both forbidden and unattainable, things that belonged to a very adult world. In her trunks was a pink, beribboned corset for Amy, and a chemise and drawers “combination” trimmed with Valenciennes lace. They were innocent enough for a girl, but pretty enough for any woman. She would give them to Amy in private, though, as she hardly thought her sister would enjoy opening such gifts in front of Papa.

  “Truly, you looked like me?”

  “Truly. But you’ll be much prettier than I, with your eyes.”

  “I like your brown ones,” Amy said. “They look like weak tea in white china cups.”

  “Do they?” Catherine laughed, and turned to look at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, her pale skin showing the shadows under her eyes. Her irises did indeed look the same color as weak tea. “I suppose you’re right.” Her dark brown hair was still piled up at the back of her head, the large loose braids pinned over small cushions to give the arrangement the great mass that was fashionable. Her scalp and every muscle atop her skull ached with the weight.