Jump to new as of January 2, 2001
Posted on Thursday, 28 December 2000
Based very loosely on the film "The Bishop's Wife."
Henry Tilney, the rector of Woodston, opened his eyes and squinted against the bright sunlight that filtered through the openings in the bed-curtains. The soft sound of the maidservant closing the door behind her had awakened him; he heard the gentle shuffling and popping that meant she had started a fire, for which he was grateful. Their bedroom was always chilly in the morning, and it was December, after all. Woodston was in the grip of a cold spell that had frozen solid the pond near the green and laid a blanket of snow across the meadows.
The rector turned his head and gazed lovingly upon his wife, Catherine. The subdued but necessary noise made by the servant tending to their needs, opening the window curtains and building the fire, had not disturbed her slumber. Not so long ago, Henry would have wakened her with a gentle kiss, but now he let her sleep. Mrs. Tilney took seriously the responsibilities of the rector's wife, and despite her husband's gentle hints, she did not delegate as much of the work to the servants as she might, and with the demands of running a large parsonage and seeing to two children, lately she had fallen into bed at night in such a state of exhaustion that she was asleep before her husband had a chance to kiss her goodnight. And now I shall not be able to kiss her good morning, thought the rector regretfully. After five years of marriage he still had a great deal of affection for his young wife, and he missed the loving closeness of their early days together, a closeness which had produced little Catherine after a year or so and young Henry not quite two years later. There had been no sign of another child since, although little Kitty had asked for another baby brother for a Christmas present, a request that had amused her father greatly and caused him to declare that she grew more like her mamma every day.
Henry sighed and reached for his watch; eight o'clock, time for him to rise. He reached out as if to stroke Catherine's hair, then pulled his hand away; let her sleep, poor girl. He slipped out of bed as quietly as possible and went into his dressing-room, and his wife slumbered on unknowing.
He took his time with his morning ablutions, and by the time he went down to breakfast, Catherine was already there. Her hair showed signs of hasty brushing and arranging, and she said to her husband rather impatiently, "Why did you not wake me, Henry? You knew I was to meet with Mrs. Shockley today at ten!" Mrs. Shockley was the churchwarden's wife, and the bane of Mrs. Tilney's existence.
"In truth, I had forgotten, my sweet. What does she want now?"
Catherine had poured a cup of coffee, which she set in front of him. She sat down and rested her elbow on the table, rubbing her forehead tiredly. "She wants to set up a school for the village children, so they can learn to write and read and do sums." She glanced up at her husband half-fearfully and added, "She wants me to take a turn teaching two days a week."
"No," said Henry firmly. "You shall not. You have responsibilities enough here in our home, and sufficient children to teach with Kitty and Harry. It is well enough for Mrs. Shockley, whose children are grown and gone."
"I must," Catherine said weakly. "You know how she shall talk about me if I do not. 'Mrs. Tilney is too young for her position,'" she said, in a fair imitation of Mrs. Shockley's high-pitched, strident voice. "'She cannot faithfully discharge the Christian duties of the rector's wife. She does not understand her responsibilities.' She sounds like my mother when I was first married, saying what a sad, heedless young housekeeper I should be. I've proven her wrong, have not I, Henry?" She looked at her husband pleadingly. "I am a good wife, and a good mother, am not I?"
Henry leaned across the table and covered Catherine's hand with his own. "You are a wonderful wife, my dearest girl," he said soothingly. "And a wonderful mother. Our children love you, and I love you."
Catherine squeezed his hand and smiled. "I love you, too, Henry," she said, and rose with a tired sigh. "I must go and see that Kitty and Harry are awake and dressed and have had their breakfast."
"The nurse can see to that," said Henry. "And you should put off that Shockley woman until tomorrow. It is abominably rude of her to call so early in any event. If she has anything to say about it, she may repeat it to me, and I shall deal with her." He would not release her hand. "Let us take a holiday, Catherine. We shall go for a sleigh ride, and take an early dinner at that inn you like so much. We will leave the children with the nurse, and go off together for an afternoon, like when we were first married. If you are too nice for a scheme of such blatant dissipation, we can pay a call at the toy makers' shop near the inn and get Christmas presents for the children."
Catherine wavered a moment, sorely tempted by Henry's scheme, then pulled her hand from his and turned away. "I cannot," she said simply. "I have responsibilities."
"Tomorrow, then," he persisted. "We shall go tomorrow."
"Very well," she said without much enthusiasm, and left the breakfast-room, leaving her husband staring sadly after her.
The lady made her way up the main street of the village, passing the little chandler's shops with a firm and authoritative step that made the dawdlers give way before her. She was dressed plainly, in a long skirt with a rather mannish riding jacket and hat, under which her hair blazed coppery red. She nodded to many of the passersby, greeting several by their Christian names, a liberty that, strangely, none of them took amiss, although if asked they would not have been able to give the lady's name in return.
A group of ladies stood in front of the milliner's gossiping; one of them held the hand of a small boy. The lady's grip was negligent, however; the child, seeing something of interest on the other side of the street, snatched his hand away from his mamma and ran into the roadway, heedless of a chaise and four approaching at a high rate of speed.
"Richard!" cried the woman in considerable alarm; she started after him, but the red-haired lady was quicker. She strode fearlessly into the street before the oncoming team; onlookers gasped, certain she would be trampled. To everyone's surprise, the horses immediately stopped, not with rearing and snorting as might be expected, but smoothly and calmly.
The lady smiled down at the little boy, who had frozen in terror in front of the onrushing team. "Well, Richard?" she asked him amiably. "Are you ready to go back to mamma?"
The boy made an affirmative noise and held his arms up to her trustingly. She laughed, scooped him up, and carried him to the side of the roadway, where she restored him to his weeping mother.
"Thank you, thank you," the woman sobbed, clutching the laughing child to her breast.
"It was my pleasure, Frances," said the red-haired lady. "But do try to keep him under better control, will you?"
"Yes, yes, of course," the woman babbled, leading the boy away, her relief so great that she did not question how the red-haired lady, whom she had never before met, knew her name.
The red-haired lady nodded in satisfaction and continued on her way. Her destination stood at the far end, tolerably disengaged from the village. The lady gazed approvingly upon the large, stone house, with its circular sweep and green gates. "A fine parsonage," she said to herself.
Posted on Thursday, 28 December 2000
Mrs. Shockley was announced precisely at ten o'clock, and it was a rather harassed Mrs. Tilney who received her. Master Harry was being kept inside as a result of a lingering sore throat, and being a stout, active, though normally quite obedient child, his enforced imprisonment had perversely made him wild and noisy. His nurse and his mother had all they could do to get him bathed, dressed, and breakfasted, with the added nuisance of the rector's Newfoundland, Bear, who had been a faithful companion and playmate for the sick child, romping about the nursery and getting underfoot. As the hands of the clock moved inexorably to ten, Catherine had to leave the child entirely to the nurse and neaten her hair and dress before the churchwarden's wife arrived.
"Mrs. Tilney," sang out Mrs. Shockley as she sailed into the drawing room, "I am glad to see that you have at last learnt to be prompt. I detest being kept waiting." Her gaze swept critically around the room. "If I may offer you a piece of advice, my dear, those draperies are in a frightful condition. They are positively shabby. The moths have made a feast of them, I daresay. Well, such a light fabric will never wear well, and always shows the dirt, but I suppose you knew that when you chose it, hmm? And I suppose to such a fond husband as yours, the expense of replacing them will not signify."
Catherine looked up at the gauzy, elegant draperies fearfully, but they seemed clean and in good repair to her eye. Had Mrs. Shockley but known it, her malicious little speech had delivered a direct hit to Catherine's heart. Catherine was fully aware that she had brought very little money into the marriage, and that everything in the parsonage was paid for by the fortune Henry had inherited from his mother, as well as the tithes from the living. And Mrs. Shockley's husband, as churchwarden, was the man who helped ensure that the tithes were collected. If the churchwarden's wife saw the rector's wife as a spendthrift, she might influence her husband to not be as diligent in his duty as he could be, and Catherine did not want Henry's income to suffer from her actions. And at the least, Mrs. Shockley would spread the news of Mrs. Tilney's negligent housekeeping throughout the village.
"Well, that is neither here nor there," said Mrs. Shockley briskly. She inspected a nearby sofa closely as if judging its cleanliness, and finally sat down with a slight sniff. She was a largish woman, not tall or fat, but solidly built, with a great deal of nose and chin, and gave the impression of filling up an excess of space without actually doing so. She was the daughter of a butcher, and had managed to get herself married to a man at the very lowest edge of gentility, though of good fortune; thus she must constantly dignify her own position by finding fault in others, and in the pretty, warm-hearted young rector's wife she found an object of constant scorn.
"I have brought good news," she said. "I have decided where the school shall be located! In the gatehouse outside the village!"
Catherine brightened. "That is an excellent notion, ma'am! It is just the place! A little run-down, perhaps, but that can soon be set to rights with a little soap and whitewash."
"Indeed it can, Mrs. Tilney! I am gratified to see that we are of one mind. I have engaged some of the village women, and a few of the men, to come tomorrow and get started. I told them that you would supervise."
"Tomorrow?" said Catherine weakly. She realized with a pang how much she had been looking forward to her outing with Henry. "Tomorrow I have...an engagement that I must keep, ma'am."
"An engagement? With whom? You must break it. The arrangements have been made."
"With my husband, ma'am. We have engaged to go on a sleigh-ride together." As soon as the words left her mouth, Catherine realized how ridiculous they would seem to a woman like Mrs. Shockley.
"A sleigh-ride? Well, Mrs. Tilney, if you would prefer to go gadding about than performing your Christian duty, I am sure I shall not stand in your way. I knew this would be how it was when Shockley told me we would have a young rector, and when he took an even younger wife. Mr. Tilney is always out and about, shooting and whatnot, riding his horses willy-nilly about the village, and I daresay you cannot be expected to know any better."
Catherine knew that the "willy-nilly" rides that Henry took around the village were actually visits to the sick and indigent, and she worked hard to control her temper. Insulting her was one thing, but when this vulgar woman insulted her Henry, well--! She stared at her lap, nervously twisting the fabric of her dress between her fingers and trying to think of something cutting to say, when her Henry came into the room. He took in the situation in a single glance, in particular the haunted look in his wife's eyes.
"Good morning, Mrs. Shockley," he said politely. "I understand you are starting a school for the village children."
"Indeed, sir," said the older woman. She was a little afraid of the rector; she usually felt that he was laughing at her, no matter how grave and attentive his expression. "If their parents cannot read and write, they cannot teach the children to do so. It is our Christian duty to provide them with the means to better themselves."
"Yes, I have always considered your industry to be motivated by Christian principles, madam." Mrs. Shockley looked up sharply at this remark, but the rector's face was expressionless. "And once they can read, perhaps we can get up a subscription for a circulating-library. You would like that, Catherine, would not you?" Catherine glanced up to see Henry's dark eyes twinkling at her, and she smiled. Henry could always make her feel better.
Mrs. Shockley was revolted both by his words and by what she considered amorous looks being exchanged by a couple married a good five years, who should be well past common passion. "A circulating-library? With novels and such? Certainly not. You would countenance such trash in the parish, Mr. Tilney?"
"I do not consider novels to be 'trash,' Mrs. Shockley. I have enjoyed many a novel myself. Mrs. Tilney enjoys them as well; do not you, my sweet? She just read Tom Jones last month, and I believe found it quite edifying."
Catherine blushed and tried not to laugh. Tom Jones indeed! She admired her husband's courage in teasing Mrs. Shockley to her face, something Catherine would never dare to do, and was not a fraction of what the woman truly deserved.
The older woman's face was a mask of astonishment. "You allow your wife to read such things?"
"Catherine is a grown woman, and is capable of making her own decisions. I trust her judgment and her taste implicitly."
There was a message in Henry's words, and Mrs. Shockley received it. She was abashed, but only for a moment. "Mr. Tilney, I am glad you are here, for I have something to say to you. You know the stained-glass window that my husband is donating to the church, the one of St. George and the dragon? Well, since Shockley is paying for it, and very dear it is I do assure you, do not you think that the countenance of St. George should resemble that of my husband? It is only fair."
"Indeed," said the rector, all polite attention. "And whom do you see as the dragon?"
At that moment the door to the drawing room burst open and Harry ran in, followed by his sister, Bear, several terriers, and the nurse, the humans shouting and the dogs' barking.
"I am sorry, Mrs. Tilney," cried the nurse over the din, "but Master Harry got out of the nursery when Miss Kitty brought the terriers in."
"Harry! Harry!" cried his sister, chasing him behind the sofa where Mrs. Shockley sat, stunned at the intrusion. "Come back here right now!"
The terriers followed them, barking excitedly, but Bear stopped in front of Mrs. Shockley. He wagged his tail at her in a friendly way, but she did not deign to notice him. Unaccustomed to such a cold reception, he barked; she still ignored him, and driven to his last extremity, he jumped upon her, placing his large, shaggy paws on her shoulders and licking her face enthusiastically.
"Bear, no! Bad dog! Down! Henry, help me!" cried Catherine, trying to drag the Newfoundland away from the shrieking woman.
Mr. Tilney was already much engaged in trying to extract his son from behind the sofa, but relinquished that duty and managed to pull Bear away and banish him from the drawing room. He regarded his visitor for a moment, and then silently held out his handkerchief.
"I have my own, thank you," said Mrs. Shockley coldly, mopping at her face and dress, which showed the signs not only of Bear's affectionate greeting but also of the extraneous saliva that always seemed to be present on the fur of the Newfoundland's throat and chest.
Kitty had brought her brother forward and the nurse quickly led them away, followed by the yapping terriers, and the room became silent as quickly as it had been disrupted.
"My apologies, madam, for the commotion," said Henry. His countenance showed no remorse whatsoever. "We have an active family."
"Your children are wild and impulsive, and I am not surprised at it," cried Mrs. Shockley, collecting her reticule and rising to leave. "They can have no example from their parents. I am of a mind to write to General Tilney and tell him of these shocking events. I am sure he would have a great deal to say about it!"
Henry, knowing full well what his father would think of the pretensions of a butcher's daughter, even a rich one, said only, "If you feel that you must, madam, then you must."
Mrs. Shockley did not answer him, but swept toward the door in magisterial dignity, throwing over her shoulder, "Noon tomorrow, Mrs. Tilney. Please be prompt." The door shut behind her, and Catherine sagged into a chair and put her head in her hands.
"What is at noon tomorrow?" asked Henry curiously. "What of our holiday?"
"I cannot go," said Catherine, raising her head. "I am sorry, Henry. I must go to the gatehouse, which is to be used for the school, and supervise the cleaning and painting."
"You must not do anything, Catherine. Or do you consider Mrs. Shockley's claim to be superior to mine?"
"Of course not," she cried. "But you know how she will talk about me if I do not go! She already talks about me. What happened here today will not help." Her face crumpled and tears began to make their way down her face. "I so want to be a credit to you, Henry!"
He knelt next to her and cradled her in his arms, soothing her as she sobbed gently against his chest. It was impossible to be angry with her; he could only feel sympathy for her circumstances. She has taken on so much! How can I help her? How can I show her that the children and I love her, and the rest does not signify?
Posted on Thursday, 28 December 2000
The next morning, Catherine was in the drawing room, regarding the draperies earnestly and unable to find any fault with them, when she heard the front door slam shut. She went to the drawing-room door and opened it, glanced at the entryway, and saw nothing amiss; she shut the door, turned around, and gasped in surprise. A small, red-haired woman stood in front of the fire, and Catherine had no idea how she had gotten there.
"Hello, Catherine," said the woman pleasantly.
Catherine turned around curiously and looked at the closed door, then turned back and stared at the woman for a moment. At last she remembered her manners and said, "How may I be of service to you, ma'am?"
"Oh, no," said the woman with a laugh. "I am here to be of service to you, my dear."
"I am afraid that you have me at a disadvantage," said Catherine hesitantly.
"My name is Daisy."
This was a bit much. "Daisy?" Catherine repeated doubtfully.
"That's right. I am here to help you," said the lady with a smile. "I am an angel."
Catherine was rendered speechless for a long moment, but at last found her tongue. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said, I am an angel."
"Then where are your wings?" Catherine asked skeptically.
"I am without them at the moment. Surely you do not expect me to walk amongst mortals with my wings?"
Catherine had not thought about it at all. "Where did you come from?"
"Angels are all around, Catherine. You can walk down the street and see a strange face--and never know if that stranger is a mortal being like yourself, or an angel. We are sent to help mortals when they require assistance. Your husband said a prayer asking for help for you, and I was dispatched. Henry loves you very much, you know."
Catherine could not help but smile at this. "I know," she said softly.
Daisy glanced at a portrait of Henry that hung on one wall. It was a good likeness; he was leaning back, quite at his ease, one hand resting on Bear's shaggy head, one leg crossed over the other at the knee. The warmth in his smile and the amused expression in his eyes made most observers smile, even against their will, and Daisy was no exception. Even the dog gazed up at him adoringly. "You are fortunate to have someone who cares for you so. Now, how may I help you?"
"Oh, well..." Catherine said weakly. She did not wish to be rude to this woman, who was certainly pleasant enough, but to show up in her house and claim to be an angel of all things--and how had she gotten into the drawing-room, anyway?
"Perhaps I could help with the children? I can entertain poor Harry, read to him, or play with him. He is feeling much better, you know, but you are right not to let him play outside in the snow." As she spoke, her glance moved back to Henry's portrait, almost involuntarily. She stared at it for a moment, then dragged her gaze away and added, "Or perhaps the school? I could take many of the responsibilities from you. Even Mrs. Shockley could have no complaint."
At that moment Henry came in to the drawing room and stopped in surprise. He smiled at the stranger and said, "My apologies, Catherine, I did not know that you had a caller." He directed a polite bow at the red-haired woman. "How do you do, madam? I am Mr. Tilney."
"How do you do? I am Daisy. I am here to help Catherine with the village school."
"Are you? That is capital!" The rector turned to his wife with a smile. "Perhaps Miss Daisy can go to the gatehouse for you today, and we can have our outing!"
Daisy clapped her hands. "That is an excellent scheme, Henry! What do you think of it, Catherine?"
"Well--" The scheme was certainly tempting, though Catherine was still rather leery of this odd woman. What would Mrs. Shockley think?
Henry took advantage of his wife's hesitation. "I shall have the horses hitched directly." He smiled at his wife and left the room.
Daisy smiled at her. "There, it is all settled. Go get your things and go with Henry. And worry not, my dear--I shall not tell Mrs. Shockley that I am an angel. That is our secret."
"That is probably for the best," said Catherine, a little weakly, and went to fetch her pelisse, hat, and muff, feeling happier about the outing with each passing moment. She was standing in the entryway giving directions to the nurse about the children's dinner when Mrs. Shockley was announced.
"It is nearly noon, Mrs. Tilney! Why are you not at the gatehouse?" She regarded Catherine's pretty fur-trimmed pelisse and muff with distaste. "Those fripperies are unnecessary, ma'am. You would do better to wear a plain wool cloak for the task at hand."
"I am not going to the gatehouse," said Catherine, her face flushed with happiness. "I told you, I am engaged to my husband today."
Mrs. Shockley was aghast. "But who will take your place? There are workers at the gatehouse with no one to direct them!"
Daisy stepped forward. "I will take Catherine's part, Mathilda," she said brightly. She held out her hand and said, "How do you do? I am Daisy."
Mrs. Shockley stared at the angel's hand, then at her face. "Who are you?" she cried. "Mrs. Tilney, you have taken a stranger from the street and expect me to accept her as a replacement whilst you gad about in a sleigh? The bishop will hear of this, madam!"
"I am a very old friend of Catherine's," said Daisy firmly. "And I assure you, madam, I can perform whatever task is required."
"I declare I do not know what society is coming to. Putting off your obligations, your responsibilities, your Christian duty for a pleasure-trip! I suppose I should have expected it from a heedless young thing like you, Mrs. Tilney."
Catherine's head drooped over her muff, and finally she glanced up at Daisy and said, "I suppose I should change into my cloak." She climbed the stairs sadly.
"Catherine works very hard, Mathilda," observed Daisy. "You need not abuse her so."
The older woman grew quite red in the face. "How dare you address me in such a familiar manner, you chit! I will not be treated so by a woman young enough to be my daughter!"
"On the contrary, madam. I am much older than I appear."
Henry came in the front door, his brown skin glowing with the cold. "Where is Catherine? The horses are ready." He looked up the stairs with a smile, seeing Catherine on her way down, but the smile disappeared when he saw her expression.
"I am sorry, Henry," was all she said.
He looked away for a moment; none of the ladies could see his expression. When he turned back, his face was composed. "Very well," he said. "I understand. I understand fully what has happened here." He glanced at Mrs. Shockley, who had sufficient sensibility to flush. "I had best unhitch the horses," he added. "It is too cold for them to stand." He turned and strode outside, the heels of his well-polished Hessians ringing angrily on the stone and the capes of his greatcoat swirling round his shoulders.
"Are you quite sure about this, Catherine?" asked Daisy in a low voice.
"Do not keep her from her duty, you unnatural creature," cried Mrs. Shockley. "You call yourself a friend?"
"Aye, madam, I do," said Daisy mildly.
Mrs. Shockley narrowed her eyes at Daisy and made a low growling noise in her throat. She glanced at Catherine and said, "I expect you at the gatehouse directly, Mrs. Tilney," and stalked outside, slamming the door behind her.
"Let me go in your place," Daisy urged Catherine. "Go with your husband. He is a more important part of your life than the school."
"The school is important, too. It will help so many people." Catherine sighed and turned to the mirror hanging on the wall to tie on her everyday bonnet. "I thank you for your offer, Miss--Daisy--but I must tend to my responsibilities." She turned back to where the woman had been standing and gasped in surprise. Daisy had disappeared.
Posted on Tuesday, 2 January 2001
Henry glumly pushed the snow from the green-painted bench with his gloved hand. He sat down heavily and watched his daughter cavort in the snow. Since Catherine had gone to the gatehouse, Henry had taken Kitty out to play, freeing the harassed nurse to tend to little Harry.
"Papa, watch me!" Kitty had climbed to the top of a mound of snow and rolled down, covering herself in snow. Bear, who stood watchfully nearby, barked his approval. Henry smiled, watching her; he thought that Catherine had probably been much like Kitty as a child, wild and noisy and loving nothing so much as rolling down the green hill in back of the parsonage. The nurse would likely fall into a swoon if she saw Kitty getting all over snow, but Henry was of the opinion that a little damp and cold never hurt a child, particularly if she was later wrapped in warm blankets, given a mug of hot, sweet chocolate, and cuddled in her father's lap and told silly stories until she fell asleep.
"Hello, Henry." He jumped a little as he turned around and saw Daisy standing nearby.
"Oh, hello," he said. Normally he would have been put off at such a careless use of his Christian name, but it would have seemed odd for Daisy to call him anything else. He could not rightly explain to himself why. His brows contracted as he looked across the meadow around which his shrubbery grew. He could see the prints of his boots, and Kitty's much smaller ones, but none for Daisy, and he had not heard her approach. Such a detail could not escape a practiced huntsman like Henry Tilney.
As if she had read his thoughts, Daisy said, "Oh, I walked in your footsteps. I don't like to ruin a fresh field of snow. There are much more enjoyable uses for it." She called to Kitty, and the child ran over obediently, followed by the Newfoundland. "Would you like to make snow angels?"
Kitty's large light eyes, so like her mother's, grew round at the prospect. Daisy took her by the hand and led her to a spot where untouched snow glistened under the winter sun. Henry watched them with some interest. Daisy stood with her hands straight out at the sides, and slowly fell back into the soft snow. She waved her arms up and down, and her feet from side to side, and then carefully stood.
"See, Kitty?" she said, pointing at the silhouette she had left in the snow. "See the angel's wings? And her skirt? Now it is your turn."
The child put out her hands and fell back into the snow. She waved her hands and her feet, giggling happily, and Daisy helped her to stand without ruining the angel.
"Look, Papa! I made an angel!" Kitty ran over to Henry, and he laughed and bent to receive her snowy embrace.
"You certainly did."
"You make one, Papa!"
"Very well." He left his hat on the bench and found a spot of untouched snow, held out his hands, and fell backwards. Later, he reflected that it was a good thing that the shrubbery had finally grown sufficiently to hide the meadow from passersby, because his parishioners might have taken it amiss had they seen the rector flailing away in the snow like a turtle turned on his shell.
Kitty and Daisy joined him, and soon the meadow was dotted with snow angels, some small girl-shaped; some whose wings bore the marks of the many capes of a great coat; and some marked by large furry paw-prints. They were regarding their work, laughing, when a gasp sounded behind them. They turned to see the children's nurse, well wrapped in wool from head to foot, looking in dismay at Kitty, who was quite covered with snow.
"Mr. Tilney, you know better than to let her get all over snow like that!" she scolded, taking Kitty by the hand. "Come back to the house now, Kitty. We'll get you into dry clothes."
Kitty looked pleadingly at her father, who said only, "Go with Nurse, Kitty. Be a good girl, and I'll come and read to you later."
The nurse led Kitty away, Bear padding amicably after them, and Henry turned to Daisy with a smile. "Thank you," he said. "I have enjoyed this. It was good to be outside in the fresh air."
"It would have been better had you had your drive with Catherine," said Daisy.
"Yes, but one cannot have everything one wants." There was no bitterness in the rector's voice, only a weary sort of acceptance. "Well, I am off in any event. I must get to the toymaker's and choose Christmas gifts for the children. We like to have something next to their pillows when they wake in the morning."
"That is a lovely tradition."
"Yes, it is. Though Catherine is better at choosing something for Kitty than I. Harry is still so young that he is happy with everything, but I am no expert on dolls."
"Though I hear you are an expert on muslin," Daisy teased him.
Henry laughed. "There are some who think so. Did Catherine tell you that?"
"Oh, I do not remember, someone did," said Daisy evasively.
Henry considered a moment, then said, "Perhaps you will accompany me to the toymaker's, Daisy? Choosing a little girl's Christmas doll is a job for a woman."
"I would be glad to," she responded, and he held out his arm. She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow, and together they walked to the barn.
Posted on Tuesday, 2 January 2001
The toymaker's small workshop had a fine selection of games, dolls, and other toys, and Henry and Daisy spent some time going through all the dolls to find just the right one for little Kitty. At last they chose a lovely little lady with dark hair, light hazel eyes, and fair skin, wearing a beautiful sprigged muslin dress with embroidery and lace edging. Daisy showed her to Henry, and he looked at the doll and said softly, "She looks like Catherine. Yes, this is the one."
They found a large black and white stuffed dog, covered in fur made of tangled yarn. The toy rather resembled Bear, and Henry proclaimed it to be perfect for little Harry, who was the Newfoundland's most devoted friend. The toymaker wrapped the toys in paper, placed them in bandboxes, and tied them with string.
Henry glanced at his watch and said, "There is time for a cup of chocolate at the inn, if you would like."
"A cup of hot chocolate sounds delicious." They made their way to the inn and were shown into a private dining room, where the innkeeper brought them a pot of chocolate and a tray of biscuits. They ate and drank without speaking for a time. Henry gazed out the window, his eyes far away.
"What is it, Henry?" asked Daisy.
"I suppose I am missing Catherine," he said. "We come here every year, have chocolate and biscuits, and choose gifts for the children." He sipped his drink and sighed.
Daisy watched him a moment, then said, "You require a cheering-up. Here, give me your hand. I can read palms, you know."
Henry looked at her askance, but smiling. "I will have you remember, madam, that we are English, that we are Christians. Our laws do not connive at such things."
Daisy laughed, knowing that he was teasing, and took the hand willingly extended. It was a strong, warm, masculine hand, rough in the places where reins and shotguns tended to leave calluses; though large, it was a gentle hand, a hand that could convey love with a single touch. Daisy ran a finger down the middle of his palm, and he shivered, though the fire burned brightly at his back.
"Your love line is well-defined," she said, smiling up at him. "But it is broken in places. Here," she said, touching gently, "and here."
Henry was no longer laughing. He looked at Daisy, into her kind eyes, and suddenly found himself telling her things that he would never have told a relative stranger before that day. But before that day, he would certainly not have invited a relative stranger to help him choose his daughter's Christmas gift, either.
"We are drifting apart," he said. "I love Catherine, even more than when I married her, but lately it is as though we lead separate lives. We are no longer a family. I would help her, or engage more servants to do it, but she will not allow me. She worries so about what Mrs. Shockley will say about her in the village. I do not think the other women care much for Mrs. Shockley's opinion, but Catherine is convinced that they do."
"That is something she must learn for herself," said Daisy quietly. "Perhaps I can help."
"Can you?" He lifted his eyes to hers, and saw compassion and warmth, and perhaps something else that he pushed to the back of his mind.
"I think I may have been going about this the wrong way, so I will try something different. All I can do is try."
"That is all any of us can do," he responded, and they smiled at each other, his hand still clasped in both of hers.
Henry helped Daisy into the sleigh, then climbed in next to her. He pulled the lap robes around them, asking her if she were warm enough.
Daisy smiled up at him. "I do not really feel the cold."
"You will," he said with a warning laugh. "Catherine is usually curled up tightly against me before we get home." Their eyes met for a moment, then Henry silently arranged the robes, took the reins from the groom, and cracked his whip over the horses' backs.
The sun was going down, and a brisk wind blew the horses' manes out to the side, but Daisy seemed unaffected. The sleigh fairly flew across the packed snow of the roadway, and soon they were back in Woodston. As they drove past the green, they could see skaters dashing about on the frozen pond.
"A cold night for skating," observed Henry. "Although one quickly becomes warm once one begins the exercise."
"May we stop?" asked Daisy. "I would like to watch for a while."
"Of course." He stopped the sleigh near the pond and helped her out of the sleigh. They walked down to the edge of the pond where the skaters whirled in the light of the Christmas moon and the bonfire.
"Do you skate?" Daisy asked Henry.
He laughed. "Not in years. This pond has not frozen sufficiently since I've lived here."
"Let us skate now, Henry."
He gazed at her steadily for a moment, and then said, "Very well. Let me see if I can borrow skates." He walked over to one of the spectators and spoke to him a moment, and soon returned, triumphantly carrying two pair of blades. He tied one pair to Daisy's boots, and one to his own, then took her hand and led her out onto the ice.
Henry was a good skater, and Daisy proved to be as well. They skated round the pond twice, hand in hand, not speaking. Then Henry switched her right hand into his, put his arm around her waist, and took her other hand, snugly fitting them into the curve of her waist. Their feet moved in unison, as if they were a single skater. Daisy could feel Henry's warm breath on the side of her face. A single fiddle player stood by the edge of the pond, playing a haunting tune, and the only other sound was the squeak of the skate blades cutting into the ice.
After a time the fiddle player switched to a lively air, and Henry immediately spun Daisy around, clasped her around the waist, and waltzed her around the ice. She laughed up at him, and he smiled down at her, as they whirled around and around the pond.
Henry returned the skates to the owner and helped Daisy into the sleigh. The horses had stood patiently, their breath steaming into the cold night air. "I should not have left them standing for so long," Henry fretted as he tucked the lap robe around his companion.
"They will be fine," Daisy assured him.
"I believe you are right. Now, where can I take you? I do not even know where you live," he added thoughtfully. "You cannot live in Woodston."
"No, I do not live in Woodston," she said quietly. "I would like to speak with Catherine for a moment, and then I will find my own way home."
"Very well." He directed the horses to the parsonage. Henry helped Daisy out of the sleigh and held her hand for a moment. "I have enjoyed this excursion. More than I have enjoyed a day in a long time."
"I am glad of it," she said softly, her face very close to his.
"Will you stay and dine with us?"
"Yes, I will stay."
"Thank you," he said formally. He took the boxes with the children's toys out of the sleigh and handed the reins to a groom who came running round from the stable. "Let us go inside and get warm, eh?"
Catherine came running out into the entryway as they entered. "Here you are!" she cried in relief. "I was so afraid that something had happened! I expected you back long since!"
"I am sorry, my sweet," said Henry, divesting himself of his great coat with a grand sweep of capes and handing it to the housekeeper. "We had a marvelous time, did not we, Daisy? We went to the inn, and to the toymakers', and then we went skating on the pond."
"Your daughter has been waiting for you," said Catherine with a hint of impatience. "You promised her a story."
"Good heavens, so I did. I'll go up now, and put up these," indicating the boxes, "and then I'll go in to her. Catherine, I've invited Daisy to dine with us, so have the housekeeper lay an extra place, will you?" He bounded up the stairs two at a time, whistling the waltz that the fiddle-player had performed by the pond.
"Daisy, may I speak to you for a moment?" asked Catherine in a strained voice.
"Of course." Daisy followed her into the drawing-room.
Catherine did not want Henry to walk in on them, so she locked the door and clutched the key in her hand. She turned to face Daisy, and the words burst out of her painfully. "What were you doing with my husband all afternoon?"
"I tried to take your place with Mrs. Shockley," Daisy reminded her calmly. "You would not allow it, so I took your place with your husband instead."
"You have no right!" cried Catherine, tears brimming in her eyes. "Henry is mine!"
"Catherine," said Daisy in a dangerous voice. "Do not you realize that with a wave of my hand I could have everything that is yours? I have no need to play childish games."
"You would not," whispered Catherine.
"No, I would not," Daisy admitted. "I am not here to steal your husband. I am here to help you."
"You keep saying that," cried Catherine. "You keep saying that you want to help me, but all you are doing is insinuating yourself with my husband and my children. I want you to prove to me that you are an angel." She glanced around the room wildly and pointed to a table near the fireplace. "Make that table rise up and fly around the room."
"Oh, Catherine," said Daisy sadly. "I am not here to do tricks, my dear. If you do not believe, I cannot make you believe."
The tears poured from Catherine's eyes. "Go away!" she cried. "You are not wanted here!"
The angel gazed at her, her face all compassion. "Very well," she said softly, "if that is what you want." She turned and went to the door, opened it, and went out, shutting the door behind her.
Catherine stared after her a moment, then looked down at the key, still tightly clutched in her hand. She ran to the door and tried to open it, but the handle would not budge. She placed the key and heard the tumblers click as it unlocked. She opened the door and ran into the passage, looking for Daisy, but the angel was not there.
Posted on Tuesday, 2 January 2001
The Shockley's butler opened the door and peered down at the small, red-haired woman on the doorstep.
The woman smiled brightly. "Hello, Stanley. I am Daisy. I am here to see Mrs. Shockley."
The butler was too well trained to react to the use of his Christian name. "If you will be so kind as to give me your card, madam, I will ascertain if she is at home."
"I have no card. She will see me. Just tell her that it is Daisy."
Again, there was no reaction to this singular behaviour. "Very good, madam. Please step this way."
He held the door open so Daisy could walk into the entryway, and went off in search of his mistress. Daisy looked around her with great interest, and rather than take a seat as any well-bred lady would, she calmly walked into the drawing-room.
It was a large room, fitted up with heavy, serviceable fabrics. There was none of the air of light elegance that marked the same room in the parsonage. The only nod to gentility was a harp at one end of the room.
Daisy grinned in delight. Angels are, of course, the best harp players. She sat at the instrument and ran her fingers expertly over the strings. Music swelled and burst forth, angelic music, sweet and rich. The sound of it propelled Mrs. Shockley, who had been on the point of having the butler deny that she was at home, to run into the drawing-room and stare at her in amazement.
"This is a lovely instrument, Mathilda," said Daisy. "Do you play?"
"No," she said. "I do not." There was a strange expression on her face.
"You have a harp you cannot play?" asked Daisy gently. "Why is that?"
Mrs. Shockley stared at her. "I wished to learn," she said wistfully. "When I was at school. I wished to learn to play the harp, but I was not allowed."
"Why not?" The angel's voice was gentle, barely louder than the sound of the harp music, which had not faltered with the conversation.
An expression of pain and sorrow passed over the older woman's face. "My father would not pay for music lessons. He said it was a waste of money because I would never use such an accomplishment."
"And you wanted to play," encouraged Daisy softly.
"I wanted to play, so much!" Improbably, a tear ran down Mrs. Shockley's face. "I would creep outside the door when the other girls were taking their lessons and listen. It was like the music of the angels, and I loved it so!" She took out her handkerchief and honked into it, then resumed her story. "One day one of the older girls, a parson's daughter, found me lurking outside the door. She carried the story back to the other girls and they teased me until I cried." She began to sob, and groped her way to a sofa and sat upon it.
Daisy left the harp and came to sit by her. She took the other woman's hands in hers. "That girl, that parson's daughter-she made you very sad, did not she?"
Mrs. Shockley was well beyond speech, and she simply nodded.
Daisy continued speaking. "And is there anyone that you know now who reminds you of her?"
The older woman sniffed and mastered herself. "I suppose that Mrs. Tilney reminds me of her, somewhat."
"Yes, Catherine is a parson's daughter, as well as a parson's wife."
"And she is pretty, like that girl at school." Mrs. Shockley sniffed again.
"Yes, Catherine is pretty, but she is not really like that girl. She has a good heart and would never purposely hurt anyone."
Mrs. Shockley did not seem to hear her. "All the other girls were prettier than I, and learned more easily, and were more accomplished."
"But you have compensated, have you not, Mathilda?"
Mrs. Shockley nodded emphatically. "Yes! I have always tried to help others. I have done my duty to my neighbours and to the village."
Daisy chose her words diplomatically. "Perhaps you are a trifle too attentive to duty, Mathilda. But your family is grown. It is more difficult for someone to be so attentive when they have a family, would not you agree?"
Mrs. Shockley gazed at her in surprise. "Do you think so?" She considered for a moment. "Yes, perhaps I have expected too much from Mrs. Tilney. She must be very busy with those children, and all those...creatures." She looked at Daisy in dismay. "Oh, I have been so wrong! I must apologize to Mrs. Tilney!"
At that moment the bell rang. "I believe you have an opportunity to do so now," observed Daisy.
"We are late," said Catherine in a tight voice. "It is three minutes past one. Mrs. Shockley expected us at one o'clock exactly."
"Worry not, my sweet. If she has anything to say about it, I shall deal with her." Henry squeezed his wife's hand. "I wish you would permit me to deal with her more often."
"No, Henry. I thank you, but Mrs. Shockley is my cross to bear, I am afraid."
The dignified butler returned. "Mrs. Shockley is at home, if you would step this way." He led them into the drawing room, and Catherine braced herself for the full measure of the older woman's disdain.
But Mrs. Shockley behaved in a completely unexpected manner. She rose and came to greet them, smiling widely. "My dearest Mrs. Tilney!" she greeted Catherine, taking both her hands. "I am so very glad to see you! What a lovely pelisse!"
Surprise rendered Catherine unable to speak, and turned wide eyes to her husband. Mrs. Shockley followed her gaze. "And dear Mr. Tilney! How delightful! Come in, come in, both of you, and get out of the cold!"
She led them to the sofa and rang for tea. "My dear," she said to Catherine, "I must apologize. I cannot expect you to take so much time away from your family. I can do much more, and from now on I shall. Your first priority is your husband," smiling at Henry, "and your children. I realize that now, and I apologize for taking you away from them so much in the past."
"Oh, well," said Catherine weakly. "Thank you!"
"No, no, my dear, do not thank me. Daisy made me see where I was in error."
"Daisy?" said Henry. "Is she here?" He looked around the room.
"No, she could not stay. And you are not to go to the gatehouse today," Mrs. Shockley added in mock command, shaking a finger teasingly at Catherine. "Go home with your husband. I must insist, madam. It is Christmas Eve, and you should be with your family."
"Very well," said Catherine, though she remained rather stupidly on the sofa. Henry recognized the opportunity for what it was; he rose and pulled Catherine to her feet.
"Thank you, Mrs. Shockley," he said, pulling his wife toward the door. "You know you have whatever assistance we are able to render in your project."
"Of course," she said warmly, following them to the door. "But not daily help. You both have your duties, and I now understand mine better. God bless you both."
"I think He already has," muttered Henry, but he bowed politely and steered Catherine outside to the waiting sleigh.
Henry was in his library writing a letter when he became aware that he was not alone. He turned and saw Daisy standing by the door. He smiled and stood. "Hello, Daisy," he said softly. "I suppose the housekeeper let you in."
"Something like that," she agreed.
"I owe you a great debt," said Henry. "I know not how you did it, but you have taught Mrs. Shockley the true meaning of Christian charity. I think she will not trouble Catherine any further. You have rendered my family a great service, and I know not how to repay it."
"Repayment is not necessary, Henry," she said softly. "You have only been given that which you requested."
"'That which I requested?'" asked the rector, his brow wrinkling. "I have asked you for nothing."
"No, you have not," said Daisy. "You asked those from whom I take command."
Henry stared at her, realization fighting with belief. "Then you come from-" He could not articulate his thought.
"Yes," said Daisy. "And now I must return."
"Oh," said Henry, for once at a loss for words. Finally he asked hopefully, "Will we see you again?"
"No. I shall not return. They do not send us to the same place more than once. We might grow--attached."
"I see," said Henry. "Then this is goodbye." Daisy extended a hand, and Henry took it and raised it to his lips. "Thank you, dearest Daisy," he said. "I shall never forget you."
Daisy laughed, but an expression of sadness passed over her face. "You will, I am afraid. By the time I leave, you will have forgotten me."
Henry gazed at her steadily. "And will you forget us?"
"I shall remember you always," she said softly, then added with a smile, "and I do mean always."
They both laughed at this, and she left him standing by the fire and staring into its glowing depths.
"I must say goodbye, Catherine."
Catherine jumped and turned around hastily. "I wish you would not sneak up on me so."
Daisy laughed. "I apologize. It is a bad habit of mine." She held out her hand. "It is time for me to leave you."
"Leave us?" cried Catherine, forgetting that she had banished the angel from her home the night before. She hesitated, then added, "If we need you again, will you come back?"
"That would not be a good idea," said Daisy. "When an angel begins to envy a mortal being, it is never a good thing."
"You envy me?" cried Catherine.
Daisy's eyes turned once again to the portrait of Henry that hung on the drawing-room wall. "I do, Catherine. I do." She finally pulled her gaze away and turned back to Catherine. "But you may call upon us at any time."
"Thank you," said Catherine in some confusion.
The angel smiled at her and folded her into an embrace. "God has blessed you. Take good care of Kitty and Harry, and the other children to come."
"Other children?" gasped Catherine. "But it has been more than two years already!"
"There will be others, my dear, fear not." Daisy touched her cheek. "You are a woman, and Henry is a man. Go to him now. And kiss him for me, lucky Catherine."
Catherine watched the angel leave. She looked up at the portrait of Henry. "Yes, I am lucky," she murmured to herself. "So lucky!" She ran out of the drawing room, calling her husband. "Henry! Henry!" she cried, running up the stairs.
She went to the nursery, where Henry was sitting by Kitty's bed. He raised a finger to his lips. "She's asleep," he whispered. He took a pretty dark-haired doll from a box and placed it carefully by her pillow, then gently kissed Kitty. He then went to Harry's bed and placed a stuffed dog next to the little boy. He smiled at his son, gently passed a hand over his dark, tousled curls, and kissed him.
Catherine dropped kisses on each of the children in turn. She moved closer to Henry, who took her in his arms and whispered, "It is past midnight. Merry Christmas, sweet Catherine."
"Merry Christmas," she whispered, and tilted her head back for a kiss. Henry obliged her willingly, and then saw the promise in her eyes, a promise that he had not seen for some time. He kissed her again, lingeringly, then took her hand and led her toward the door, toward their own bedchamber.
Catherine stopped to take up the candle and whispered, "Henry, did you give Kitty that doll?" She indicated a doll that stood on the table next to the child's bed.
"No," he said. "I thought perhaps one of the parishioners brought it."
"That is probable," she agreed. Henry, anxious to get her alone, tugged her toward the door, but she stood staring at the doll, a memory playing about her mind, never fully forming no matter how hard she fought for it. Finally she allowed Henry to lead her away.
"What is it?" he whispered as they closed the door behind him. "Do not you like the doll?"
"Oh, yes," she said, as they walked hand-in-hand to their bedchamber. "It is just that I have never before seen a red-haired angel doll."
The End.