Work Text:
A Merry Christmas Eve
Christmas, it has always been said, is a curious time. A time of joyous celebration, of family gatherings, delicious feasts and mulled wine; a time filled with candlelight, ancient carols, and little gifts and treats to delight the young and old alike.
But it is more than that. For many centuries, there have been reports of strange and wondrous happenings on the night before Christmas. Things that cannot be explained in any logical way, not even by those who stubbornly refuse to believe in the supernatural.
Some say that during the cold and long nights of December, the boundaries between this world and another are so thin that those who look closely enough might catch a glimpse of the magic that lies beyond.
There have been tales of strange sightings, of angels and elves, of Christmas ghosts, and of Father Christmas who walks invisibly from house to house and brings gifts to those who deserve them.
These are the kinds of tales that grandparents will tell the children as the family gathers around a crackling fireplace on a stormy winter’s night. The ones that make you look over your shoulder, imagining some invisible gaze on your back, or make you startle with every rattling of the window pane, wondering who is out there, just hushing by your house.
Today, I want to tell you one of these peculiar stories. It happened a long, long time ago…
It was Christmas Eve, in the year 1851. Up in the north of England, in a city named Milton, where the winds are chilly and the nights are long, a young man was sitting behind his desk, writing. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and his hand, holding the pen, moved furiously across the paper, as if he was working on something of great importance that had to be finished quickly.
The man’s name was John Thornton. He was about thirty years of age, with dark hair and blue eyes that looked a bit tired after a long day of work. He wore a clean white cotton shirt and black tie; his equally black frock coat was slung across the backrest of his chair.
John Thornton was a very important man. He was the owner of a big factory that employed hundreds of people. Usually, the bustling noise of the cotton looms would fill his office for twelve to fifteen hours every day, but since it was a holiday, Mr Thornton had let his workers off two hours earlier than usual, leaving the place unusually quiet.
The oil lamp on the desk flickered in the otherwise semi-dark room. The mill master had finished writing and threw down his pen. He leaned back in his chair and, with a sigh, picked up what he had written and let his eyes dart over the lines. His countenance darkened into a mixture of frustration and annoyance, and with a groan he crumpled up the sheet of paper and carelessly tossed it toward the bin beneath his desk. He did not notice that he missed, and the paper ended up on the floor.
With a huff, he rose from his chair and stepped over to the window to look out into the darkened courtyard. The windows of the mill house on the other side were lit; his sister Fanny was likely busy, instructing the house staff on the last finishing touches for the Christmas celebration. It would only be a small dinner, with just Fanny, himself and their mother.
Fanny was still young and always in search of entertainment, and therefore she did not understand her brother’s preference of spending the holiday quietly at home. Mr Thornton had never enjoyed social gatherings much. He had attended his fair share, mainly to conduct business with the other mill masters, but he was glad for every single one he could avoid.
He was used to spending most of his time by himself, in his office, working from morning until late at night. In the past few months his factory had been struggling financially, increasing the workload even more that he had been used to. But this was not why his eyes looked so bleak and sad, as he was gazing out of his window into the night.
No, there was something else that weighed heavily on his mind, something he had not been able to stop thinking about for weeks, no matter how much he tried to focus on his business correspondence and bank statements.
A while ago, something peculiar had happened to him; something he had never imagined possible, and it was distressing him quite a bit. Mr Thornton had fallen in love. It was a feeling wholly unfamiliar to him. For as long as he could remember, his purpose had been his business and taking care of his family.
There had been no room in his life for many personal pleasures, and the only leisure he had permitted himself had been the visits to his friend and tutor, Mr Richard Hale, who regularly invited him to his private residence to read and discuss the classics together.
It had been there that Thornton had first encountered Mr Hale’s daughter Margaret. Over the past year of their acquaintance, they had not always been on friendly terms. No, they had, in fact, disagreed on most things they had ever spoken of. But there was something about Margaret Hale that had captivated Thornton almost from the moment he had laid eyes on her.
She was very young, and when she had first come to Milton, she had known little of the people of the north and their ways. But whenever she had challenged him during a discussion, which usually revolved around the working conditions of his mill and the way he treated his workers, there had been a fire in her that he had never witnessed in any other woman before.
The way she stood up to him without fear had fascinated him. Her views tended to be a bit one-sided and naïve, but he knew they stemmed from genuine kindness toward those less fortunate, and he could not help but secretly admire her for that.
However, Mr Thornton’s chances of winning Miss Hale’s heart were practically non-existent. After their early quarrels, things between them had only gone downhill. After he had made her an imprudent offer of marriage and she had rejected the same, they had not spoken for months.
Then Mr Thornton had witnessed Miss Hale walking late at night with a man at the station, unchaperoned. He had scarcely been able to believe his eyes, but alas, it had been unmistakably her. To make matters worse, the same fellow he had seen her with had got caught up in a murder mystery, and Miss Hale herself had become the target of a police investigation.
Being a local magistrate, Mr Thornton had been able to stop the inquest and prevent a scandal, but in his anger at the whole affair, he had told Miss Hale that he no longer had feelings for her.
It had been a lie, and he had known it the moment the words had left his lips, but there was nothing he could do now. The more he had thought about the whole situation in the past weeks and months, the more he doubted that Miss Hale had truly been unchaste. More than once, during the brief conversations they had had, she had hinted that the situation had not been as it had appeared to an outsider. Thornton wanted to believe her, but they were barely on speaking terms at present.
And now it was Christmas, and all he truly wanted was to rush over to the Hale’s home in Crampton, take back his harsh words, and ask her forgiveness. He longed to tell her that he still cared about her, and ask her to be friends again. In truth, he wished to confess his love and repeat his marriage proposal, but he knew that that ship had sailed[1] [2] [3] .
It pained him that he would never be able to share his life with the woman he cared about so deeply, but he was prepared to live with the disappointment, so long as he could still be near her, to be her friend and confidant. He so wished it was possible.
The clock on the wall above the door showed that it was almost seven o’clock. With a sigh, Mr Thornton turned from the window, grabbed his coat from the headrest of the chair and put it on. Then he extinguished the lamp, opened the office door and, braving the cold gust of winter air that hit his face, made his way over to the mill house to have dinner with his family.
..ooOOoo..
That same night, just a few minutes after the church bell had struck seven o’clock, a little boy passed the locked gates of Mr Thornton’s mill. He was shivering slightly from the cold and was carrying an old wooden basket that had seen better days.
His cap covered most of his forehead and his shirt collar was pulled up to protect him from the icy wind. The city was uncommonly quiet, and as he walked by the big houses on both sides of the street, he could not help but gaze up at the illuminated windows here and there, where the wealthy families had gathered for a holiday feast.
The boy’s name was Tommy Boucher, and he did not know what it felt like to celebrate Christmas inside a warm house, with candlelight and carols, and a happy family.
Tommy’s parents had both died, leaving him the oldest of six children. They had been fortunate enough to be taken in by their neighbour, Nicholas Higgins, a weaver who worked at Mr Thornton’s mill. Higgins took care of the children as well as he could, but they were many mouths to feed on only one man’s income and the few shillings Higgins’ daughter Mary made by cooking at the worker’s canteen and running some errands
Yet, for Christmas, the family had hoped for a nice meal. They had saved up for it for several weeks, and Higgins had sent Tommy out to the butcher so that Mary could prepare a proper Christmas dinner.
The boy had gone out early, knowing that it was a holiday and that people would be lining up for the best pieces of meat. But unfortunately, all of Milton had had a similar thought and the line in front of the butcher’s shop had been even longer than expected. More than once some strong adult had pushed Tommy aside and walked past him, knowing that he was merely a boy who could not truly defend himself.
When he had finally made it to the door of the shop, the good meat had been sold out and all he had been able to get his hands on had been a few bony scraps, barely fit for a dog.
Tommy tore his eyes away from another one of the illuminated windows and continued on his way home. Suddenly, his feet felt rather heavy, and the wind bit his cheeks even more painfully than before.
How disappointed the others would be with him? His brothers and sisters would not have the meal they had looked forward to for many weeks. Maybe Mr Higgins would scold him for not getting there earlier or letting himself be pushed aside too easily. Tommy already felt like he had failed all of them.
He barely noticed that it had begun to snow. Thick flakes were falling from the heavens, quickly covering the darkened silhouettes of the city beneath a thin white blanket and muffling any sound until it felt as if one was walking all alone through a quiet winter forest…a forest made of brick walls, with factory chimneys for trees.
Then, just before he turned the corner of Marlborough Street, he heard a strange tingling sound, like countless little bells. It was low and distant at first, then gradually grew louder until something cast a shadow on the ground in front of him, making him stop and raise his eyes.
He started at the sight before him, for it struck him as rather odd. There, only a few yards from him, stood a donkey. It was still youthful, but strong, with light fur and big eyes that seemed to gaze straight at him.
On top of its head, around the ears, it wore a green wreath with two wooden sticks protruding from it, almost like the makeshift antlers of a counterfeit deer. A red blanket was flung over its back, with tiny little bells sewn along its edges. This was where the sound had come from.
But even more startling than the donkey, all dressed up in its peculiar finery, was what…or rather whom…it was carrying on its back.
It was a woman with long blond hair and bright eyes. She had a friendly face and wore a warm expression, with something almost humorous glinting in her eyes. She was wrapped in an elegant, yellow winter coat and both her feet were in heavy leather boots. The woman was sitting astride the donkey’s back in a rather unladylike fashion, holding its reins in thickly-gloved hands.
Tommy stood rooted to the spot, gaping at her in wonder. Upon seeing his surprise, the woman gave a little chuckle that sounded almost like the bells on her donkey’s blanket.
“Well, my boy, did my deer startle you into speechlessness?”
And with one swift movement, she jumped down from the donkey gracefully. “I hope Nader did not give you a scare,” she apologised, reaching out to pet the donkey behind his right ear. “He can be a bit boisterous, especially with his bells, but I assure you, he is a very sweet deer.”
Tommy opened his mouth, then closed it again, not knowing what to say. Eventually, he gathered all his courage and murmured: “That’s…a donkey.”
Immediately the woman’s hand flew up to her mouth, with her finger across her lips and an expression of alarm. “Shhh! Don’t mention that,” she scolded in a hushed voice. “Nader insists that he wants to be a deer tonight, and we would not want to hurt his feelings, would we? Besides…” she pointed at the two sticks on top of the strange hat the donkey was wearing. “Wouldn’t you say that his antlers look rather convincing? I made them myself, you see?”
The donkey nodded its head up and down a few times, and the bells on its blanket chimed. “Now, my boy, pray, what is your name?”
“I…I’m Tommy.”
“That is a lovely name,” she smiled warmly. “And what are you doing out here in the cold, all by yourself, and on Christmas Eve of all evenings?”
He hesitated. For some strange reason, it almost felt as if the woman was looking right through him and seeing his guilt without him having to say a single word. He felt oddly exposed.
And indeed, her expression changed into one that was rather serious. “You look as if tonight wasn’t the best night for you,” she said. There was no pity in her voice, but rather a tone of genuine compassion.
He did not know what got into him then, but suddenly Tommy heard himself speaking, telling her all about the butcher’s shop and his disappointment of having been overlooked until only a few scraps had been left.
“Oh, what a dreadful affair,” the woman nodded with a grave look. “Sadly, people have a tendency to overlook those who are not within their immediate view. I’m not too tall myself, but unlike you, I make up for it in other places,” she said, patting her belly with both hands and giving him a humorous wink.
This made the boy giggle, and for a moment he almost forgot that he had been sad mere seconds before.
“So, you did not get the proper food for your well-deserved Christmas feast. We’ll see about that, my dear. We have not yet seen the end of the matter. But first…” she patted her donkey once again, “there is something I need to do, and I think I could use your help with it, Tommy. What do you say to a little arrangement?”
“An…arrangement?” he wondered, not knowing what she was implying.
“Yes, you see, I have some business on this street tonight. I could use a helping hand in getting a message to a recipient. If you run a quick errand for me, it will not be to your disadvantage.”
She held out her gloved hand to him. “What do you say?”
Tommy stared at the offered hand for a few seconds, uncertain how he should act. “But…they are waiting for me at home.”
“Oh, do not worry, my boy, it won’t take long. You will be back home safely before too much time has passed. All we need to do is walk back down this street to the big factory with the green gates.”
“Marlborough Mills?
“You know it?”
“Aye, Mr Higgins works there. I’ve been there many times, waiting for him.”
Her face lit up at that. “So you know your way around the mill then? That is most convenient. Come.”
And she retook the donkey’s reins and began walking swiftly toward Marlborough Mills. It was only then that Tommy noticed the sleigh the animal was pulling. It was a rather simple wooden construction. On top of it sat a big bag, almost as big as Tommy himself. He had no idea what was in there but it seemed rather full and heavy, bulging in various places and tied at the top with a strong piece of rope.
The woman’s gaze followed his and the corners of her mouth turned up in silent amusement. “You are curious about the contents of my bag, aren’t you?” she observed a bit mischievously. “Just wait and I may let you have a look later. Now come along, we have little time to spare.”
And without being able to come up with an excuse, or even trying for one, the boy fell into step beside her, still carrying his basket. They walked slowly down the street that lay silent before them, now covered in a light blanket of snow, with the lanterns casting their orange glow into the darkness.
It was not long before they stopped in front of the big wooden gates of Marlborough Mills. They were locked, as was to be expected at this time of night. The woman let her eyes wander up and down the wooden planks, then laid the palm of her right hand against them for a moment. There was a strange creaking sound, almost as if someone was turning a key and to Tommy’s astonishment, the door moved and opened just a crack.
“H-how did you do that?” he stuttered, gaping at her in shock.
But she just shrugged her shoulders lightly. “I have my ways. Come on, but be quiet. We would not want to raise attention. You can leave your basket by the sleigh.”
She then turned toward the donkey: “Stay here, Nader, and look after dear Alexander. We’ll be back in a jiffy.” The donkey slowly moved its head up and down a few times, and if Tommy had not known better, he could have sworn that it was nodding.”
Tommy took a few hesitant steps into the courtyard. He did not dare breathe for fear of them being discovered. He knew they were not supposed to be there and wondered what he was thinking, following this strange woman. She could be a criminal for all he knew, and then he would be in big trouble.
For a moment, he considered turning and running, but then he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry boy, nothing bad will happen.”
The woman waved to him to follow her, and on tiptoes, they made their way across the snowy yard. Out of the corner of his eyes, the boy could see the bright windows of the big house. The Thornton family was celebrating, and hopefully, none of them would step over to a window and look out.
His companion walked briskly now, holding up the hem of her coat with both hands. She looked very much like a woman on a mission, striding straight toward the building on the other side of the yard, which Tommy recognised as the office of the mill master.
Nervously, he followed her up the wooden steps to the door where she once again pressed her hand against the dark wood and made the door open, although he was sure it must have been locked. Mr Thornton was not the kind of man to leave his office unprotected.
The room was so dark that Tommy could barely make out anything. Still, for some reason, the woman seemed to have quite a good idea of where to find things, because she purposefully took a few steps toward the middle of the room.
There was the sound of a match being struck as she fiddled with something, and a moment later, the oil lamp on the big desk was flickering to life, and Tommy’s mouth fell open in astonishment as his eyes caught on the walls of the room. They were covered in books from the floor to the ceiling, hundreds of books, placed neatly along the walls, spine by leather-bound spine. He had never seen so many books before.
“An impressive library, don’t you think?” the woman commented. “Although, I suspect most of these are rather boring and business-related. They probably have some proper ones over at the house. Do you read?”
He gave a nod. “I’m…teaching myself to read.”
He earned another wide smile for this. “That’s a very smart thing to do. Reading can open up worlds to you that are forever hidden from other people. But now…where is it?” And she bent down to look for something on the floor.
“Come over here, Tommy, and help me. It must be here somewhere, I’m sure.” He obeyed, stepping over to her. “What…are you looking for?”
“A letter we are supposed to deliver. I should pick it up here and take it to…wait, let’s see.” And she reached into a pocket of her yellow coat and pulled out a piece of paper. She bent near the lamp and squinted her eyes. “Of course, I have lost my eyeglasses again,” she mumbled to herself. “Must be in the horse field. Ah yes…Crampton. A Miss Hale.”
Tommy looked up at that. “Miss Hale? I know a Miss Hale in Crampton.”
“Do you?” She appeared genuinely interested now.
“Aye, she is a friend of Mr Higgins and Mary…the people I live with,” he clarified.
“Now that is most helpful!” She seemed rather cheerful. “Do you know the place where she lives?”
“I’ve been there once with Mary, on an errand.”
“All the better then. I’m lucky to have come across you of all people tonight. But now, would you mind looking underneath that desk? It must be here somewhere. It’s not on the desk itself, but I didn’t think it would be. He must have thrown it away.”
The boy bent down to peek underneath the desk. He had no idea what they were even really looking for.
“There is…a crumpled piece of paper,” he told her.
“That sounds promising. Pick it up.” He did and handed it to her. She carefully smoothed out the edges and let her eyes dart over the hand-written lines with great interest. “Yes, this is it. This is what we’ve been looking for,” she nodded, obviously satisfied. “Well done, Tommy, well done indeed.”
She folded the piece of paper carefully and then held it out to him. “Put this in your pocket and take good care of it. You must help me deliver it, that is your part of our bargain. Then we’ll see about your reward.”
“Reward?”
She nodded with a twinkle in her eyes. “Of course! Did you think I would have you work for nothing? Now do come, we’ve little time to spare.”
Tommy tucked away the paper in the pocket of his trousers. The woman extinguished the lamp. Then the door slid closed behind them and he swore that he could hear the sound of a lock, as if an invisible key was turned.
They made it back through the courtyard and onto the street where the donkey was waiting for them obediently. The woman took its reins and swiftly climbed onto the animal’s back, then held out her hand to him. “Come on, you can sit in front of me.”
“But…won’t it be too heavy for the donkey?”
She shot him a stern look. “You mean the deer. And no, there’s no need for concern; Nader is much stronger than he looks.”
A bit unsurely he held out his hand and felt himself being pulled up with a strength that surprised him, and a moment later he sat in front of her, feeling the body heat of the animal beneath him. It moved, and Tommy quickly grabbed the first thing his hands could reach, which was the side of Nader’s neck.
“Do hold on, he’s friendly and won’t mind it,” the woman said behind him. “Go Nader, take us to Crampton.” And the animal began trotting down the street like it knew exactly where it was going.
There was a sound, like a faint whimper somewhere to his left, and it was only then that Tommy noticed a big woven basket with a lid attached to Nader’s left side. He had not seen it before as he had stood facing the other side of the donkey. It made him feel even worse for the animal. Not only was it pulling the sleigh with the big bag and carrying both of them, but it also had the basket containing…something.
There was another whimper and the woman leaned down and pulled the lid or the basket open, and Tommy’s breath caught at what he saw…in there was a live animal. And it was not a common animal, like a stray cat…no…the boy squinted his eyes as he watched a little snout peek out of the basket, sniffing, and then a set of dark eyes appeared, and a head. It was…”a fox!” Tommy called out in surprise.
“Yes, but don’t worry, he is very tame.” And she reached down her hand to pet the fox’s head. “It’s all good, Alexander. Tommy is a nice boy; he won’t harm you.”
The fox huffed through its nose and blinked at Tommy with big, innocent eyes.
“W-where did you get him?” he asked, astonished.
“It’s a long story, and one for another time. Alexander Fox was looking for a new home, and I had some room to spare. Hush now, Alexander, we would not want to draw too much attention to ourselves on this Christmas night.”
Tommy turned his head as far as he could and looked at the woman. For a second, he wondered if he should dare ask the question that had been on his mind for the past half hour he had spent in her company.
“W-who are you?” He was sure it was a very impolite question to ask, but he was merely eight years old, and at this age, our manners are no match for our curiosity.
The woman chuckled lightly, seeming not at all offended. “Don’t you have a suspicion?” she then retorted. “You are a clever boy, Tommy. Surely you must have some idea by now.”
This made him stop and think for a long moment. “You…travel through town on Christmas Eve…with a sleigh and a big bag,” he began sorting his thoughts. “And…you can open doors without a key…almost like…like magic. It’s almost as if you were…Father Christmas.”
This earned him a hearty laugh. “Oh, dear boy, what a silly thing to say. Look at me, do I look like Father Christmas to you?”
He felt a bit dumb but had no time to come up with an answer because just then, Nader stopped walking, and Tommy recognised the streets of Crampton. He had accompanied Mary there when she had gone to see Miss Hale.
The woman who was not Father Christmas, slid down onto the street and reached out a hand to assist him. “Do you still have your letter?”
“Aye.” He reached into his pocket and held out the piece of paper.
“Good. Now here is what I want you to do: You go up to this house right there, ring the doorbell, and when the maid opens, you give her the letter and say it’s for Miss Margaret Hale. Say it’s for her exclusively, and no one else. Can you do that?”
He nodded.
“Good. I’ll wait here; I’d rather not be seen or they might ask indelicate questions about my deer.”
Tommy didn’t know why he felt so nervous all of a sudden. He had been to this place before, but never on his own. Would the housemaid even speak to him? Or would she close the door in his face, thinking he was just some street urchin?
With his heart pounding heavily in his chest, he walked up the few steps to the front door and, with a shaking hand, reached out to pull the handle of the doorbell. He nearly jumped when he heard the ringing inside. A minute later, there were heavy footsteps, stomping down the hall toward him. Tommy fought the urge to walk back down into the street and hide in the shadows, but he stood tall and bravely raised his chin above his collar.
The door flew open and he stood face to face with the housemaid, clad in a dark grey apron and looking at him suspiciously.
“What do you want, boy? There’s no use begging at doorsteps; off with you.”
Quickly he held out his letter, before she could close the door again. “Please miss, I – I have a message to deliver…to Miss Margaret Hale.”
The maid raised her brows at this. “Miss Margaret?”
“Aye.”
“And who’s the message from if I may ask?”
Tommy hesitated for a moment, not knowing what he should reply. Unsurely he glanced over his shoulder, but his companions were hidden away in the shadows beyond the street lanterns and he could not make them out.
“It’s from…from Marlborough Mills,” he finally decided, hoping this was a safe enough answer, and it was not even a lie.
A look of recognition appeared on the servant’s face, and to his great relief, she reached out to take the paper from him.
“You’ll give it to Miss Hale?” he could not help but ask again, unsurely. “I was told to say it’s for her personally.”
The maid nodded with a hint of annoyance. “I’ll see to it. Now be off, boy.” And she slammed the door shut.
He stood for a few moments, absentmindedly chewing his lip. Then, hoping that it would all be well, he turned and trudged back down into the snow-covered street.
The woman (who was not Father Christmas) was waiting by her deer (who was actually a donkey) with a wide smile. “Excellent, Tommy. You’ve done quite well. And now it’s time for you to go home. I’m sure your family will be asking themselves where you are.”
She helped him back up onto Nader’s back and took her place behind him, and off they went, through the snowy streets of Milton. Tommy realised that he should tell the woman where the Higginses lived, but strangely the animal seemed to know the way, as if it had read his thoughts somehow.
As they were nearing the workers’ homes in the Princeton district, the boy’s mind once more went through everything that had happened this evening. He could not remember ever having had a stranger encounter. This woman with her deer-donkey was anything but ordinary. She had some kind of magic about her, he was sure of it.
They reached the Higginses house without her ever having asked directions, and she slid off Nader and assisted him once more. Then she reached toward her sleigh and picked something up. “Must not forget your basket.”
She handed it back to him, with a cheerful smile. When Tommy took it, he almost gasped, for the basket suddenly felt rather heavy; heavier than he could ever remember. He looked up at her in surprise.
“I promised you a reward, didn’t I?” she winked at him. “Oh, and take this here. I think your siblings may enjoy it.” And she reached into the big bag on her sleigh and pulled out a strange object. It looked like a gentleman’s umbrella. It was a fancy item, and costly, he was sure; Tommy had only ever seen one or two from afar.
She held it out to him, and he took it with a trembling hand. “This is the kind of gift I only give to friends. When you’re inside the house, you just need to open it.” He was not sure what to say, so he just nodded.
“Well then, Tommy, it was a pleasure to meet you. I must get on; I have many errands to run tonight.” And with that, she turned toward Nader. The lid of the basket at the animal’s side opened just a few inches, and the fox’s nose popped out, sniffing again. “All well, Alexander. We’ll be on our way.”
“Wait!” the boy called out to her before he could stop himself.
The woman turned to look at him once more. “Yes?”
“You…you never answered my question,” he said bravely.
“Your question?”
“Aye. I asked you who you are.”
“Oh!” She chuckled. “Well, I thought we had established that I am not Father Christmas. Honestly, I don’t know why people would believe in such nonsense in the first place. A man doing so much work in just one night; it’s absurd.”
“But…but you do all these things!” Tommy exclaimed, suddenly anxious that she would leave him without giving a proper answer. “You can do magic, can’t you? I’ve seen it!”
“Oh that? That’s not worth mentioning, really,” she waved him off modestly before adding: “Although if it would impress you, I could tell you that I did quite well in magic class. Not so much in Irish dancing and figure skating, and God forbid, church bell ringing. Mind you, I was the worst church bell ringer in all of England, but magic, I’ve always had a certain talent for it.”
“So if you aren’t Father Christmas…are you…Mother Christmas then?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Now I don’t like the sound of that. It makes me feel quite old. No, my boy, I would prefer my name, really. It’s Merry.”
“A…merry name?”
She giggled. “Well, I suppose you could say that, but that’s not what I meant. My name is quite literally Merry. Merry Christmas, to be exact.”
Tommy looked a bit dumbfounded.
She waved her hand at him. “Thank you for your lovely company this Christmas, Tommy Boucher. I shall not forget it. Maybe we’ll run into each other again someday.”
And then she pulled herself up onto Nader’s back; his bells tingled. With a last wave of her hand and a smile, they set off into the night, and within seconds, the darkness had swallowed them, and not a sound was heard.
Tommy stood for a long moment, looking at the spot where he had last seen them. If it hadn’t been for the basket, weighing heavily in his hand, and the strange umbrella, he would have been sure that it had only been a dream.
“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled to himself. Then he turned and walked toward the door of his home.
..ooOOoo..
Miss Margaret Hale took her place by the window and picked up her knitting basket. She and her father had just finished a simple Christmas dinner and had now retreated to the sitting room for an hour of quiet company before bed.
They had tried for some conversation during the meal, but there was no pretending that this Christmas was not a particularly happy one in their family. Only a few months before, Margaret’s mother had died, and ever since then, Mr Hale had been in very low spirits.
She had expected that tonight would be particularly difficult, and even though she knew that he had tried to be pleasant company, she felt almost glad that he was now picking up a book to read in the chair by the fire, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Margaret thought of her friends, Nicholas Higgins, and Mary, and the Boucher children who would now be sitting down to what she hoped would be a pleasant Christmas dinner. She thought of her brother Frederick who was celebrating Christmas in Spain with his wife Dolores, she thought of her Cousin Edith in London who would spend the first Christmas with her new born baby Sholto…and eventually, almost involuntarily…her thoughts drifted toward Mr Thornton and his family.
Margaret did not like thinking about Mr Thornton these days. Her relationship with him had always been complicated. At first, she had not liked him much at all, then, over time, as she had grown to know him better, she had developed a sort of antagonistic friendship with him.
Eventually, she had realised that her feelings for him ran deeper than she had cared to admit for a long time. But it was just then, as recognition had dawned on her, that he had told her he did not care for her anymore.
It had felt as though someone had taken her heart and smashed it into a million pieces on the floor. How she wished she could have told him that she had changed her mind about his proposal, to apologise for all those cruel words she had spoken to him. But alas, it was no use.
She knew that after turning him down and then lying to him about her brother Fred, who had walked with her to the station one night, and whom Mr Thornton had surely taken for a lover, she deserved no better.
There had been no other way. Fred was on the run from the law and she had to protect his identity at all costs, and yet she wished she could have cleared her name in Mr Thornton’s eyes.
It was just then, as she was pondering these things, that their housemaid Dixon stepped into the room and held out a piece of paper to her. “This came for you when you were having dinner. It’s from Marlborough Mills,” the older woman informed her in a neutral voice.
Margaret’s heart leaped inside her chest as she quickly reached for the paper and unfolded it. It seemed strangely wrinkled like someone had crumpled it up and then straightened it again. She held her breath as she recognised Mr Thornton’s neat handwriting.
Dear Miss Hale…dear Margaret,
Once more I find myself writing to you…yet another letter you will never read.
It is Christmas Eve, and I will be expected at the mill house for dinner in less than an hour.
I have little patience for festivities these days; honestly, I would much rather stay at the office.
I’ve never been one for idleness. I believe that work gives purpose to a man’s life, and in recent months I have found that it is a good distraction from the gloomy thoughts that have been haunting me ever since that night at the station back in June.
How I wish it had not happened, that night, and all the other things I regret. Sometimes I wonder…if there had been no riot, if I had not been so foolish as to bare my heart to you at the worst possible moment, if I had handled things differently, I wonder whether you would have found it in yourself to consider me a friend.
Most of all I regret the fact that I have lied to you. To this day, I can’t fathom what got into me that day; I reckon that my temper must have got the better of me, for I consider myself an honest man, and telling a falsehood to you, of all people, is something I am utterly ashamed of.
That day when I told you that my feelings for you were over…I could not have strayed further from the truth. I was speaking out of anger and disappointment that day, but the truth is that I have nothing but the deepest regard for you. I doubt anything in this world could change that.
If I could make a wish this Christmas, I would wish for your forgiveness. I would wish to be a friend to you, nay, more than that. I know it is a foolish notion to even expect civility from you after how I have treated you, and yet, I cannot help but wish you could come to see me as a man who is willing to lay his heart and his life at your feet, and that you could ever come to care for me in the way I have always cared for you, and always shall…
This was where the letter ended. He had not signed it, leaving it feeling a bit unfinished, like something he had attempted to bring to paper, but given up on halfway through.
Margaret sat in silence, barely daring to breathe as her eyes darted over the letter again, and then a third time. This could not be…
“Is everything all right, dear?” Mr Hale asked, looking at her over the edge of his book. “You have gone quite pale, are you not feeling well?”
“I am well,” she managed quickly, not wanting to raise any suspicion. She did notice that her voice sounded slightly breathy. “Just some Christmas post.”
Her father seemed to accept this answer and turned toward his book again, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts.
What did this letter mean? If she had not recognised the distinct handwriting as Mr Thorntons, which she had seen on countless notes to her father, she would have believed that someone had been playing her for a fool.
He regretted his words to her, he wished them to be friends, and if she had read his last few lines correctly, maybe even more than that.
Suddenly her heart raced wildly in her chest, and she had to fight to keep her breathing even so as not to distract her father again. Since that day when Mr Thornton had told her that he did not care for her anymore, Margaret had felt an emptiness she could not put into words.
It had taken her so long to admit to herself that she did have feelings for him, and then all her hopes had been shattered by his hurtful words.
She knew she deserved no better after everything she had said and done to him, and therefore she had resolved herself to carrying pain of lost love. She had felt that she would likely always be alone, for she could not imagine giving her heart to another man; not after having known John Thornton.
It was her punishment, she thought, resigned, to live with the regret for a lifetime.
But now…this letter…could there be hope? She had no idea why he had sent it; it was certainly not proper to do so, not when it contained such obvious implications of his feelings. They were not courting.
Yet, somehow, she could not help but wonder whether he had even intended to send it. He was a man who had always guarded his emotions well, save for that one time when he had spoken about his feelings to her, and she was certain that her reaction had taught him not to ever do it again.
She smoothed out the edges of the letter again. It truly looked as if it had been crumpled up at some point, like something he had intended to throw away. It was not like Mr Thornton to send letters written on such tattered paper. He always did everything most orderly.
There was something very peculiar about the whole affair, Margaret was sure of it.
She was torn out of her thoughts by her father’s voice. “I forgot to tell you, my dear, Mr Thornton will come to call on us tomorrow, and take tea with us.”
“Oh?” was all she managed to say.
Mr Thornton would come. She would have to face him, after reading his letter. Margaret did not dare even think about it. How could she look him in the eyes? Would he mention the letter?
Should she?
Oh dear, she could hardly remain silent on the matter. If he had sent this letter, he would likely expect some kind of reply. But what should she tell him? That she had forgiven him? That she longed to be his friend too? To be more than his friend? That she hoped that he would consider courting her?
“Margaret?”
“Excuse me, Papa. I suddenly feel very tired. I beg you will excuse my presence; I shall go upstairs to my room and rest.”
With that she rose from her chair, her hand still clutching the letter, and walked over to her father to press a kiss to his forehead. “I shall see you in the morning.”
And before he could make much of a reply, she was out of the room and on her way up the stairs.
..ooOOoo..
Nicholas Higgins looked up from where he was sitting by the fireplace when Tommy stepped into the room. “There ye are, I was about to send Mary lookin’ for ye,” he growled. “Yer siblings ‘ave been waitin’ for ye.”
Tommy did not say a word; he just put the basket on the table praying that he would not be scolded too badly for his misfortune at the butcher’s.
There was the tapping sound of little feet, and a moment later his younger brothers and sisters appeared, climbing down the steps from the upper room in excitement. They were followed by Mary, who wore her usual dark grey dress and tired expression.
“What did ye bring, Tommy? Show us? What did ye get?”
He did not dare look into their faces, so he just stood there with his head hung, his right hand clutching the umbrella Merry Christmas had given him.
Mary stepped over to the table and lifted the cloth that covered the basket.
There were many “aahs” and “oohs” and sounds of cheer which made Tommy look up in surprise, and even Nicholas Higgins rose from his seat to come looking at what made the children so happy.
They barely dared believe their eyes as Mary began putting things out onto the table. There was ham…a big chunk of it, bigger than any of them had ever seen, and cheese too. Then there was cake, enough to feed all of them twice over, and pudding and fruit, apples and pears and dried plums. There was even a bottle of wine.
Tommy stood with his mouth wide open, staring just as much as the others.
The whole of the table was now covered in delicious food that would last them for a week at least, and make them all full and happy, but it seemed that the basket was not yet empty. It was strange to think that any more could fit into it, but there it was.
Two dollies for the girls, pretty ones, not the ones made of old rags that the children on their street used to carry around, and half a dozen little toy soldiers made of tin, dressed in elegant red coats, each of them holding a little gun. Then there was a little bag full of marbles, an artfully crafted wooden peg top on a string, and finally, a children’s book: “The Children of the New Forest”.
“Tommy,” Mr Higgins breathed. “Where did ye get this?”
The boy could not make an answer, he just stared at the table in awe, like everybody else.
“What’s that in your hand?” Higgins eventually asked after a minute, pointing at the umbrella.
Tommy looked down at it and remembered what Merry Christmas had told him: “This is the kind of gift I only give to friends. When you’re inside the house, you just need to open it.”
And so, he did. He struggled for a moment, trying to figure out the mechanism, and then…
There was a loud cracking sound, making everyone jump. The younger kids screamed, frightened. For a moment nobody could make out anything. There was a bright light, expanding from Tommy’s hands, spreading into every corner of the room, blinding them with its brightness. And when they were able to blink and their eyes readjusted to the light, the umbrella was gone.
In its place, in the centre of the room, right next to the table, there stood a big, green fir tree. A real, live tree, like the ones in the forest. It was bedecked over and over with candles and little apples and paper stars and ribbons, the most beautiful tree any of them had ever seen.
By some strange magic the candles were already lit.
Mary pressed both hands to her chest in shock, Nicholas Higgins had sunk down into his chair again, staring at the tree with his mouth wide open.
“How did you DO that?” Tommy’s sister Suzie yelped with wide eyes.
“A…a friend gave all of it to me,” Tommy stuttered.
“A friend?” Nicholas looked over from the tree to the boy. “What kind of friend would give ye such things?”
“Her name is Merry,” Tommy told him, now unable to keep a wide smile from spreading all over his face.
“Merry Christmas.”
..ooOOoo..
Miss Margaret Hale had spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning in her bed in anticipation of Mr Thornton’s call the next day. It was something she both yearned for and dreaded at the same time.
The morning hours dragged into infinity. She busied herself by helping Dixon around the house and in the kitchen.
Finally, the time for tea came, and then the doorbell rang. Mr Thornton was sharp to his time, as was his custom.
Dixon led him into the sitting room where Mr Hale and Margaret had already taken their places. Greetings were exchanged, followed by some polite conversation between the two men, while Margaret sat with her knitting basket, barely daring to look at either of them.
Her heart was beating so wildly, she was afraid it would burst out of her chest any moment. She could not remember ever having been so nervous. She knew she needed to speak to Mr Thornton, but she could not do it when her father was there. She needed to wait for the right moment, but would that moment ever come?
The minutes stretched into half an hour…then into an hour during which she spoke little, and only cast occasional glances over at the man in question, finding him distractingly handsome, today even more so than ever before, in his festive red waistcoat and cravat.
Eventually, the two men rose from their chairs, and Thornton expressed his regrets at having to take his leave so early, but urgent business was calling him back to the mill.
Mr Hale wondered aloud if Thornton was not permitted to rest, even on Christmas, but the younger man assured him that the factory cared little for his personal leisure time, and that things had to be seen to on any day of the year.
“I shall walk you to the door,” Margaret heard herself call out. A bit shakily she rose to her legs, hoping that she would not faint.
She had no idea what she was going to do or how to approach him. She followed him out of the room and down the stairs in silence. When they reached the front door, she took his hat and coat and handed both to him, and he thanked her politely and reached for the door handle.
“Mr Thornton.”
He turned toward her. “Yes, Miss Hale?”
With trembling hands, she pulled the letter out of the sleeve of her dress, where she had hidden it away, and held it out to him.
“What’s this?”
He took it from her, unfolded it…and paled.
“H…how did you get this?” His voice was hoarse; he looked quite shaken, confirming her theory that he had never intended for her to have it.
“It was delivered to me last night.”
“By…by whom?”
“I don’t know. Dixon gave it to me. It must have been a delivery boy.”
Mr Thornton appeared very uncomfortable, not meeting her eyes and fidgeting with the paper nervously.
“I was sure I had thrown that away. I cannot fathom how it came into your hands. I…I must apologise, I am beyond embarrassed. I never meant to cause you discomfort of any kind, and I can understand if you never want to see me again. I shall respect that.” He turned from her.
“Mr Thornton, wait!” she called out, now alarmed at his sudden attempt at a departure. If she let him leave now, all would be lost forever, she was sure of it.
Without thinking, she reached out and put her hand on his arm. He froze in his tracks, still not looking at her. “Mr Thornton please…I need…I need to tell you,” she stammered in despair. “I do not know how this letter came into my possession, but…its content was not unwelcome to me.”
“Not…” he turned again, staring. “Not unwelcome?”
“Indeed,” she confessed, feeling the heat of a blush on her face. “Your words were quite frank, but I was glad for it. After what you said that day…that you did not care for me anymore, I had given up hope.”
“Hope?” He did not dare trust his ears. Could she be implying…
“Miss Hale, I beg you do not trifle with my affections. I shall not speak of them again if they are not reciprocated.”
This time he did look up, searching her face for a sign. His eyes caught on hers, looking at him so earnestly, glistening with unshed tears.
She swallowed visibly, then: “You know it would be most improper, Mr Thornton, for a woman to speak of her affections so openly, however if you decided to ask for a courtship, I would not refuse.”
It was all the answer he needed, for he understood what she was trying to tell him.
Never in his life had Mr Thornton’s heart swelled in the way it did at that moment. It was as if it was singing, and the smile that spread across his features was so rare, that Miss Hale could scarcely believe her eyes.
He reached for her hand and held it between both of his. “I shall come back tomorrow, and speak to your father about a courtship,” he whispered. “Would that please you?”
She gave a tearful nod. “Very much so.”
He squeezed her hand, and with one last warm look into her eyes, Mr Thornton took his leave. As he was walking down the street, a few people turned to look after him in surprise. The mill master was a known face in Milton, grave and severe as he always was. Never before had they seen him with such a friendly face, and such a swing in his step, almost like he had to fight the urge to skip down the street like a happy schoolboy.
..ooOOoo..
And so, for Mr Thornton, Miss Hale, and for the Higgins family, the Christmas of 1851 was the most wondrous any of them could ever remember. Though neither of them ever truly understood the deep magic that had befallen their lives that night, they would look back on it for many years to come.
And even decades later, when Tommy Boucher’s hair had gone grey, he would sit with his grandchildren and tell them of his peculiar encounter with Merry Christmas and her donkey Nader who, for one night, had magically turned into a deer.