Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton Page A

Dimity? Why had I withheld from her the very information she desired most? Was I afraid I might describe him all too accurately?
    Suddenly, at the very edge of my hearing, I heard the distant sound of a howling wind. I trembled slightly and opened my eyes, scanning the ivy-webbed window for signs of an impending storm, but the ivy hung as still as a stenciled pattern against the glass panes. I shook my headto clear it, ran a hand through my dark crop of curls, and returned the journal to the shelves, telling myself that I was more tired than I’d thought. Kit had been caught in the blizzard, not me.
    As I trudged upstairs to bed, it occurred to me that Kit’s sleep might well be troubled by the memory of a howling wind. It also occurred to me that my feelings for him might not be entirely philanthropic.

W hen I saw the faint circles beneath Willis, Sr.’s clear gray eyes the next morning, I put them down to grandchild-induced battle fatigue. My sons were perfect angels, of course, but at nine months even angels could be a handful.
    I had no intention of letting my father-in-law fly solo again. Once I’d finished making a few phone calls in the privacy of the study, I’d join him and the twins in the living room and resume my dual roles as mother and daughter-in-law of the year.
    The first call was to Dr. Pritchard, who informed me that Kit’s condition had deteriorated during the night. They’d managed to stabilize him, but he remained comatose and was now on a ventilator. The doctor concluded his report by telling me not to worry. I bit back a shout of “
How
?”, thanked him politely, and hung up the phone.
    Every cell in my body wanted to dash out of the cottage and run to Kit’s side, but I told myself not to be a fool. Kitwas in good hands, and my presence at his bedside would make no difference to his recovery. I thought briefly of telephoning Julian Bright, then realized that he would already know of Kit’s setback, since, according to Nurse Willoughby, he visited the Radcliffe every morning.
    My second call was to the Willis mansion in Boston, but I was informed by the housekeeper that Bill had already left for Hyram Collier’s funeral. I envisioned Mrs. Collier standing over her husband’s grave, shivering in a bitter northeast wind, and was gladder than ever that Bill was there to comfort her.
    My third call was to Miss Kingsley, who accepted her assignment with alacrity, promising to get back to me as soon as possible with whatever information she could glean about Kit’s stay at the Heathermoor Asylum.
    â€œAre you sure you’re okay with this?” I asked. “The Flamborough must be pretty busy at this time of year.”
    â€œI could do with the distraction,” Miss Kingsley told me. “If I hear ‘Good King Wenceslas’ one more time, I swear I’ll take a gun to the roof and start picking off Salvation Army bell ringers.”
    â€œMiss Kingsley!” I gasped.
    â€œWorking in a hotel at Christmastime would be enough to drive a saint to cynicism,” Miss Kingsley stated firmly. “Please tell me that your Christmas Eve party’s still on. It’s the only thing left to look forward to.”
    â€œIt’s on,” I assured her, “and I’ll expect you to be there, with bells on.”
    â€œNo,” she said, her voice shuddering. “No bells …”
    When I finished speaking with Miss Kingsley, I picked up Kit Smith’s carryall and brought it with me to the living room. I wanted to give Kit’s meager belongings a second look while keeping an eye on the boys.
    I should have known better. Before I got a chance tolook at anything, Will grabbed the tin mug, Rob made off with the soup spoon, and Reginald, my pink flannel rabbit, fell across the prayer book’s open pages. Willis, Sr., rescued Reginald and the prayer book, then settled back in his chair to watch while I retrieved the