Coming Home for Christmas (14 page)

A
s foolish as she had felt over the Christmas tree, Lily knew herself well enough to understand that her training would take over, especially when so many people needed her. She had wanted to believe the major, when he looked her in the eye, his hands still gentle on her arms, and assured her there would be a tree.

She had nodded and smiled, because she knew he wanted to see that. It was pointless to mention that tomorrow was Christmas Eve. He could read a calendar as well as she could. After the noon meal, Trey had told her there would soon be a transport of the walking wounded by steamer for Constantinople. He had completed the paperwork for her to accompany them. She could leave on Christmas morning, or sooner, if the steamer was ready.

“At least it won't take me long to pack,” she had joked, hoping to dissipate some of the bleakness she felt and could have sworn she'd seen reflected in his eyes also.
Say something to me,
she said to herself,
wishing he could understand her heart.
That's how it is supposed to be done, you know, no matter that you are American and bound by your own orders. Do you think I find London irresistible? Think again.

But Trey Wharton was not susceptible to thought waves and everyone seemed to need her. Her duties occupied her solidly from the noon meal to mid-afternoon, but she found a hundred ways to avoid the main hall, where the ambulatory men had collected all the ornaments they had prepared for the tree the coachmen had burned, the tree for which she had sacrificed her hair.

As the afternoon waned, one of the nuns delivered a note to her on the familiar, heavily embossed paper that came from Sultan Abdul Ahmed Wasiri. She managed her only genuine smile so far that day, pleased to see an invitation for her to visit that afternoon. There was a pony cart waiting for her.

She scribbled a note for Captain Penrose and left the barracks hospital.

 

As charming as ever, the sultan took her to the seraglio, where a weaver sat cross-legged on a straw mat, attaching her shorn red hair to a mohair cap.

“A strand here, a strand there. Soon it will be complete, and my Habiba will have lovely red hair,” he told her. He sighed. “Her own hair is so brittle. Now she will not cry when she looks in a mirror.”

Lily felt a warm glow for the first time since her horror of early morning. “She will be lovely.” She could see no point in telling the sultan what had happened to the tree. For all she knew of imperial wrath, heads would roll, and she didn't want that on her conscience.

After a brief visit with Habiba, Lily and the sultan sat in the antechamber off the entrance. He had sent for her pony cart again, and it was time to say goodbye.

It was also time to apologize. The sultan only nodded, his eyes bright, and tugged at his handsome goatee when she confessed that she thought he had proposed to her months ago.

“I think now that you were only trying to find a way to ask for my hair and I didn't understand,” she confessed, feeling relief as she unburdened herself.

“It is true,” he told her with a slight smile. “I do not think you would be happy in my harem.” He looked at her, his eyes shrewd now. “Besides, I do not think Major Wharton would have ever allowed such a thing, not the way he feels.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, mystified. “What do you mean?”

The sultan made a grand gesture. “He told me one late night over cards how much he loves you, Mrs Nicholls.”

Lily held her breath. The sultan watched her, then kindly suggested that she breathe. He tugged at his goatee again. “It was not your imagination that you feared I wanted you for my fourth and final wife.” He shrugged, the gesture almost as grand. “Perhaps it is the devious mind of the east, my dear. I thought if I made enough overtures to you, he would find this a good excuse to advance his own cause.” His eyes seemed to fill with sympathy then. “It is not so?”

You sly fox,
Lily thought, amused in spite of her heartache. “I fear our major is simply too shy to find out how I really feel, your Highness. May…maybe he thinks I might not like his country.”

“He should at least ask,” the sultan suggested. “I think he is a brave man.”

“He is, when he is fighting for his hospital,” Lily said. “He is so used to helping others that I think he forgets about himself.”

They were both silent for a long while. A servant crawled toward them to whisper that the pony cart was ready. The sultan dismissed him with a single finger and looked at Lily.

“Perhaps it is up to you to tip the balance,” he said. “This is not something I would recommend for any female of my acquaintance, but you, Madame Nicholls, are a modern woman from a country with steamships, railways and matches that light with the flick of a fingernail.”

Lily smiled at the image. “Proposing is not something that ladies do,” she told him.

Another massive shrug. “Could you make an exception for an exceptional man?”

 

It had been a good question. She mulled it around that evening as she finished her own records and wrote her last detailed instructions in a journal. Steeling herself, she knocked on the hospital administrator's door, wanting to leave the documents with him. Perhaps also to say goodbye and take a long, last look.

He wasn't there, but it was late. He had probably decided to ward walk earlier, since it would be Christmas Eve tomorrow. She couldn't bring herself to go into the main hall, with its sad little box of tin ornaments and paper chains. She could say goodbye in the morning, provided Major Wharton was up. She knew the wounded were leaving early; Captain Penrose had
prepared them for departure. Lily propped her report against the closed door and quietly went to bed.

 

It was still full dark when she woke. Lily washed in cold water and dressed quickly in her new green dress, determined to keep her mind on the business of the day. There were the wounded to shepherd to the steamer waiting in the harbor. In another day she would be in Constantinople, the storied gateway to Europe. She had not managed to make it home in time for Christmas, but then, neither had Mama and Papa, all those years ago. Christmas would keep. Next year, she and Will would have a tree, and the Crimea would be on its way to becoming a distant memory.

She couldn't say Major Wharton would ever be a distant memory, not when she planned to keep him fresh in her mind for as long as she lived.

She left her almost-empty valise by the front steps, then walked around to the administrator's office. She frowned to see her report still leaning against the door.
Where
are
you, Major Wharton?
she asked herself.

Lily debated a long moment, then told herself she was being foolish to avoid the main hall. After all, she was responsible for the dozen or so men she was to accompany to Constantinople; Captain Penrose, finally sober, would be hard pressed to get them ready all by himself. Besides, she couldn't let the mockery of an empty hall keep her from one last walk through the wards she had tended so well. If she was never useful again in her future life of leisure and ease, at least she could remember this time when people needed her.

She went into the main hall, gasped and stood there, stunned beyond words.

“What on earth…?” she managed to say at last, as her eyes took in the startling sight of Christmas ornaments suspended like magic in the air.

No, it couldn't be. Openmouthed, she stared at the space where the Christmas tree would have been, if the coachmen had not burned it. As her eyes became accustomed, she became aware that the ornaments were aligned in triangle shape, as though they hung on an invisible tree. She looked closer. The ornaments were hanging from the ceiling, each on its own string, every string aligned to foster the illusion of an invisible tree. There was even a pot of water for the invisible trunk.

She came closer and touched one of the strings. Up close they were visible, but just barely.

“It's surgical catgut, Lily. Amazing how it disappears from a distance.”

She whirled around to see Major Wharton standing in the shadow by a ladder. She looked closer. His eyes were squinting and his shoulders slumped; she had not seen him so exhausted since the earlier days when the siege guns had boomed and the wounded had poured in. He must have been working all night on the tree. Or the non-tree—she had no idea what to call this little miracle of illusion in the main hall.

“I have decided to call it The One, The Only, The Famous Air Tree,” he told her. “I must admit it was pleasant to put my West Point training to good use! I am an engineer. Here is your tree, my dear Lily Nicholls.”

He leaned toward her, but did not touch her; he was still too shy. She knew if she did not make a move, she would regret it bitterly all her life. Without a word, she came close to the major, put a tentative hand on his cheek, then wrapped her arms around him. His arms
went around her, but she kissed him first, her lips soft on his, and then firmer as he kissed her back with enough fervor and skill to suggest that she might be on to a good thing. Her hands were in his hair, which she couldn't help noticing was now longer than her own. He felt so good pressed against her body that she felt warm in places that hadn't been stimulated in years. Good riddance to barren widowhood.

“I don't want to leave you,” she whispered into his lips. “I won't. Send the assistant surgeon with the men. I—what is that you said once?—double dog dare you to keep me out of your bed.”

He nodded, his hands firm on her back, then straying lower. She had no objection.

To her surprise, he held her off and reached into his uniform pocket. He pulled out a few dusty leaves and berries.

“Mistletoe,” he said, then started to laugh. “The sultan gave it to me yesterday afternoon. He summoned me to the palace after dinner and told me to take the mistletoe and make it work.” He shrugged and tossed the dusty bundle over his shoulder. “Guess we don't need it.”

They kissed again more decorously this time, considering that the men were starting to move about in the closest unit. He put his arm around her shoulders and walked her to the front of the Famous Air Tree. “You know, my dearest, it appears that our sultan does not miss a trick. Nearly a year ago, I spent one evening beating him at poker and unburdening myself to him. He was actually listening! I fear we have misjudged the mystical men of the Middle East. Maybe I should
put in my report that we would be wise not to do so in future.”

Lily cleared her throat, pleased to watch the Famous Air Tree shimmer in the breeze caused by Captain Penrose opening the main door. “I kissed you first, but I am relying on you to propose,” she reminded her major.

He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Then I had better be about it. Lily Nicholls, I love you.”

He paused and, in the growing light of Christmas Eve morning, she saw him turn predictably red.

“I should continue the momentum, of course—another lesson from engineering school—but first, I have a confession.”

She waited, amused.

“I have had your departure papers since that first requisition for a tree was turned down.”

“You are a dirty dog!” Lily declared, softening her words with another kiss.

“Not at all, my love,” he continued, more short of breath now. “I…I just couldn't let you go. Not then, and not ever.”

He said it so simply. Lily kissed him again. “Still waters run deep,” she murmured into his uniform front. “I do wish you would propose, Trey.”

He laughed. “Marry me, Lily. I'll take extraordinarily good care of you and Will. Do you think he will like me?”

“He will love you,” she assured him. “And my answer is aye.”

“Then I suggest we find a minister—I know there is one in that hospital closer to Scutari—have him splice us, then wait back here for my marching papers. I'll give
my report to Major Mordecai when we get to Constantinople and you and I will go to Scotland.”

Captain Penrose was coming toward them now. He barely glanced at the magnificent, splendid, one-of-a-kind, Famous Air Tree. He looked even more tightly wound than usual.

“I think he has a bone to pick with one of us,” Lily said. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in her major's ear. “What do you intend to observe in Scotland?”

“Lots of you,” the major replied without a blush.

Away in a Manger

 

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed

The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head

The stars in the heavens looked down where he lay

The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania—December 1, 1877

Dear Will,

To say that we are eager to see this Christmas would be an understatement. We had thought to see you last year at this time, but apparently man proposes and Sitting Bull disposes. Well, now he and his people are in Canada and others of his confederate tribes are surrendering there near you.

As much as you shake your head when I do this, I was happy to pull a string or two on your behalf, to get your furlough restored. Your fiancée was even more
delighted, as I am certain she has communicated to you. The plan for last December's wedding—certain to have been the social event of the Main Line—will now become
this
year's wedding, complete with an Indian Wars hero, for so the
Inquirer
has crowned you. Tedious, eh? (I was never a hero in the Crimea—what administrator is?—but that's the
Inquirer
for you.) Barring national emergency or Indian uprising, you and Maddy will do us proud.

But we already are proud of you. May I be candid? It has always been a sorrow of your dear mother and mine that we were never to have children together. This, and your own kind nature, have made you especially dear to me. Indeed, I have never really thought of you as my adopted son. You were always more, happy to let me be your father and guide you as best I could. I recall those early, disorganized days in 1861, days when you dropped everything—friends, studies, your youth—and served as the best scribe I could have had, as we organized hospitals around the District of Columbia. Many was the midnight hour when I would look over at you sitting at the next desk, taking my dictation, and have to remind myself that you were only sixteen. You have long been an unsung blessing to this nation, even longer a blessing to me. I understand your willingness to serve now in the U.S. Army Medical Corps.

I know I am becoming maudlin. I suppose that happens, when one contemplates retirement. This gives you an idea of my eagerness to have you home for Christmas, and then for your wedding.

Your mother sends her love, too. If any couple should understand what it is to wait and work and worry during
war, it would be Lily and Trey Wharton. Come home soon, dear son.

Lovingly,

Papa