Coming Home for Christmas (20 page)

T
hey changed trains in Chicago. He held Olympia to his shoulder while Francie dozed at his side. He smiled as the snowy Illinois countryside rumbled by, thinking of Nora's last words to him as they paced the platform in Utley. She had asked him how long he had loved Francie Coughlin, which surprised him.

“I don't think I even knew I did, until the train trip,” he said, as they walked to the end of the platform and started back—two people with abundant nervous energy, unlike Francie, who sat so peacefully with Olympia and Aunt Nellie. “What made you think that?”

“It was the way you looked at her,” Nora said, as the train whistle sounded in the distance. “It was the way my husband used to look at me, when I was down at the river, or gathering berries.” She smiled. “He was shy, too. But you put your blanket over her, didn't you?”

“I did.”

“I was hoping you would.”

“Nora Powell, you're an observant lady.” Impulsively, he kissed her cheek; she smiled.

“I'm a ruined woman that everyone in Utley will probably think should have killed herself.”

“No. Your aunt's right, my dear. Give it time and make allowances for nincompoopery.”

Will and Francie changed trains again in Indianapolis. Will had enough time to send his parents a telegram, advising them that the train would be late and he would take a hack to the house. The last thing he wanted was to see Maddy waiting for him on the platform, or the shocked looks his parents would exchange when he stepped off with a baby and a strange woman.

Francie tried to change his mind one last time, but he knew her heart wasn't in it. He knew his parents would love her and he doubted either of them could resist Olympia's solemn, dark-eyed stare, the same look she was giving him right now as he held her, studying his face, memorizing it in some baby way that meant he was hers forever.

“Francie, I've delivered a lot of babies. Why on earth did I succumb to this one?”

His dear one had no answer. All she could do was fix him with her own solemn look and tuck herself closer. With a lift in his heart, he knew he was hers forever, too. Women!

 

Will wasn't a total liar, because the train
was
late out of Indiana and late out of Pittsburgh, where they changed again, for the final time. After two days from Chicago of stop and start travel, overcrowding—it seemed like everyone in the midwest wanted to get to Philadelphia for Christmas—bad food and worse
sleeping accommodations, they arrived late at night in the City of Brotherly Love, frazzled.

During that long layover in Indianapolis, Will had tried to coax his love into visiting the nearest justice of the peace and legalizing the until-death-did-them-part aspect of their already flourishing relationship. Francie wouldn't have it. “I want your folks to meet me first,” she said.

“They're going to love you, whether you arrive as Mrs Wharton or Miss Coughlin,” he assured her.

He was prepared to argue the matter until she succumbed, but her next reason stopped him, because it was so kind and so right. “It's more than that, Will. You're going to have to disappoint Maddy Radnor. Don't arrive married. Imagine how that would humiliate her.” Francie kissed his cheek to ease his pain; he knew he had no comeback to so much consideration. Better to let Maddy down easy, without springing a wife and a child on her, too.

Still, he was greatly relieved when the conductor, sounding as weary as Will felt, called “Philadelphia.”

Will was in no hurry to rise from his seat, which had nearly adhered to his backside by now. Besides, Olympia was slumbering in his lap, still curled up in her prenatal position, which he had pointed out to Francie in Ohio or Indiana. Maybe it was even in Iowa. “She'll stay that way a few more weeks,” he had told her, always the physician. “Then one day she'll stretch out for good and leave the womb behind.”

At least until those moments she'll want to crawl back inside, because it feels safer than the world around her, he should have added. The idea of facing Maddy was starting to make him wish for such a handy retreat.
Since Pittsburgh at least, while Francie had slept against his shoulder, Will had let Maddy's many letters about wedding details slowly unspool through his mind: her dress, brought all the way from Worth's in Paris; the numerous bridesmaids and their Worth frocks; the food, the invitations, the flowers, the ever-lengthening guest list. There was even a photographer.

His stepfather had discreetly written in a letter of his own that the Radnors weren't as high in the instep as they used to be and this wedding was costing them dear. Obviously, they expected some return from marrying into the well-heeled Wharton clan. Wilkie Wharton was an army surgeon, but Maddy was certainly trying her best to get him to resign his commission and earn better money—if he felt he had to work—by curing sniffles and piles from amongst the wealthy of their combined guest list.

The whole nightmare was going to make his ears bleed, if he kept thinking about it.
I am a cad, a cad, a cad,
he thought, the cadence matching the rhythm of the railroad. At the very least, he knew he would have to dip into family money to repay Maddy for his caddery.

It only took a glance at Francie to remind him that money was only money, after all. He had enough of it and he would still marry Francie and keep Olympia, too. No one would understand except, hopefully, his family, and they would return as man and wife to the frontier where they belonged. Some other rich physician could write prescriptions for hemorrhoid medication and throat lozenges. He'd stick to gunshot and arrow wounds, delivering babies under fraught conditions and tending to gangrene.

Somewhere in Chicago or maybe Indianapolis, he
had left behind his medical journals, because he had needed room in his valise for diapers. This trip was not ending the way it had begun, but then, neither had his grandfather's shipwreck off San Diego, or his mother's difficult sojourn in Anatolia. Some day when she was old enough to understand, he would tell Olympia and their other children that it was best to be flexible in love and things that mattered.

His home had never looked so welcome, blazing with lights and sporting an enormous wreath on the front door. He was amused to see Francie's wide-eyed stare at the size of what he knew was only a modest mansion in Philadelphia's best district. His family had never been show ponies—just rich.

“I don't know about this,” she said, sounding uneasy.

He kissed her hand, then handed her Olympia, whose dark, solemn eyes were wide open, too. “If you want to meet my folks, this—to quote that rascal Brigham Young—is the place.”

He glanced across the street to the Radnor house, also decorated, and flinched to see what he thought was Maddy's silhouette in the front parlor window.
This is going to have to be the fastest explanation in modern American history,
he thought, as he lifted the iron latch on the front gate and ushered his lovely lady up the carefully swept walkway.

Will felt a care or two leave his shoulders as he handed his overcoat and valise to the butler, whose eyes were lively with interest at the sight of Francie and the baby. His mother was next on the scene, hugging him, then stepping back in surprise when Olympia started to cry.

“What…?”

Will turned to see his stepfather, pool stick in hand, staring at Francie and Olympia. In another moment, Trey Wharton was grinning from ear to ear. “Wilkie Wharton, you are a dirty dog,” he said. “I feel a tidal wave of explanation coming on, so let us adjourn to the sitting room and close the door.” He laughed out loud and shook the pool stick at his stepson. “And if the first words out of your mouth are ‘This isn't what you think,' I'm going to thrash you.”

Will knew that tone. More of his care slid away, as he put his arm around Francie's waist and ushered her into the sitting room. “This isn't what you think,” he said, and grinned when both of his parents started to laugh. Francie stared at them in frank amazement.

“It's an old family joke. Tell you later,” he explained, deftly plucking Olympia from Francie's arms so his stepfather could help Francie with her coat. “Have a seat, my dear, unless you are as tired of sitting as I am.”

She was, so they stood close together—somehow, Olympia was now in his mother's arms—and explained the last four days, taking turns. Will knew it had to be a rapid discourse, because he knew the next knock on the door would either be Maddy alone, or Maddy and her father with a brace of dueling pistols.

“That's the whole story. I…we…couldn't put Olympia in an orphanage. And a very kind and brave lady we dropped off in Iowa was smart enough to notice before I did that I have been in love with Mary Francis Coughlin for the better part of a year. Mama, I can't marry Maddy.”

“No, you cannot,” his mother said. She was on her feet, too, handing him back Olympia and embracing Francie, who burst into tears. “Welcome to this ram
shackle family, my dear,” she said. “What we lack in good sense, we make up for in dumb luck. When are you getting married?”

“The sooner the better,” Will said, feeling his face go red.

“That's how it is?” his stepfather asked. “Francie, you and Olympia come along with Lily and me and we'll install you in Will's bedroom right now.” He shook his finger at Will. “And tomorrow we're going to escort you lovebirds to the local registry.”

“What about…?”

“Your fiancée?” Trey Wharton chuckled. “I doubt she has any better aim with dueling pistols than your not-so-future father-in-law has with trap guns! He's never hit a clay pigeon, to my knowledge. You'll probably have no more than a flesh wound.”

Arm in arm, his parents left the room, holding the door open for Francie and Olympia. He was all by himself when he heard The Knock, and the butler showed Madeline Radnor into the sitting room.

M
addy was as lovely as he remembered: dark hair, cobalt-blue eyes, lips full and lush, her figure slim and curved in all the right places. Every curl was firmly in place and her dress stylish and as neat as a pin.

Feeling like the worst hypocrite who had ever attached captain's bars, Will went forward to kiss her. To his surprise, she stepped back and folded her hands primly in front of her breast.

“Willie, it's good to see you, but we have to talk. Now.”

Willie. She always called him that, even though he had pointed out more than a few times that there was a K in his name. Thank goodness Francie preferred ‘Will.' Maddy must have seen him escorting Francie up the front walk, his hand on her back. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

Before he could speak, Maddy held up her hand. “I should go first, Willie.”

“Ordinarily I would agree with you, my dear, but I…”
Am a real cad and need to spill the beans,
he thought, as she held up both hands this time, as though she were orchestrating him. Maybe she was.

“No. I know it's late, but Mama saw your arrival. I must speak first, because I have a terrible confession.”

Can't be worse than mine,
he told himself, curious now. “Very well, Maddy, speak,” he told her and had to almost forcibly suppress an image of his old springer spaniel.

“I have been untrue to you.”

He was surprised, but still aware of his caddery.
I doubt you've climbed into bed with such a willing partner as I have,
he thought. “Oh?”

She drew herself up to the extent of her modest height. “I. Love. Another.” It came out punctuated and in capital letters.

He could have melted with gratitude. “Well, my dear, perhaps you'd better explain.”

She did, pacing in front of the fireplace with all the drama she usually reserved for hangnails and ripped hems and wrinkled collars. “It is Dale Turnbull.”

Will had to turn away and cough, to suppress a fountain of mirth. Dale, he of the not-too-bright demeanor, jug ears and thinning hair? Never mind. The Turnbulls were even wealthier than the Whartons and Dale knew how to dress. He would always smell good, too, never like a regimental surgeon after a six-week detail in the hot sun.

“Dale.” She had reduced him to monosyllables, which was just as well. That way he wouldn't laugh.

“It came on us so suddenly, Willie. I agreed to marry him, but not before I had confessed all to you.”

She said it so sweetly and obviously meant every
word. Will hoped she had not been tormenting herself for long. Madeline Radnor had given him the perfect out. He could assume a wounded appearance and sulk, then marry Francie in peace and quiet, after the newly married Turnbulls were on their way to some watering hole or other to celebrate their nuptials. Maddy would find out eventually, but not from him. Or he could be honest.

It was his turn to hold up both hands. He took Maddy's cold fingers in his, noticing for the first time that she was not wearing his engagement ring. “Hold on, my dear. You really should have let me speak first. I, too, have fallen in love with someone else. Her name is Mary Frances Coughlin and she is the daughter of my hospital steward at Fort Laramie. It wasn't until this train trip that I realized how much I loved her.” Introducing Olympia could wait, he decided.

After a long pause, Maddy did a strange thing, one that endeared her to him forever. She kissed his cheek, rubbing her own against his for a brief, perfumed moment.

“Willie, you always were a little slow to realize when women were in love with you. So we're both jilting each other?”

“It appears that way. I'd like to marry Francie tomorrow. She's upstairs now. When, uh, are you and—” goodness, he almost called him Jugs, an old childhood name “—and Dale getting married?”

She rosied up. “On the day I was to marry you! Why waste a good caterer and flowers? We'll leave for St Augustine right after.” She touched his hand. “You're certainly welcome to bring your wife to the wedding.”

“I think Francie and I will have to hurry back to
Fort Laramie, instead,” he told her, walking her to the parlor door. “I have some work that won't wait at Camp Robinson.”

She let him help her into her wrap. “You are such a brave soldier!” she exclaimed. “The
Inquirer
even called you a hero.”

Poor, dear Maddy. She was destined to be beautiful, but slow of wit. Francie would never have believed one word of the
Inquirer
's yellow journalism. Good thing Maddy was marrying Jugs Turnbull. His name would never appear in any newspaper except on the financial page, which no lady ever read.

He walked her across the snowy street, shook her hand at her own front door and wished her a Merry Christmas. When he turned around to look at the Wharton mansion, he saw that the front door was open. Francie stood there: red-haired, Catholic as he was, generous, smart and destined to be his best Christmas gift ever.

As he crossed the street to her, he stepped aside for a group of Christmas carolers intent on reaching his parents' front door before he did. Will stood back to watch them. He listened as one little boy in an overcoat much too large jingled a bell to announce their arrival and the others spoke to each other in a variety of languages.

He grinned, thinking this must be a choir assembled at the immigrants' center where his mother held forth. He gestured over their heads to Francie, who joined him on the walk beside the choir. He cuddled her close.

“Is everything all right with your former fiancée?” she asked.

“Quite all right. I'll tell you later. I'd rather kiss you now.”

And he did, as the choir sang “Away in a Manger.” The little boy with the bell giggled to see them, but Captain Wilkie Wharton paid him no mind. When he was just holding Francie, Will allowed himself a momentary worry: there was an Irish butcher certain to be disappointed when Mary Francis Coughlin didn't show up in Brooklyn. As he stood there with his arms around his true love, Will decided that a man can only worry about so much on the eve of his wedding.