Patchwork Christmas, page 31
Thy will be done.
Samuel tucked in the last of the children. It was a nightly ritual that never grew old. To see each one safely in bed, their angelic faces nestled against the pillows, gave him a satisfaction that was full and warm and complete.
Well, not entirely complete. For tonight when he returned to the house and saw Ada there, helping the children, at ease and hard at work, he’d felt his usual satisfaction swell to a new level. It had taken all his self-control not to drop the wood with a thud and a thump, rush to her, and take her in his arms—where he would never let her go.
That’s why he’d been so tongue-tied; he’d feared his surge of emotions would envelop them both and scare her away. God had been very generous in bringing her back to him. Samuel didn’t want to ruin things by moving too fast.
But you only have two days….
“Patience is a virtue,” he whispered to himself.
“What you say, Papa Samuel?” Nusa asked.
He shook his head and smiled at the girl who’d started him on this journey. Then he kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, Nusa. God bless you.”
God bless us all.
Ada’s eyes shot open. Then she flinched as she saw the eyes of a child at bed level, staring at her. She remembered the little girl’s name. “Sara Christine? What’s wrong?”
“I had a bad dream.”
Ada opened the covers. “Everything will be all right. Come in here with us.”
The little girl climbed in bed but quickly crawled over Ada to the center spot between Ada and Eliza. Ada turned over and saw Eliza’s eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Welcome to my world,” she whispered.
As Sara Christine snuggled her head onto Ada’s pillow, Ada pulled the child close and reveled in her warmth. She felt her throat grow tight at the perfection of the moment, of holding another person close, of providing comfort, of … of …
Of offering love and feeling loved in return.
Chapter 14
You’re a good bed-maker, Mama Ada.”
Ada mitered the final corner and stood. She stared at her helper, twelve-year-old Brigid. “Mama Ada?”
Brigid shrugged. “You don’ mind, do ya? That’s what the kids is calling ya.”
Ada shook her head no. Yet back with her family she was the child.
Back home she didn’t have to work.
Ada handed Brigid a stack of sheets. “Take these to the next room. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Once alone, she sank onto the bed.
It was all very confusing. She’d been at the children’s home less than a day, helping to take care of the children, helping the children learn to take care of themselves. Both Samuel and Eliza had told her she didn’t have to help so much, but she’d wanted to. She’d needed to.
And yet she’d had to be taught how to make a bed, to do the wash, to make bread to sell in a pushcart on the street along with some wooden toys that Samuel whittled. Two older boys did the actual selling, so at least there wasn’t that task. She’d learned how to change diapers, and this afternoon she was going to learn how to teach the alphabet and arithmetic. Eliza had told her the children loved to sing all eight verses of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Eight verses?
Ada rubbed her right shoulder, feeling muscles she’d never felt before.
She was feeling a lot of things she’d never felt before. And not just physically.
Being around Samuel was a balm. At breakfast he’d read from the Bible, and the sound of his mellow voice soothed her and made her happy. They hadn’t had a chance to talk in private, yet every time they saw each other, their eyes met and spoke words their mouths couldn’t voice.
Ada had purposely stayed behind to help because she wanted time with him. God had opened the door, and she felt good about walking through it. She knew if she went home, that world would consume her, and she might melt away like a pat of butter in a hot pan. Plus, if she went back, she would have to endure the pressure to marry Owen.
But if she stayed here?
Not once had Samuel said he loved her or wanted to marry her, or that he wanted her to stay forever. She knew it had only been a day, but time was short. Tonight was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow John would come fetch her, and she would go home and …
Ada was drawn from her thoughts when she heard Samuel’s boots on the stairs. They needed to talk privately. Now.
She met him in the hallway. “Good afternoon, Ada,” he said.
“Samuel.”
He held a tray of broth and bread for the sick children. “I heard they’re hungry. ‘Tis a good sign.”
“Yes, it is.” She ached to pull him aside and speak with him, to ask him bold questions that would determine her future. But nothing more came out. And he moved on down the hall.
Ada stomped her foot, angry at herself for her own inaction. She looked heavenward. “Please help us. Help me do what You want me to do.”
Samuel came out of the sickroom. “Ada? Did you say something?”
He’d heard her?
Good.
“I was just praying that God would help us,” she said.
He came close. “Help us do what?”
She looked at him, willing him to say something that would reveal his intent. “Tonight is Christmas Eve. I go home tomorrow.”
He seemed to struggle to find the words. “I only wish …”
“You only wish …?” Say it plain, Samuel. Please say what I need to hear. Demand that I stay here and marry you. Don’t leave me hanging like this.
“I only wish that you would—”
“Samuel? Is that your voice I hear? I need some help down here.”
He answered Eliza’s call from the top of the stairs. “Coming.”
Suddenly weak at his exit, Ada leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.
Lord, please help us! Please.
Samuel was bursting with words—words he wanted to say, declarations of love he longed to share. With Ada so close, it was heaven.
And it was hell.
Because every time he wanted to speak, he had to hold back because she was betrothed to another.
And yet … If that was the case, why wasn’t she back home with Owen Reed? If you loved someone, you ached to be with them; you didn’t want to miss a moment together. He kept waiting for her to mention Owen. To talk of her engagement—or to talk of a broken engagement.
Something. Anything.
But Ada said nothing. So Samuel could say nothing.
Oh, that she were free! Free to be his wife.
He watched Ada drape popcorn strings around the parlor, knowing that back home her family’s Christmas tree was heavy with glass ornaments and lit by a myriad of candles. She sang a carol as she worked, teaching it to the children, one line at a time.
“‘Hark! the herald, angels sing …’”
They repeated the line back to her.
“The word’s ‘sing,’ Teddy,” she corrected. “Not ‘ring.’”
Teddy sang the last word again, making it right.
“‘Glory to the newborn King….’”
Samuel joined in.
Ada beamed.
He committed her face to memory, needing to remember all of this, just in case it was their one and only Christmas together.
On Christmas Eve it was time to go to church. Ada helped the children button their coats, none of which fit particularly well, and all of which were tattered hand-me-downs. She noticed Nusa didn’t even have a coat, but only a shawl. “No coat?” she asked her.
“I grew too big. This fine,” Nusa said and draped it over her head. “See?”
Ada didn’t see, but before she could think more about it Samuel clapped his hands. “All ready, children? Everyone hold hands.”
They ventured outside to walk to church. A soft snow fell, the perfect accompaniment to the sacred day.
They walked hand in hand, three adults with children in hand or in arms, the oldest children doing their part by taking custody of those younger. The little ones skipped along, their joy overflowing.
Neighbor families came out of their tenements to join the throng, the pleasure of the evening evident on every face.
“Gledelig Jul!”
“Buon Natale!”
“Fröhliche Weihnachten.”
“Happy Christmas!”
“Nollaig Shona Dhaoibh.”
The greetings in languages understood and foreign added to Ada’s happiness. It was as though the entire world were coming together in celebration of Christ’s birth.
Outside the church there was a gathering. “What’s going on?” Ada asked Samuel.
“They display a nativity scene and place the baby Jesus in the manger on Christmas Eve. Hurry, so the children can see.”
They rushed forward, and the little ones pushed to the front to see a pastor in a black robe reverently place a carved baby Jesus in a small trough blanketed with straw. Wooden statues of Jesus’ father, Joseph, and mother, Mary, looked on. As soon as the baby was settled, the pastor turned with a finger held to his lips. “Shhh. The Christ child is sleeping.”
The men removed their hats, and one began to sing, “‘Silent night, holy night…’”
Everyone joined in, some singing the song in their native tongue.
“Alles schläft; einsam wacht …”
“Tu che i Vati da lungi sognar, Tu che angeliche voci nunziar …”
“Sov i himmelsæl ro! Sov i himmelsæl ro!”
Ada felt her heart would burst. She’d never experienced such a feeling of unity, nor had she thought much about Jesus belonging to all.
In her arms, Francesca ran a finger along the track of Ada’s tears. Her little face showed concern. Ada smiled and sang with the crowd. Help me to always remember this night, Lord. Bless these people. Bless us all.
Then she spotted Nusa walking out of the crowd toward the manger. The little girl removed her shawl and placed it over the baby Jesus, tucking him in, wiping the snowflakes from Jesus’ face.
Nusa returned to Samuel’s side, and Samuel pulled her beneath the warmth of his own coat.
Samuel’s eyes found Ada’s, and he leaned toward her. “She’s giving her best to Jesus.”
The final verse finished around them.
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.
“She’s giving her best to Jesus.”
The Christmas Eve service swelled around Ada, yet it was Samuel’s words that played over and over in her head.
An eight-year-old little girl who owned nothing of value but the shawl, had given that same shawl away.
Ada was moved and humbled, and by Nusa’s example began to measure her own heart.
I’m a loving person, a giving person, an empathetic person.
At least she’d thought she was. But until now, had Ada’s love, generosity, or empathy ever been truly tested?
Her reverie was interrupted as the offering plate came down the pew. She opened her reticule to gather a donation but was ashamed to see she only had a few coins. She put them all in the plate as it passed by but knew her “all” was a pittance.
She rationalized that she never carried money. Any item she wished to purchase was bought on the credit of her father’s good name. If she was honest, she had little knowledge of the prices of the things she purchased. If she wanted something, she bought it.
Ada looked down at the gold bracelet on her wrist. Impulsively, she pulled it off and leaned over Nusa and Samuel to toss it in the offering plate.
She felt better for it but avoided their eyes. Yes, the bracelet was worth a goodly amount, but still the sacrifice had cost her nothing. Her life would not be changed for the giving of the bracelet—or the keeping of it.
Ada closed her eyes, trying to hold back tears of frustration. She wanted to be a good person. She wanted to do the right thing with the right motives from a loving and grateful heart. She wanted to give her best to Jesus.
Suddenly she thought of her family, at this same moment sitting across town in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, dressed in their Christmas finery. She’d sat beside them in church all her life, and yet not once had she thought about putting something in the offering plate when it came by; not once had she thought about sacrificing anything of value. In truth, during the sermon her mind usually strayed to thoughts about how she’d spend Christmas Day, or the new dress she was wanting, or the New Year’s Eve party she would attend the coming week.
Frivolous nothings, worth nothing.
I’ve never given my best to anyone or anything.
She bowed her head, her tears having their way.
Samuel’s handkerchief came into view, and she took it, then risked a glance.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
She started to nod, then gave in to the truth.
“No,” she said.
And more than that, she feared she would never be right again.
No? She’s not all right?
Samuel hated seeing Ada cry. If Nusa weren’t sitting between them, he would have put his arm around her shoulders, offering her comfort. He felt so helpless.
Nusa looked up at him with questioning eyes.
Samuel could only smile and nod, suggesting that Ada would be fine.
But would she?
He wasn’t sure why she was so upset. The day had gone well, filled with the merriment of the children as they decorated the house, the Christmas Eve dinner of roasted duck and plum pudding, and the happy stroll through the neighborhood to church.
Ada had been happy, too, smiling and offering greetings along the way.
But everything had changed with Nusa’s offering of her shawl.He heard Ada sniff. He ached to talk to her, to understand what had made her so sad.
But until he had that chance, he prayed that God would give her the comfort that he could not.
Ada was a good actress. After church she put on a happy face and tucked the children into bed. But the fact that it was her last night here loomed large and heavy.
As soon as she smoothed the covers around Nusa, the little girl asked, “Are you mad I gave shawl?”
“Of course not. It was your shawl to give.”
Her brown eyes warmed the room. “I not leave Jesus kalt. Not when I have shawl.”
Ada looked down at her, so innocent, so giving, so unassuming—all traits she should aspire to. A question loomed: Could she leave Jesus cold in the snow?
Could she give up what was fine in her life? Could she sacrifice her comfort? Her possessions, her blessings?
“Mama Ada, you all right?”
Ada stroked her cheek. “You humble me, young lady.”
Nusa’s forehead tightened. She didn’t understand.
Ada kissed her forehead and said a prayer for her own understanding.
Eliza blew out the lamp and settled onto the bed beside Ada. “You go home tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to miss you.”
“And I will miss you.”
A swath of silence hung between them. “Christmas blessings, Ada.”
“The same to you.”
Ada did not sleep well that night as the notion of blessings and sacrifice danced in her head.
Chapter 15
The children wiggled and bumped into one another, each trying to find a place to sit at Samuel’s feet. In his arms was a huge basket covered with a cloth.
Eliza pointed at Enoch. “Children who shove do not get a Christmas present.”
Enoch sat perfectly still—which Samuel knew was quite a feat.
When they were finally settled, Samuel made a show of peeking under the cloth. “Now, what do we have here …?”
He pulled out a carved wooden doll and handed it to Sara Christine. “Mama Eliza made a dress and some hair out of yarn,” he said. The doll’s arms and legs were tied to the body with a piece of leather, allowing them to move.
The girl touched the doll’s face with a mother’s tenderness. “Thank you, Papa Samuel.”
Next he pulled out a cart and horse. “This is for Siggie.”
Siggie spun the wheels. “They work!”
“Of course they work. What good is a cart that can’t move?”
“What do you say?” Eliza prodded.
“Thank you, Papa Samuel!”
The rest of the gifts were distributed: a musical clapper for Nusa, a set of wooden blocks for Francesca, a train, some farm animals, another doll, a duck pull toy, a top, a game of nine-pins, a Jacob’s ladder, a cup and ball game …
Then Samuel gave Eliza her gift. She untied the string holding its towel wrapping. “It’s a pot rack to put on the wall.”
“It’s beautiful, Samuel,” she said.
Samuel looked to Ada. He felt bad for not having a gift for her. “I wish I would have known you were going to be here. I would have made you something.”
She sat beside Anthony and helped him spin the top. “No need at all. I had no idea you were so talented. I’ve never seen toys as fine as these. Ever.”
“You’re too kind. I—”
There was a knock on the door. Samuel and Ada exchanged a look. Was it John, come to take Ada home? Could Samuel bar the door? Or tell the children to be quiet and pretend no one was home?
“I’ll get it,” Ada said. She went to the door slowly, as if dreading the task. She paused and took a deep breath; then she opened it. “John. And Owen. I … I …”
It was clear she hadn’t expected Owen. The tone of her voice as she said his name … His sudden appearance seemed to distress her.
Distress her? He was her fiancé. She should be happy to see him.
The men stepped in, carrying gifts of holiday food: a ham, spritz cookies, fruit cake, and nuts. Upon recognizing John as the doctor who’d come to help, the children ran to him, showing off their toys. “My, my,” he said. “What treasures you have.”
As John was drawn away from the door and Eliza took possession of the food, Ada was left with Owen.
Seeing them together, Samuel felt a swell of panic. But he stepped forward to greet him. “Owen Reed. Merry Christmas to you.”
They shook hands. “Samuel Alcott.” Owen looked around the room. “So this is where you ended up.”
