Honoring Christmas, page 1
The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
HONORING CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 2024 by Linda Byler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68099-922-8
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-939-6
Cover by Godfredson Design
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
Other Booooks by Linda Byler
Chapter 1
HENRY LIVED BESIDE THE JUNIATA RIVER IN THE year of our Lord 1823 in a moldy, rat-infested little bungalow that never seemed to be quite dry, or warm, or serene.
He was fourteen years old, finished with schooling, an apprenticed stable boy who served a master named Charles Rusk, the owner of a four-story hotel situated on the banks of the same river a few miles downstream.
A bridge made of stone brought pioneers across the river, the road leading to Ohio, Indiana, and the great unsettled West beyond.
He was one of thirteen children, all housed in the sagging old cabin by the river, another mouth to be fed by the thin, gaunt, overworked mother who had reconciled herself to life with an alcoholic husband. At one time, there had been hope, hope of redemption from the sordid life into which she had been coerced by the smiling charm of a handsome young man already swilling cheap brew hidden all over his father’s farm. But as years went by, a child born almost every year, circumstances deteriorating into what she could only describe as desperate, she simply moved through her days going from one task to another without complaint.
Henry was fifth in line, a child always inclined to happiness, no matter how dire the situation was at the time. He was the one, the only one, resembling the husband in his youth, the thick wavy brown hair, the dancing brown eyes, and the dark complexion of the Italian in his ancestry. He was born on a summer morning when the dew sparkled on the bayberry bushes, the Muscovy ducks waddled through rain-kissed grass on their way to the river, and there was a sack of flour in the pantry, a burlap bag of oats, milk in the springhouse from the sad brown Guernsey cow with jutting hipbones and slatted ribs.
She looked into the perfect face of her fifth child, recognized the Italian, laid the tip of her forefingers gently on the dimple in his chin, and laughed out loud.
Her father. He so resembled her father. She counted him as a gift from God. He was named Henry.
Catherine, at that time, still created her own hope of her world being righted somehow, someday, after being swept off her sturdy brogues she wore in Ireland by the irresistible lure of the young man, the dark Italian named Gilbert Giovanni. She was ferried across the Atlantic on the wet Bluebird, creaking hull and unfurled sails, sailors brawling and swearing, a journey already taking her sunny disposition by storm.
She was so homesick it took a toll on her physically—she lost her girlish glow and the dancing blue of her eyes was never to be seen again.
They journeyed from Philadelphia to the wilds of northern Pennsylvania, and the house was built erratically by a husband fallen into bad company, having had acquired the thirst at a young age, although he hid it away quite effectively from the fairest young woman in Europe. Catherine Miller, the Irish lass with flaming red hair and eyes of emerald green, a laugh like the tinkling of tiny brass bells.
The years had not been kind after the courtship and marriage, however, with Gilbert Giovanni’s restless eyes, his twitching hands and longing for greater opportunity in America. And so she surrendered to his will, felt it the one honorable thing to do, was tight-lipped, courageous even, as she tearfully said goodbye to her parents.
She would always remember the first time she found her husband lying on the doorstep, the odor leaking from his opened mouth, the shine of the spittle on his chin, a drunkard, inebriated, unable to lift himself off the stone steps leading to the front door. She forgave him, confronted with those anxious pleas, the light catching the waves of his thick brown hair as he sat with his head in his hands.
But by the time Henry was born, a light inside of her had been extinguished, replaced by a hardened callus, all that remained of her heart. As Henry grew from a winsome child to a budding young man, her road of life had been paved with heartache, nervous tension, disappointment as thick and cloying as the mold growing beneath the ivy on the walls of the house.
Henry found employment at the hotel, in the face of starvation, out of sheer, driving need. The drinking had worsened over the years, as the number of children had multiplied, so that their existence changed to desperation.
Charles Rusk was over six feet tall, a great bearded giant with arms and legs like tree trunks, with ownership of the grand four-story hotel under his belt, ambition his god, and a no-nonsense approach to every obstacle in his path.
So when the thin Giovanni boy stood before him with the hard light in his dark eyes, he saw a young man of fair spreadable consistency, hungry enough to do as he was told and accept a mere pittance as salary. He needed the help, figured his profits, and took him on.
It was a bitter day in March when Henry swung open the great oak stable doors, his ungloved hands red with the cold, shivering beneath his coat, the only thing covering his head the shock of thick wavy hair. He stopped inside, shook his reddened hands, cupped them to his mouth and blew. He stamped his feet, then peered into stalls, nodding his head, realizing what he imagined had happened.
The pioneers were starting this early.
Two new horses, no, three, four. Sturdy looking, with broad backs and heavy legs, muscular shoulders and haunches. He drew back on the cast iron latch, slid back the heavy gate, and stood, transfixed.
“Hey there, big fella,” he whispered.
The horse turned his head, his large brown eyes like liquid coal. Henry extended a hand. The horse lipped his palm, soft and warm, and he laid the side of his cheek against the golden, noble head.
“What’re doing in there, kid? Get outa there. C’mon, we have no time to waste.”
The voice was like thunder, the eyes raining the hail of his disapproval, hurtful needles embedded in his ears.
“Get on outa there,” Charles repeated, cuffing his ear with the side of his hammy fist. Tears rose to the surface; a painful blush rose to his windburned face, but he set his jaw and took the reprimand. He had no choice. The only thing between his family and cold and hunger was the eight or ten dollars he earned every other week. Sometimes twelve, if he would be fortunate enough to be thrown an extra dime, or quarters, from an appreciative traveler.
His stomach rolled and a moment of weakness overtook him. He’d run, then walked the miles of trail to the hotel, having done without breakfast. It would be another month before the cow freshened, so there was no milk, and the ground corn was low in the bag, the bread gone as well, his mother taken with the usual congestive cough of winter.
As he lifted the pitchfork off the wall, he thought perhaps he’d get lucky and the cook would allow him a crust of bread with lard. His mouth watered, thinking of the warm bread rising on the great wooden table running the length of the servants’ kitchen.
“Put a move on there. S’wrong with you? Didn’t you have no breakfast?”
Before he had a moment to answer, the oak door was flung open and a face like a skeleton appeared beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
“Look. I don’t want no shoddy oats for my team. I’m paying a good price to be here for the night, so you better see they get fed well,” he ground out in a consumptive growl, his small eyes set back in his hollow cheeks emanating no good will toward anyone, least of all the innkeepers he suspected of charging him far above what he deemed fair.
Charles Rusk grunted some noncommittal reply, and Henry slipped past the thin man in the broad hat and began the cleaning of stables. As he worked, the ache in his ear lessened, his hands lost their numbness, and he felt alive, ready to face whatever life threw in his direction, for today.
By midmorning, he was seriously lagging, his stomach hollow, his strength ebbing like the water under the bridge before him. Upending the wheelbarrow, he looked around for signs of spring, but could see no change except for a few breakups of the ice around the stone pillars supporting the bridge. He stopped to listen as a redbird called to another followed by the low tut-tuttering of the nuthatch, upside down on the side of a tree, h is beak hammering on a crevice in the bark, searching for seeds he’d hidden there.
Why did God provide for the birds and not for his family? Why did he allow poverty, and alcoholic drinks, and a mother to bear thirteen of them, without hope?
The four oldest had all left, married very young to get away from the squalor, the sadness and hopelessness of the hollow eyes of their mother. The older siblings leaving put a crushing burden on Henry. It became his responsibility to provide a bit of normalcy for his seven siblings, shielding them from the worst of his father’s homecomings, his mother’s lack of . . . well, anything, really, only doing what was expected of her, barely noticing anything that occurred around her.
He shivered, closed the door, was thoroughly tired of winter. He decided to approach the cook, laid down his fork, peered right, then left, and finding the coast clear, made a feverish dash for the house.
Built into the side of a steep hill, it never failed to amaze him, the sheer size and immense strength of the sturdy brown rock used to build it. A massive front porch faced the river below, and the walls rose up three more stories, the wooden shutters accenting the beauty of this architecture.
He ran up the side steps and broke into the kitchen, praying he’d find a bit of compassion at this early hour.
A surly maid was punching bread dough, her brow furrowed in concentration, her large white apron slipping down the sides of her shoulders as she pounded. The cook was washing dishes in a great blue agate pan, soap suds up to her elbows, leaving stacks of white stoneware plates coupled with cups and glasses, silverware strewn like straw.
“Morning, Bertha,” he ventured softly.
She turned to assess her visitor, never missing a step in her repetitious motion, scrubbing a pot in a circular motion.
“Whatcha up to, Henry?” she thundered.
“I was hoping you could spare a little something, I’m hollow inside.”
“Not my fault. Why didn’t ya eat breakfast? You get up too late.”
He smiled ruefully, shook his head. He could never tell her of his situation, could never tell her about the drink, the tab at Closter’s Store in Bloody Run, the hunger and fatigue, the wet and the cold when the mist froze on itself, the tiny flame on the hearth doing nothing to chase the chill on those mornings when his mother huddled with her children beneath filthy woolen blankets.
“Tell you what,” the maid said quietly. “You carry the wood up to the third floor, clean the hearth, you can have the rest of the mush. A couple pieces o’ flitch fell on the floor. You could have it.”
“Shirley, now you ain’t the boss, I am. If I say you take that wood up, you do it.”
“Well, I would, but my stomach’s paining me right bad.” The cook lifted her hands from the dishwater, dried them on a dishtowel, clucked to herself, and headed for the back of the enormous cookstove, a recent acquisition, and one Charles Rusk crowed about to all his peers.
She lifted the lid, peered inside, then added a few sticks of wood through the opening of the range top. “You may as well come git it,” she said, unenthused.
Henry was gleeful, filled with victory. Imagine mush and flitch. He lifted the pot lid, upended it, and scraped out the cornmeal mixed with water and salt, a warm, grainy cooked mush with the smell of roasted corn.
“Sugar?” he asked, putting on his most charming smile.
“You know better.”
Scowling, she pushed a brown molasses jug in his direction, which he knew she would do, considered himself fortunate to have it. And milk, cold and creamy, creating a lovely swirl as he stirred it in. Then he sat with the bowl and spoon, ravenously lifting it again and again.
“Yer flitch,” the maid said, pushing the pork bacon in his direction.
“Thank you.” He bent his head, tore off a piece, and chewed, the grease and salt infusing his tongue.
“How’s your mam and the little ones?” the cook asked. He nodded. “Good.”
Bertha placed her swollen fingers on rounded hips and eyed him dubiously. She opened her mouth and closed it again.
Then she plunged right in.
“Henry, I’ve no idea why you don’t talk about it. Abe Hunsecker done told me a while back about yer dat bein’ a real drunk, how he goes from one bit o’ work to the next, the whisky eatin’ out his liver, his wife and kids starving like a pack of coyotes in the winter. They say he’s over at Penny Shauf’s place half the time.”
She sucked her teeth, turned to look at him, her gaze piercing. The maid, Shirley, was motionless now, her mouth gaping in disbelief.
Henry continued eating, unhurried, silent. Shirley gave Bertha an uneasy look. When he finished, he rose to his feet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and thanked them again.
Then he said, “I guess I can’t always hide everything away. People will find things out, I suppose.”
“Yes. Henry, they do. And I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving Bertha to shake her head as her cheeks flamed with frustration. Many a young lad had been buried by the sins of the fathers, the curse of alcohol snaking out to grasp their young legs and throw them unwittingly, leave them to grovel on the ground, desperately trying to get away, to free themselves from the generational sin.
“Now there’s a fine lad goin’ to waste, if he takes after that lyin’ father, thievin’ across the town, without a conscience, that wife a’ his an empty soul.”
“I heard he’s been with that Penny Shauf. She used to be the schoolteacher.”
“Well, she ain’t now,” Bertha said shortly, her eyes popping with anger. “Shirley, I want you to scrape together whatever is left over, even the potato peels. Keep some back before you slop the hogs.”
Chapter 2
HENRY CARRIED A SLING OF WOOD ON HIS BACK up one story, then two, and finally the third, his eyes taking in the finery of embellished wallpaper, heavy ornate trim work with intricate wood grain, a fireplace crackling with a warm fire in every room, sunshine through heavy panes of glass. Warm, with the most wonderful scent of woodsmoke, cooking, and soap. Dry, the whole house was so blessedly dry and warm.
He found the designated room, the fire burned to a heap of gray ashes, took up the cast iron poker, and stirred before placing the wood directly on it. He cast a quick look around the bedroom, the high four-poster bed with the elaborate cover, too many pillows to count, a wooden chest along the foot. A brown dresser with porcelain knobs, a mirror attached to an intricate frame, rugs, chairs, a trunk opened in the corner.
He caught sight of his face in the mirror, the heavy shock of wavy brown hair, the thin face with eyes too large for it.
At fourteen, he was still a boy, though he had responsibilities most men would find daunting, and after Bertha’s speech, he felt the alarming spread of a slow burr of anger, the spark of outrage and indignation having grown to something else.
Something he knew would change things.
He turned away as he heard footfalls, hushed on the carpeted hallway. He moved quickly, away from the mirror, as if he had done something wrong. As he went through the door, he met an older woman, tall, haughty, her hair done up a in a high, powdered style, her sweeping skirts like a red blossom of gathers and flounces.
“Well, young man. What were you doing in my room?” she inquired, her beady blue eyes wide.
“Stoking the fire, ma’am.”
He bowed, one arm to his waist, the other behind his back, before straightening, almost as tall as she, his gaze clear and unblemished.
“I ask you not to return. I’ve taken a chill and wish to retire for a lengthy nap.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
“See that you stay away.”
He nodded, turned away, thought this would always be his lot in life, bowing, obeying, surrendering to those in a higher position, paid the minimum of available wages, always hungry, cold in winter. He was forced into this, a provider for the family, earning enough to keep them alive, enough to keep them all from freezing.
There was no choice. He thought of his mother, her thin frame lost in the dresses she wore, faded and mended, moth-eaten, and not clean, her greasy hair falling into her pale face, her teeth rotted or missing. Had she once been young and beautiful, with a laugh and eyes that sparkled?
