The first traces of Christmas brought a lift to my spirits. My late husband was a man of great sentiment, and during the three Christmases we spent together, I joined him in crafting elaborate celebrations. We hosted evenings of wassail and caroling. Our cook worked for days on the meal; we spent hours in church. I secretly studied the hymns so I could join in the singing both in the pew and on his arm as we caroled with friends and neighbors. I learned that I was never so beautiful as when surrounded by evergreen and candlelight. The first time I ever read Scripture aloud was by a roaring Yule log, the house clouded with its scent, after my husband placed a Bible in my lap and claimed he hadn’t the sight or strength to do so.
So, when the tree was erected in the middle of the lobby—one tall enough to reach through the encircling balcony of the second floor—I saw it as an escape from Sallie’s grip. I read Dickens’s classic A Christmas Carol, sipping tea while a dozen employees bustled about with steps and ladders, hanging baubles and draping tinsel. Surely, I thought, while filling my mind with the Spirits of Christmas, no wandering soul would materialize during such a holy season.
Bert took to concocting punch bowls of mulled wine for the guests, and I imbibed convivially, listening to their stories and feeling the warm spices lull me into an almost unbearable melancholy. Even the children (I’ve never much cared for them) tugged at an unexcavated sentimentality. I sang carols around the piano, standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and thanked Mr. Sylvan for the small box of chocolates (and Bert for the large bottle of brandy) and signed my name to a lovely card, which I addressed to the stepsons but did not send.
As I hoped, the spirit of the season kept my pernicious spirit at bay. For as long as the tree was in the lobby, I slept with the soundness of a saint. Silver, gold, and evergreen proved to be the secret to breaking the spell. Light returned to my eyes, color to my cheeks. I wore my finest gowns, my most elegant jewels.
On Christmas Day I walked the perimeter of the second floor, the treetop level with my eye, and looked down upon my fellow guests, imagining myself mistress of this place. After all, many of the faces were familiar to me—local people who enjoyed the fine dining and attended events in the ballroom, as well as visitors from out of town here for a festive holiday. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, a decorative screen had been erected beside the tree, with an upholstered chair stationed in front of it. I watched a well-dressed couple—not quite comfortable in their finery—step up, he sitting on the chair, she posed beside him, one hand on his shoulder. Such a familiar tableau. Then a familiar figure stepped into view: the photographer who had taken my picture at the Empire Theater all those weeks ago.
J. P. Haley looked slightly more professional than he had the night at the theater—his long hair combed back and secured, his suit less rumpled, his face shaved clean. Today he had an assistant working with him, a slender young man wearing a knitted vest under his jacket and a driving cap pulled low—almost to the point of touching his heavy brows. It was his job to corral the subjects and group them attractively, deciding who should sit, who should stand, and which pretty child should sit on Papa’s lap. When I approached to add my name to the list, he looked at me, and my breath caught at the color of his eyes. They were truly gold, unlike any I have seen before. Beautiful, I might have called him, if not for the perfectly trimmed moustache and beard that framed his thin, unsmiling lips.
“I’d like a portrait,” I told him. “Hedda Krause.” I spelled the name, having none of the reservations I’d had when Haley took my picture at the theater. Who would see this but me? True, it might be worthy of being hung in the window of his studio—assuming he had a studio—but such a display would not reach outside the streets of this city.
When my turn came, Haley said, “I think I’d rather capture you standing,” and bade his assistant whisk the ornate chair away. There was much