O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,151

“Thomas, I did not send a suitor away.” He had seemed kind, but her mother had been adamant that she look higher.

He looked at his sister. “Perhaps it was Mother. She should not have done that,” he declared. “However, after three Seasons, Father accepted Lord Wendt’s offer. I could offer no defense to stop it, as I had seen little effort on your part in three years to find a husband,” he said on a sigh. “It was not like you to not complain. Why did you stay silent when she was pushing you so?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

“You should have…” she protested.

“What? What should I have done? You resented anything having to do with me—even my family. We have spent enough time on this, dearest sister. We must move on,” Thomas countered in a tone of disgust.

A draft of wind blew out the light and the darkness and white mist returned.

“Look carefully,” her brother pointed, as the mist cleared.

A poorly lit room with beds lining the walls, full of children of various ages – many in tattered or too small night clothing – emerged. “’Tis naught but a bunch of children,” she moaned. “They appear to be poor. Is this an orphanage?”

“Watch and learn,” he prodded.

She focused on the little boy that was being held by a woman. He could not have been more than a year in age. The toddler wailed, clearly distressed. A man entered and Agatha recognized him as Mr. Hanson, the man that had visited that very evening. “Why am I watching a beggar?”

“Shhh! Listen for once,” Thomas pointed her attention back to the scene.

“Husband, he is refusing to eat,” the lady said.

“My dear, he is most likely in shock. His parents died of influenza and there is no family for Henry. He would benefit from an adoption.”

“Yes, you are most likely right. However, who would have the money? People can barely feed themselves these days. It being the festive season and all. Little Henry will have to adjust to being part of the group. ’Tis just so sad.”

“You speak the truth. Donations have been down this year. I have been to everyone who has given in past years, and nothing—not because they don’t want to. ’Tis because things are too tight. I don’t believe we could afford to feed these children tonight, had we not gotten the generous Wendt donation.”

Agatha’s face colored in shame as she looked at her brother. “What is he talking about? I sent him away…” her voice faded.

He looked at her and nodded. “I think the answer will be apparent in time.”

“You speak in riddles and it frustrates me, brother,” she answered carefully. “What will happen to little Henry?”

“Ah! So there could be a heart in there,” he said irreverently. “It is almost Christmas, and adoptions are rare. Most likely he will grow up in the orphanage, never to know a parent’s love.”

A lump formed in her throat. “Enough. This is torture, Thomas. Please go away. Let me sleep.”

“I wish I could, but I fear we must continue. You have more to learn,” he said.

Chapter Three

The small boy’s wails trailed behind, as darkness and the now familiar thick, whitish mist again encased them. Hot tears rolled from her eyes and she relished the momentary relief it brought. Agatha had not cried in an age, not even when Ambrose died. Panic was the emotion she recalled—the feeling that she might run out of funds. Having taken care of the household for over five years, she realized there was no magic. You simply did not spend what was unnecessary.

The small child had touched a heart she forgot she possessed. Did I just mock myself? she thought sarcastically.

Another bell rang and, when the mist cleared, Agatha saw herself standing beneath a tree, watching a rainy funeral attended by three people and a cat. All stood sheltered under large black umbrellas, with water streaming from the edges. The gray cat was tucked under the arm of one of the men. That’s interesting, she mused. The cat looks just like Pretty.

Thomas turned and smirked at her.

“Why are we here, Thomas? Will we not get wet?” she asked, haughtily.

Her brother’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “No. We are viewing this and are not physically a part of it. You will remain dry.”

She sensed cynicism, and it irritated her. She had asked a perfectly logical question. Agatha squinted and stared. This was her funeral. Bile rose in her throat as horror overcame her. Was