“Well, I guess I’m at the right place then. Wasn’t sure if I’d be able to find it, what with all the snow,” the driver said. “Special delivery for Madam Florence.”
“Would you like to come in and get warm? And what exactly are you delivering?”
“Oh, my apologies, young fella, I thought it was rather obvious, I’m delivering…this.” The driver brushed the snow off the hood of the car with his coat sleeve and handed Ernest a strange-looking silver key. “That’s for the coil box below the steering wheel; the switch is inside. Ever start one of these things in winter?”
“I’ve never started one of these, ever.” Ernest spoke calmly but could barely contain his excitement. He clapped his hands together as though trying to keep warm.
“Well then, I guess you folks are going to have fun figuring out your new toy. The only other motorcar in the world that I know of that’s this nice was a Pierce-Arrow limousine delivered to the White House just last week, even though Taft’s a big horse-and-buggy guy.” The driver reached into his coat and handed an envelope to Ernest. The front was addressed to Madam Florence Nettleton, with the initials L.J.T. elegantly pressed into a waxy seal. “Have a merry Christmas, kid.”
Ernest stared at his Cheshire cat reflection in the wet chrome as the man walked away. The roadster sparkled like a starry night. It was the most beautiful machine he’d ever seen and certainly the most luxurious. Ernest wiped the falling snow off the polished chrome, then sat inside the motorcar and placed his hands atop the padded steering wheel. The pedals and levers were a mystery, one he looked forward to unraveling. But as his breath fogged up the windshield, Ernest grew cold and he went inside.
There he was startled to find Madam Flora, standing in the parlor in a flowing nightgown of pleated lavender. Her matching dressing jacket hung loosely, almost haphazardly, from her shoulders as she stared into the fire.
“I’m sorry,” Ernest apologized, “I thought you might have gone with the others. Would you like me to fetch you a blanket or a cup of tea?”
The matron of the house didn’t reply, didn’t blink, as the fire crackled and popped. Ernest began to worry that she was having one of her bad spells and wondered how he would handle her without help from the others. Miss Amber had been keeping her in her room, so the fits of madness had been confined to shouts in the night, blamed on nightmares.
“Do you have something for me?” she asked.
Ernest had forgotten about the envelope in his hand. “This came for you,” he said, “along with…”
“I saw. It’s a very nice automobile.”
He handed her the envelope. She regarded the embossing, and then pitched it into the fire without bothering to open it.
“Some people…” She sighed. “Some people think the world is for sale.”
Ernest looked on in disbelief as the paper lit up, was quickly engulfed in flame, and then crumbled to ash. He wanted to say something, but could only watch as Madam Flora slowly walked away from the hearth, from the warmth. Ascending the grand staircase, her figure disappeared into the darkness like a ghost.
Ernest sat down and waited for the others to return, thinking of the letters that had sealed the envelope, and the name: Louis J. Turnbull.
—
AN HOUR LATER the residents of the Tenderloin noisily tromped back inside, a mass of teasing and laughter. Miss Amber immediately went upstairs to check on Madam Flora, while the others kicked snow off their boots and warmed their rosy cheeks and frost-kissed noses in front of the fire. The Gibson girls doffed their coats, and the servants disappeared into the kitchen and returned with platters of sausage and cheese, bishop’s bread, black molasses cake, Christmas cookies, dried fruits, and shelled nuts of every kind. Mugs of cider and spiced wine appeared in everyone’s wet, cold hands. And Professor True shed his red Santa coat and began warming up his fingers on the piano. The suit’s oversize suspenders draped over his woolen button-down shirt as he removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves.
“Do we have a visitor?” Maisie asked Ernest. “I thought Amber made it perfectly clear that we were closed…”
“The automobile was delivered as a Christmas gift,” Ernest said, hesitating. “I was given a note…with the initials…L.J.T., but Madam Flora didn’t even bother to open the envelope. She just threw it in the fire.”
The Gibson girls overheard as they returned. “Louis Turnbull is back in our lives, ladies,” one of the girls said with a laugh. “Funny how the richest fella in town can’t seem to buy a hint.” They began decorating the tree with dyed popcorn strings, gilded eggshells, and small, shaded candles. Though some churches banned Christmas trees, Miss Amber had bought the largest one they could find, a towering noble fir.
Maisie frowned at Ernest as her cold, pink cheeks grew pale.
“Is it really all that bad?” he asked. “Madam Flora had been talking about getting a car for months now.”
“It’s not the gift that’s the problem,” Fahn said as she handed him a mug of steaming cider with a cinnamon stick. She offered one to Maisie as well, but Maisie shook her head. “It’s what the giver wants in return.”
Ernest was about to ask more when Mrs. Blackwell changed the subject. “Ernest, I wish you could have been there at the almshouse. The children gushed over Santa, the women cried, the volunteers blessed us…and then Mrs. Irvine showed up mid-carol and told them where we all work.”
“You’re joking.” Ernest almost spit out his cider.
“Mrs. Irvine had her own group of merrymakers, and they looked at us as though Mary Magdalene had stumbled into the manger and kicked her knickers off. As if the Three Wise Men had showed up drunk with a girl on each donkey,” Mrs. Blackwell prattled on. “As if the Christ child were born the color of our St. Nick!” It was obvious that she’d already downed a quick glass or two of her famous syllabub made with cream and a potent raspberry wine. “So…after we finished singing, we were politely asked to leave—through the back door, no less. And Miss Amber and Mrs. Irvine certainly exchanged a few choice words…”
Fahn cut in, laughing. “Miss Amber called her a hypocrite to her face. She said Mrs. Irvine was a bitter old coot who goes to the doctor for pelvic massages—that she’d rather faradize than fraternize!”
“But”—Mrs. Blackwell rolled her eyes—“I didn’t want to cause a ruckus or ruin Christmas for the little ones. So I separated the two of them and we left. I was just happy they didn’t make anyone give back the gifts.”
“Of course,” Ernest said. He remembered his own bleak Christmases at the boarding school.
“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” Mrs. Blackwell said with a heavy sigh.
“No good deed goes unpunished,” Fahn added. “At least it’s a Christmas we’ll never forget. Should be an interesting new year.”
“Maisie May!” A few of the upstairs girls called out to her as they were almost done decorating the tall tree that smelled like Christmas. “It’s tradition, we need you to put the angel on top.” One of the girls held out a kiln-fired cherub painted with hints of sky blue and gold.
“I’m too old for that,” Maisie grumbled. “Besides, I don’t believe in angels anymore.” She turned and headed up the stairs.
Fahn nodded wearily as she handed her cup of warm cider to Ernest and followed Maisie, muttering something about rich devils.
After the party ended and the servants had cleaned up, Ernest lay awake in his bed, tossing and turning. Professor True had read everyone “The Night Before Christmas,” but as Ernest tried to sleep, he didn’t think about flying reindeer or sugarplum fairies. He thought about Maisie and how upset she’d been—Fahn too. Were they troubled by the scene at the almshouse, the mysterious gift from Louis Turnbull, or perhaps both? And Ernest wondered about Mr. Turnbull himself and what he might think if he caught a glimpse of his obsession in her current deranged state.