Somewhere in the World

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

 

Lovell, Massachusetts

December 1861—January 1862

 

The fire in the parlor hearth was dying. Margaret knew she should go to bed, but was reluctant to leave the warmth of the room for her draughty bedroom. Besides, the hour was not that late and she feared she would be unable to sleep. Setting aside her sewing, she placed another log on the fire along with a small amount of kindling to awaken the slumbering embers, and stirred it with the poker. The flames darted up at once, eagerly devouring the dry wood.

She stood gazing into the bright flames. Her mother had been in bed the entire day, complaining of congestion in her chest, but had finally dropped off to sleep—otherwise, Dixon would not have left her side, and Margaret had heard her heavy tread on the stairs an hour or more ago. Mr. Hale had gone to bed early as well, professing extreme tiredness when he had poked his head into the parlor to wish his daughter good night.

The room was still, silent but for the hiss and crackle of the fire. The scent of pine and citrus filled the air from the swags of evergreen festooning the mantelpiece and window frames. The Hales maintained the custom of decorating with evergreens and fruit from their days in Williamsburg; Margaret had helped Dixon make the crescent-shaped decoration that sat above their front door. They regretted having no glossy magnolia leaves or sweet-scented pineapple, but the boughs of boxwood and holly, ruddy apples, and brilliant oranges made beautiful decorations nonetheless. It made Margaret feel a bit less homesick to see the house decked out in such a familiar fashion, bright with the glow from sweet burning beeswax candles. She had been longing for her southern home these past few weeks, wishing she could leave Lovell and the controversy of her own making far behind her.

It was Christmas Eve—if she were in Williamsburg, she and her mother would be preparing for the Midnight Service. Mr. Hale would have departed soon after supper, so she and Mrs. Hale would walk arm in arm along the brick walkways to church. The air would be quiet and cold, the sky filled with stars, the church lit with candlelight and fragrant with flowers. The manger would be set up outside the church entrance, with its livestock in the makeshift shed filled with hay, and the crèche awaiting the arrival of the baby Jesus. Her father would have selected her favorite Christmas carols for the service: “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” “Adestes Fideles,” “The First Nowell,” and “The Cherry Tree Carol.” She and her mother would sing with the choir, standing in the pulpit beside her father. Margaret’s alto voice would blend in close harmony with her mother’s clear soprano. They would leave the church late, after the last candle was extinguished, and walk along the deserted streets to their home, where Dixon would serve them mugs of mulled cider and slices of fruitcake, and they would chat about the evening’s service until Dixon shooed them off to bed.

A sharp pain thrust through Margaret—if only they were there, in that dear, dear house! The next moment, she chided herself—such childish dreams were useless. They were in Lovell; she still had her work at the day school, the love of her family, and the friendship of Nicholas and his daughters to sustain her. That was enough, for now, to enable her to rise from her bed each morning to face the day.