58
Christmas morning did not dawn with a glorious beauty, but a howling wind, snow, and searching cold.
The little group at Mrs. Jenkins' hurried to build up the fires, and wore coats for breakfast.
Carl read the Christmas story from the worn Testament he carried. Katrina played the pump organ, and the rest sang through the carols and hymns they knew, and tried some they didn't.
Gifts were then exchanged. For Mrs. Jenkins, there were fingerless work gloves, a book of poems, a nightcap, and large packet of licorice. This last item was from Harry, who knew she adored it, but would never buy it.
Clara found her bundles to contain a new winter bonnet, a felt bag to hold sewing projects, a book of essays, and a bag of potpourri.
Carl unwrapped books. One of poems, one of history, one of essays, and the Iliad. It was clear that he fully intended to use them in his classroom come clear weather.
Harry found his to hold a quilt, a lamp, a kettle, and a rug. Katrina was puzzled at his pleased look over the items until Clara whispered in explanation that he had moved so often, he had not had time to arrange a proper household. He was only just beginning to get things for his little cabin that other homes took for granted. "It's all very practical, and here that's what we enjoy, seeing to needs. Your idea of the painted lamp was excellent. However did you learn to do it?"
"My Aunt Helen is an artist." Katrina answered, thoughtful.
She had not expected anything, not out of self-doubt or fear, but she had honestly not thought about getting gifts. Clara and Mrs. Jenkins had helped her to pick out items for the others, a process that felt strange. Kind they were, and she held them all in high regard, but shopping or crafting for strangers in her life seemed unnatural. However, Carl had given her an American Geography book, Clara had sewn her a warm nightgown, and Harry had found a wood box to hold her letters. Mrs. Jenkins shook her head when Katrina got around to opening the small box from her.
"It's not much, dear. I really had no idea what to get you. Rather silly of me, really."
Inside nestled a bird. It had been made of wood chips, and real feathers gathered from the yard and woods formed the feathers and tale. Katrina knew the breed and once and smiled. "A nightingale." Turning it, she saw that the other half was different. "A lark."
"I couldn't make up my mind." The old woman muttered into her shawl, embarrassed. Katrina was touched. Mrs. Jenkins had strong hands, but they were beginning to cripple and hurt. She had worked many painful hours on Harry's rug, and Clara's bag. Every stitch was perfect, each item quality. She had been relived to give one of her late husband's books to Carl rather than make something. The little bird represented just as many hours, she knew.
"Madame," Katrina said, "I have never seen a finer bird."
There was a pause at that, until Mrs. Jenkins remembered the cider and cookies and rushed to fetch them. All parcels were cleared to their owners' rooms, and Katrina put the little bird on top of her uncle's gift. As she stood there, eyeing her two gifts of labor, a voice in her door said, "You seem better this day than I have seen you since arrival. And don't say it's Christmas."
Katrina turned, and studied Harry thoughtfully. "Christmas helps, yes. But you are right, that is not the reason. I have missed my Uncle Erik, my family, my home. I am not used to the sun, the people that live in it. When Uncle Erik…released me in his letter yesterday, I knew that it would be permissible to enjoy America. I could try without regrets. See?" She smiled and pointed to the bird. "My sign. A bird must fly, and a bird must sing. Two birds, so at least for now, I do not have to choose."
He raised an eye brow and shook his head. "I'll take that for that." He caught a funny look in her face and paused. "What?"
"I just realized who you remind me of."
"And who would that be?" He asked.
"Andre Moreau. He is the only person I have every met who exceeds your height."
"Is it the size only?" He asked with amusement as they started down the stairs together.
She shook her head. "No, the kindness is there, the acceptance of others. That is what brought him back to my mind."
"Who is he?"
"Andre is my Uncle Stephan's best friend. He taught me to play cello when I was young, and he has often been a voice of reason to our family."
"In that, I think, we would differ." Harry laughed. A sudden howling at the door made Tomino leap to his feat and bark in return. "Oh dear."
Harry opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air, and a mountain of fur. A huge dog that looked to be half wolf pressed against the giant's legs. It was grey and white, covered with snow. Its yellow eyes searched the room, and stopped on Tomino. The smaller dog sat down and looked right back.
After shutting the door, Harry began to rub off the snow and cold talking in a level voice to the creature. "There, you found me out, didn't you? Must have been hiding out in the trees near here. If he came in, the storm must be here to stay for a while."
"He is yours?" Katrina asked.
"Yes, but I didn't pick him. He just showed up one day, looking for food. We call him Loco."
Loco whapped his tail in response, and stretched out under the coats to sleep. Tomino came over and sniffed him, grunted and stretched out beside him. Katrina looked bemused. "Tomino has not made friends before. Loco must be a special dog."
"He's a mangy mess." Harry laughed, "Mrs. Jenkins'll have my hide if he starts eating too much."
Lunch was hot soup, crusty bread, and scraps for the dogs. The afternoon was spent in the living room around the tree, sipping cider or tea, and visiting. Poems from the new books were read aloud, and knitting needles clacked.
Katrina learned that Carl had a fondness for studying religions, and Clara had eight sisters, all seamstresses. Mrs. Jenkins favorite flower was hollyhock, and Harry had five nieces and nephews, with two on the way. She said little, but listened closely as when she was a child.
She could remember working for Marie, listening to the older woman's conversations, business discussions, rehearsals. She listened to her Uncle, to her family as it grew; she had listened often, and asked questions more. It felt so long ago, those times, and she felt out of touch with them. She worked her way back, looking for the reason, but could find none.
Then it struck her, she was changed. Not entirely, but some. Yet, that need to see more was there still, those eyes that searched. Yes, she was different, but not another person.
Christmas passed, as did New Year's. There was no masquerade ball, but they taught her to play cards until she could beat everyone at poker and pitch. Mrs. Jenkins insisted they were going bad, even though she was a good player herself.
The snow eventually let up, so everyone but Mrs. Jenkins went for a walk. They went every day that it was fine, and threw more snow at each other than they walked on.
Books were read aloud in the evenings or talking over the events of the day. Needlework and sewing was also done. Tomino and Loco usually slept through these cozy scenes.
Mail came through again as spring progressed. Letters from Paris and the Lefevre estate spilled from the basket they were brought in. One delivery brought a large, flat box with a letter from Helen ordering her never to tell Erik and never to open it. Katrina slid it under her bed, guessing at what it was.
George came back with happy news that he was going to be married. Grubb came back with a less sour face, but no more social than before. Harry and Loco went back to their hut in the woods. Katrina was genuinely sorry to see them go, even though she knew she would meet with them often.
New programs were selected and a great trip was planned by George to look over new items and see what other theaters were doing. His ideal of private seating was rapidly squelched when Katrina told him the walls were not designed to support the weight.
"How do you know? They are good, strong, American walls." He challenged, even though he was English by birth.
"Yes, they are strong American walls, but not made to hold boxes or people on them. You see, my Uncle was a good, strong French architect, and taught me. If you put up boxes, you will kill people when they fall."
When Harry looked over the building and agreed, George was truly cornered. He did ask if it would be possible to put one large balcony across the back of the room. Harry though that could be arranged, but it would take time and money.
George agreed to hold off until the next season was finished to decide on what improvements they could afford.
As they were talking of what was needed, what was possible, and what would come in the next season, a letter came to Katrina from New York. It was from Darius.
The Daroga, he said, was dying. He had left France, had left everything to be free of his many sad days. He was growing weak, had been in a feverish state during winter. The fever had lifted, but not his spirit. He begged Katrina to come and see him, perhaps to help. "There is a shadow I cannot find, Mademoiselle," he finished. He had heard she was in America, and knew no one else. Could she come?
Leaving word at the theater, she rushed back to Mrs. Jenkins' and began to pack. Clara heard her banging around, and poked her head in. "What is going on?"
Katrina handed her the letter, but Clara only shook her head. "I can't read French, tell me."
"A friend of mine is in New York, dying. His servant has asked me to come." Katrina suddenly stopped and sat on the bed, weeping. "Is this how it will end? My friends, my family, summoning me from the corners of the earth to watch them die?"
Clara was at a loss, and sat down to stroke the other girl's back. She did not understand the restless energy behind the question, and could not reply. "Are you going alone?"
"Of course." Katrina said, making an effort to dry her tears. "Why should I not?"
"You're braver than I would be, and I am familiar with parts of the city."
"I have a gun and a lasso, I will be alright." Katrina sighed. "Forgive me. It was a shock."
Clara shrugged. "Never you mind. When will you go?"
"As soon as I can. Today, if I can find a horse to ride."
Clara turned it over in head. Katrina was used to the dangers any city presented, but she was not used to America. The idea of a woman alone on horse in New York looking for one friend was not to be considered. "I can't come, but I'll see if I can find someone who can. You don't know the streets, it would be a hard task. Do you know where your friend is?"
"Darius said they are at a hotel, he wrote the letter on their paper."
"Good, that's a start." Clara left to see who she could find, only to discover George and Harry in the kitchen. "What, have you finished for today?"
"No," George snapped. "Katrina left word that she had to go to New York. Do you know why?"
"Yes, she has an ill friend who needs her, and she's planning on leaving today." Clara stood tall, dignified, knowing that her certainty was overdone, but she would not let George stop Katrina.
George swore, earning a glare from Clara and Harry. "She has no right; she can't do this to me. We have work to do!"
Harry set a heavy hand on his shoulder warningly. "Who is going with her?"
"No one, as of now." Clara admitted. "She insists that she'll be alright."
"Why?"
"She said she has a gun and a lasso, and I really think she meant it."
George began to mutter and pace. Harry shrugged thoughtfully and snapped his coat. "If you'll let us off, I'll go with her, George. I can do some of the work in New York; look up some of the equipment and lights. It's better than sending her alone to a new place, don't you think?"
"She wandered Paris alone, New York is no different. Let her go if she's keen on it." George retorted, in a fine temper.
Clara gave a sharp cry of indignation, and Grubb appeared, wanting to know what had happened. When he learned what was going on, and what George had just said, he frowned. "She grew up in Paris, not New York. We don't let ladies go alone when it's safer and saner to send someone with them. Harry says that if he goes, the trip won't be wasted. So let him. Katrina is upset, what if she gets lost or in the wrong rooms? Do you want to be the one to write her family and tell them she's been harmed because you were too stubborn to send someone along?"
"Katrina shouldn't have assumed I'd let her go."
"She's here as a favor, a paid favor, but a favor nonetheless. She may just decide to go on back to France if you push your luck." Grubb warned.
Harry nodded. "Growl all you like George, Katrina has a right to go and I have a right to go along. We here in this house are all she's got for kith and kin, so we'd better act like it. I'll find a wagon and be back in an hour, Clara. Let Lefevre know I'll be ready when she is."
With that he left, and behind him George fumed.
George did calm down enough to see reason, but still protested that he should have been asked personally. It fell on deaf ears as Katrina loaded her bag, and hoisted herself up beside Harry.
It was well into the early hours of the morning when they arrived in New York. The light was just beginning in the east. Katrina would have sought out the Persian then, but Harry dissuaded her. He knew a small place where they could eat and rest a few hours before pushing on.
They ate breakfast and Katrina fell promptly asleep in the common room. It was noon when Harry shook her awake, and they ate stew before leaving.
The hotel was not hard to find, and Katrina was both relived and anxious on seeing Darius.
The faithful servant was clearly glad to see her, and said so, over and over. The Daroga, he said, was sleeping, but he would no doubt be happy to find her there when he awoke.
Harry arranged rooms for himself and Katrina there, then left to see about some lights. He didn't feel right hanging about, wondering what was going on.
The Daroga awoke, and supper was brought to his bedside so they could visit. Harry ate with them, still feeling out of place. Darius left to fetch some coffee. The Daroga looked at Katrina sharply then.
"I am happy to see you. Perhaps I would have sent for you, but not so soon. I will die, and there is nothing to be done about that. In my top drawer, there is a large box, get it please." Katrina did, and he motioned her to open it.
It was full of papers, notebooks, addresses, lists, and formulas. "That," the Daroga said, "Is my hunt for your uncle. I have no need of it, and neither will anyone with sense. Keep it, give it to his children, burn it, throw it in some river. You, perhaps, will look over his secrets with fondness, you always did for give him murder."
Harry could understand French, but could not speak it. He had explained so to the Dargoa and Darius when they had been concerned over speaking English.
"You made me suffer, and did not tell me when I was learning your tongue?" Katrina had asked, amused. He shrugged.
"You would not have tried so hard if you had known."
Now, he was both glad and sorry for that skill. The word murder was uttered in a tone that indicated the dying man meant it literally. Katrina did not balk, and only shut the box. "Thank you, Daroga. Someday, I know, this will be precious to the family. But, I think, not until those it would harm are gone."
"No, your family was divided too long, too unjustly. I would not steal that from them. Let the Ghost and his people face in peace. I only wish to hide it from the thrill hunters. Keep it safe, that is my request of you. My greater request is this: Look after Darius when I am gone. He is old, and will not find another post. If you let him, he will go with you, whereas another he might not. He had served me better and longer than I could have asked, and what I paid him is not worth the air he breaths. I cannot reward him for his loyalty, but I would not leave him to be shamed by begging. Will you do this?"
"I promise, if he will let me, I will look after him."
The Daroga settled back and sighed, looking more at ease. "Good, good. Tell your uncle…" He smiled. "Never mind, that is done. Just tell him good-bye, and he'll know. That fox always did."
Katrina smiled. "It was a gift I often wished he didn't have as I grew up."
The Persian snorted. "He adored you as he adored no one, not even his wife. He let you go. That is more than I can say he did for Christine."
The words took the smile, but only Harry saw that. The old man meant nothing by it, and Katrina hid her frown from him by setting the box at her feet.
Darius returned with the coffee, and conversation in English resumed.