Christmas Pie Read online

  CHRISTMAS PIE

  By Alice Duncan

  Writing as Emma Craig

  CRISTMAS PIE

  Copyright © 1997 by Alice Duncan

  All rights reserved

  Published 1997 by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  A Leisure Book

  Smashwords Edition September 2, 2009

  Visit aliceduncan.net

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  So now is come our joyful’st feast;

  Let every man be jolly

  Each room with ivy-leaves is dressed,

  And every post with holly

  Though some churls at our mirth repine

  Round your foreheads garlands twine,

  Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

  And let us all be merry

  Now all our neighbours’ chimneys smoke,

  And Christmas blocks are burning;

  The ovens they with baked meats choke

  And all their spits are turning

  Without the door let sorrow lie,

  And if for cold it hap to die,

  We’ll bury’t in a Christmas pie

  And ever more be merry.

  Now every lad is wondrous trim,

  And no man minds his labour;

  Our lasses have provided them

  A bagpipe and a tabor.

  Young men, and maids, and girls and boys,

  Give life to one another’s joys,

  And you anon shall by their noise

  Perceive that they are merry.

  Then wherefore in these merry days

  Should we, I pray, be duller?

  No; let us sing our roundelays

  To make our mirth the fuller

  And, whilst thus inspired we sing,

  Let all the streets with echoes ring;

  Wood, and hills, and everything,

  Bear witness we are merry.

  LET US SING OUR ROUNDELAYS

  By George Wither (1588-1667)

  Chapter One

  San Francisco, California, November, 1899

  Polly MacNamara rushed along the narrow street cluttered with stalls and teeming with merchants hurrying to move their wares indoors. She didn’t blame them. The weather was as cold as the inside of her mother’s ice box and looked like rain. Taking a peek at the pea-soup sky, she wished she’d been able to afford that pair of galoshes she’d seen in the window at I. Magnin.

  Perhaps next season, she thought, more to keep her mind off her frozen toes than from any true hope.

  At least, thanks to the type-writing class she’d taken at the Young Women’s Christian Association four summers ago, Polly possessed a real skill and could earn an honest wage, unlike so many poor woman who were forced into lives of wretched dependence or servitude. The thought warmed her heart, even if her nose stung and her cheeks were chapped from the frigid wind doing its best to whip the scarf from her head. Perhaps the MacNamara ladies were not able to live elegantly; still, Polly took a good deal of pride in her independence. Not many other women her age could honestly be said to support their families.

  Although her gaze seldom strayed from the walkway in front of her this foggy afternoon—staring into shop windows only led to idle wishfulness—an ivory gleam caught the edge of her preoccupied attention as she hurried by a window. When she turned to look, she stopped in her tracks, enchanted.

  “Oh, how lovely.”

  It cost her a good deal of warmth, but Polly withdrew her unmittened hand from the nest she had created in her coat pocket, fisted up her fingers, and rubbed a bare circle on the frosty glass to see inside the shop better. Sure enough, her initial impression had not deceived her. There, nestled on a piece of exquisitely embroidered Chinese silk, lay two carved ivory combs. They were beautiful—the very thing to give her mother for Christmas.

  Since expense was always Polly’s first consideration, no matter what the occasion, she wondered how much they cost. If she priced them and found them too dear, she’d feel very bad. Of course, she might be able to lay them away and pay something each week until Christmas. After deliberating for a moment or two, Polly gave herself a little shake and stepped up to the door.

  Fog swirled around her shoes and trailed her heels inside the shop. She noticed it tagging after her like a friendly puppy and her whimsical impression amused her. A little bell hanging from the door tinkled invitingly, and the warmth of the room felt like heaven after the wintry out-of-doors. A pleasant scent of sandalwood hung in the air as though incense were as much a part of the shop’s decor as its furniture.

  When the bell stopped tinkling, Polly expected to see a shopkeeper appear from behind the beaded curtain separating the shop from the living quarters in back. Nobody emerged, so she decided to take a look around the fascinating shop.

  It was a pleasantly cluttered place. There were so many pretty things to look at; to want. Perhaps one day, she thought as she ran her fingers over a length of patterned silk draped over a carved teakwood stand.

  “Good evening, lady.”

  Startled, Polly swirled around to behold a very tiny woman, wrinkled with age, her face creased into a smile owing little to teeth. The old woman bobbed her head, and Polly smiled back. “Good evening.”

  “May I help you, lady?”

  As the old woman hobbled toward her, Polly noticed her hands, dry and papery as old parchment, clasped in front of her. She was dressed in the typical Chinese manner, in dark blue pajamas. A faint scent of pungent cooking seemed to have entered the room with the shopkeeper and blended surprisingly well with the sandalwood.

  “I saw those ivory combs in the window and came in to price them. If they aren’t too expensive, I would like to purchase them for my mother. For Christmas.”

  Polly’s circumstances had been distressed for a good deal of her life and she always asked prices. She did so now, firmly, secure in her judgment that a person’s wealth did not determine her worth. Besides, she couldn’t afford not to.

  “Two dollar,” the old lady said, and gave a pleased cackle.

  “Two dollars.”

  My goodness. Two dollars was two days’ wages. Two dollars could buy groceries for a week or more. Two dollars was a handsome price, indeed.

  Polly eyed the combs pensively. She caressed the smooth ivory with her fingers and thought how pretty they would be in her mother’s hair. Her hair was her mother’s pride and joy. She had so little else in which to take pleasure. She enjoyed fixing her hair for church on Sunday and when Mrs. Plimsole came over for tea of an afternoon.

  Still. Two dollars was a lot of money.

  “But, who else do I have to buy for?” Answering her own question with, “Not a soul,” she turned to offer the tiny shopkeeper a smile. “I’ll take them.”

  The little old lady had a very sharp way about her. Polly got the feeling she was being scrutinized with great care. Oddly enough, the woman’s examination did not make Polly, who was quite reserved, uncomfortable.

  After their business with the combs was transacted, the old woman put a shriveled, claw-like hand on Polly’s arm. “Minute, lady. Wait minute. I got something for you.” With that, she vanished behind the beaded screen.

  “Oh!” Polly wasn’t sure what to do, so she merely stood still, waited for the woman to return, and fretted. She hoped her mother wouldn’t be worrie
d about her. Intrigue overcame worry, though, and held her fast for several minutes.

  Just as she came to the conclusion that she had misunderstood the shopkeeper and was getting ready to leave the store, the beads rattled again and the woman reappeared.

  “This for you.” The old lady thrust a trinket into Polly’s hand and closed her fingers around it.

  Surprised, Polly exclaimed, “Oh, please, no! I can’t accept anything from you. Truly, I—”

  When she lifted her gaze, it was to find the old woman, arms resting atop one another across her chest, hands buried in the sleeves of her coat, nodding at her. A happy smile lit the ancient face and gave it a gnome-like appearance, bringing to Polly’s mind thoughts of elves and fairies. The elderly lady looked so benign and cheerful that Polly couldn’t find it in her heart to protest further.

  At last she said simply, “Thank you very much.”

  Then she opened her hand to see what she had been given. It looked like a coin. Holding it up to the one lamp casting its antique amber glow through the shop, Polly decided the trinket was indeed a coin, but of so old a vintage and so foreign a mint that she couldn’t place its age or its origin.

  It looked very worn, as though it had lived an interesting life. The coin seemed almost to glow in the faint light of the lamp. A small hole had been drilled in it once upon a time and Polly thought it would look pretty suspended from a ribbon—a nice bauble to wear on Christmas Eve if she had the proper evening dress to go with it. She wished she did.

  The strange coin charmed her. She turned to thank the shopkeeper for the small treasure, but the old woman was gone. Polly scanned the shop for her, thinking to find her among the shadows, but didn’t see her anywhere.

  I guess she went back to her cooking. Polly wondered why she hadn’t heard the beads clacking together then decided to come back another day and thank her properly.

  On that cheerful resolution, she put the coin in her pocket and once again braved the chilly out-of-doors. The weather, unusually foggy and cold for this time of year, had not become any friendlier as she’d whiled away precious minutes in the shop. The wind had picked up and nearly tore the parcel of combs out of her hands. Fat drops of rain began to find their way through the soupy fog, and Polly heard them splat on the paving stones and felt them pelt her old black hat.

  “Oh, bother. I wish I were home already,” she muttered as she pulled her scarf more tightly to her throat. Almost at once, she was taken up short by a shout.

  “Miss MacNamara! I say, Miss MacNamara, is that you?”

  Surprised by the hearty male voice, Polly turned and discovered to her amazement that a shiny black horseless carriage, complete with a canvas cover, was being driven across the dirty street. It came to rest next to the sidewalk. Unused to seeing such luxury on the skinny, crowded streets of Chinatown, Polly mistrusted it.

  When the door of the fine vehicle burst open and James Drayton stepped out, her alarm increased. Owner of the law firm for which Polly industriously typed away each day, the brusque and imperious Mr. Drayton made her nervous just walking past her work room. Here, on a public street, away from the comfortable trappings of the office, the thought of having to speak to him made her nerves jump.

  “What are you doing out on such a foul night, walking alone in this neighborhood?” He sounded irritated.

  Although his show of temper sparked her own, Polly didn’t voice her annoyance. It would be unwise to do so, and she was not unwise. He was, after all, her employer.

  She did not have to grovel, however. Rather rigidly, she said, “I live at the end of Market and Powell, Mr. Drayton.”

  “Well, you’d best get in the carriage. I’ll drive you home. It’s not fit for man nor beast out tonight. Why, they say it’s going on to snow, for heaven’s sake.” His tone conveyed surprise appropriate to his news. Snow was almost unheard of in San Francisco.

  Startled by his offer, Polly only stared at him for a second. She’d never been inside a horseless carriage in her life. The lure of such a novel experience drew her even as uncertainty held her motionless. After a moment’s hesitation, during which long-held notions of propriety did battle with fascination and the fierce weather, Polly stepped forward. She was so cold her fingers hurt when she unwrapped them from her parcel and reached for the door handle.

  “I’ll do that.” James whipped the door open, then took her hand and assisted her into the car.

  “Good Lord, why aren’t you wearing gloves, Miss MacNamara?” It sounded as though he considered Polly no better than a fool to be walking about in a November rain bare-handed.

  She pretended not to hear him. “Thank you, Mr. Drayton,” she said punctiliously.

  In truth, she’d almost rather have walked than to have been discovered by this man. Being in a closed vehicle with him unnerved her. She had to stifle a gasp when he leaned across her lap to rifle around in a small leather satchel on the floor.

  “Here, put these on.” It was not a request. He flipped a pair of fur-lined gloves onto her lap.

  Polly stared at the gloves for several seconds before she decided that to protest would be worse than to obey. Slipping the warm gloves on, she said, “Thank you,” and was glad it was dark. He couldn’t tell her cheeks blazed with embarrassment if he couldn’t see her.

  “Don’t know why you didn’t take the cable car. It’s too damned cold and wet to walk these days.”

  Polly recoiled at his language. She might be poor, and she might feel intimidated by James Drayton’s wealth and privilege, but she was a young lady of firm principles. She said stiffly, “Cable cars cost money, Mr. Drayton. The sidewalks are free.”

  He shot her a piercing look she chose to ignore. Then she lifted her head to a regal angle and wished he wouldn’t be so abrupt with her.

  Damn. James slanted another look at Polly, sitting as straight and inflexible as a fireplace poker. No. That was too warm a description for his passenger. An icicle was more like it.

  Too bad, he thought, as he maneuvered easily through the twisting, cramped streets of Chinatown. She was quite a good-looking girl. He guessed she didn’t like his prying. But, for God’s sake, cable cars only cost a nickel. Who couldn’t afford a nickel these days? Another look at the pretty type-writer made him think perhaps she couldn’t. He bet she’d never seen the inside of a horseless carriage, either.

  Well, as long as she was here, he might as well put on a show. With a flair that seemed to go with the motorcar, he pressed the rubber horn, startling not merely people on the street, but his companion as well. She jumped a foot.

  “Sorry, Miss MacNamara,” he said sheepishly.

  “Oh! It’s all right. I—I’ve just never been in a motorcar before.”

  She looked so unnerved that James felt boorish and more than a little silly about his bravura display. With uncharacteristic candor he said, “Well, I do love motorcars. This is a Benz Landaulet-Coupé. I imported it from Germany, but since I’m convinced motorcars are the investment of the future, I’m putting my money on the Americans. We’re more innovative and daring than any of the European manufacturers.”

  “Really?”

  It was a rather perfunctory “really,” and James wasn’t sure Polly truly cared much about horseless carriages. Nevertheless, an unfamiliar compunction to be friendly nudged him and he forged ahead.

  “I’m sure of it. I’ve gone into partnership with an American, Ransom Eli Olds. In fact I have an experimental model of the Olds Curved-Dash Runabout in my stable at home. It’s not as luxurious as the Benz, but it’s quite a fine motorcar.”

  Polly uttered a tiny, tinny, “Oh,” and James guessed he was right about her level of interest. Somewhat annoyed, he cleared his throat and asked, “You live with your family, Miss MacNamara?”

  “My mother.” She did not elaborate.

  James sighed, irked that she was going to make him pry. Usually girls opened up and spilled their lives all over his lap during the first three minutes or so of hi
s acquaintance. He’d never had to work at it before.