Christmas celebrations on Randall Street always began with midnight Mass on Christmas Eve at St. Mary’s church. The mood in the usually dour and imposing building was one of joy and anticipation, and even now, with the constant worries of the war, the people of Taunton were able to come together to celebrate, to ask for the safe return of each other’s men, and to pray for the souls of the boys who would not be coming home. 

As Maggie walked into the church at 11:40 pm (because according to Mam, if you weren’t early for church, you were too late), she marveled at how beautiful it looked. Evergreen wreaths with fat red bows adorned all of the pillars holding up the vaulted wood ceiling, and smaller bouquets of pine and cedar hung at the entrance to every pew. The Altar was covered with poinsettia plants, interspersed with candles, and the air was filled with the scent of incense and something indescribable that Maggie could only think of as “Christmas.” It all came together to give the church the air of an enchanted yuletide forest, softened in the flickering candlelight, and when it came time for Maggie to genuflect before following Francis into the pew, she did so with an air of absolute reverence for the magic of the season. 

“What’s Da doing?” Francis whispered, watching as their father circled around the back of the row and came into the pew on the other side, next to their mother. Normally, he sat on the aisle, but for some reason he chose not to that night, and Maggie was the one sitting at the end of the pew, enjoying the splendid view. 

“I don’t know, but I’m not going to complain,” Maggie whispered back, and Francis grinned. It was Christmas, they were out and about in the middle of the night, and now they were separated from the watchful eyes of their parents by at least three bodies. 

Mam and Dad always enforced the expectation that their children were to remain seated in reverent silence until the Mass began, no matter how long that might take. The boys found it difficult, but Maggie liked to use the opportunity to look around — and tonight she was looking for Leo. He and Guillermo had been asked to attend church with the Altieris, and Maggie fixed her eyes on their usual pew, determined to see Leo the moment he walked into the church. 

She had certainly put in as much effort as she could for the Christmas festivities. She wore a new wool skirt in red, white, and black plaid that she had been eyeing in the Pober’s window for months. When it finally went on sale, she snatched it up, along with a red blouse and white cardigan. Once she put on the whole outfit, including a precious new pair of stockings and some new“Siren Red” lipstick from Revlon, she felt like one of those girls from the USO posters, the ones soldiers went crazy for. Maggie felt beautiful, and she wanted Leo to see her like this. 

By 11:56, the Altieris and Leo hadn’t arrived yet, and the choir was practicing their rendition of “We Three Kings”, which would presumably be sung during the mass. Next to her, Francis and Beansie sang under their breathes the version that was sure to get them slapped by the nuns in school: “We three kings of Commonwealth square, Selling lady’s underwear. So fantastic, no Elastic. Only a nickel a pair.” She kicked Francis in the leg, but had to smile at the song she had sung many, many times in her own childhood. 

(Excerpt from Strange Arithmetic, Copywrite 2023 Kerrin Willis)

Verity thanked Goodman Harvey, and was about to return home on lighter footsteps than those on which she had arrived, when she heard Harvey call her name. She turned, and saw his stooped figured standing in the doorway, hand raised in a gesture of farewell.

“Mistress Harwell, celebrations may be against the law here, but I’ve never been one to care much about the law, myself.”

Verity looked back at him, confused, until a wide smile broke open his weathered face, revealing three stained, yellow teeth.

“Happy Christmas, Mistress.”

Verity gasped, and raised a hand to cover her mouth. Could it really be the 25th of December? She brought to mind the Christmas celebrations in London; holly wreathes, yule logs, wine and wassail. She grinned back at Harvey, the first real smile to reach her eyes since the summer.

“Happy Christmas.”

(EXCERPT from IRON & FIRE.   Copyright 2022 Kerrin Willis)

Verity had burned the pudding. 

After an interminable day spent the close confines of the house darning clothes, baking bread, mediating arguments between Joseph and Grace, and walking an inconsolable Deliverance back and forth in an effort to quiet her tears and calm her, Verity’s head was fit to burst. The grey December sky had been spitting a mixture of snow and ice for two days, and the only thing worse than being in the house was having to go outside of it. 

And now she had burned the pudding. 

Verity leaned one side of her body into the hearth, scraping at the blacked bits with the back of a spoon while holding the baby on her other hip away from the fire. Mercy, quietly setting the table with trenchers and utensils, looked up at her stepsister with trepidation. 

“It’s salvageable,” Verity declared with a sigh, meeting Mercy’s solemn brown eyes. The little girl lifted the corner of her mouth in an approximation of a smile.

Both girls jumped as the front door burst open, and Hannah nearly fell into the keeping room, an angry whirl of snow and ice at her back. Her eyes were the only recognizable part of her, the rest of her person being wrapped in a long, hooded woolen cloak, several scarves, and what appeared to be multiple pairs of mittens. 

“HANNAH!” Grace hopped from her bench by the fire and threw herself at her eldest stepsister. A muffled laugh came from underneath Hannah’s wrappings. “Have you come for supper?” 

“Supper, yes, and I’ve brought a treat for everyone as well.” Hannah disentangled herself from her layers of wool and produced a jar of strawberry preserves from the folds of her skirt. Verity couldn’t help but notice how beautiful her sister looked, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright from the cold, and her blonde ringlets curling around her face. She knew she looked a fright in comparison - eyes wan from lack of sleep, hair falling from her cap, and various spots of baby effluvia staining her clothes. 

(Copyright 2022 Kerrin Willis)

“A moment, Mistress Parker?” There was a question in his tone, and he was no longer smiling. He needed to know. “I wondered….that is….perhaps….Might I come to call on you?”

Verity turned round to face him, shock registering in her eyes.

“Why?”

Kit immediately felt his face go red with embarrassment. What had he been thinking?  New England Colonists made a clear distinction between the good Christian people who had come to the new world to reform the Church of England, and the less pious laborers who were necessary to sustain their economy. Verity Parker was clearly a member of the chosen. Kit Harwell was not.

He rubbed at the stubble on his chin before clasping his hands together behind his back and staring intently at his boots. “Never mind.”

“Never mind?” he heard the irritation in her reply. “A question like that can’t be taken back after a moment, sir. “ She was silent for a moment, and when Kit raised his head to look at her, he saw a look of stubborn determination in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, as if this type of request was one she fielded every day. “Yes, you can call on me, if you’d like to.”

An answering smile playing on Kit’s lips. A lose strand of black hair fell over one eye, and he tucked it back behind his ear.

“I’d like that very much, Mistress Parker.”

He turned, acutely aware of Verity Parker’s eyes on his back as he slowly walked away from the river and back to the path that lead to the Iron works, and his cabin beyond. Considering it a sign of weakness, he refused to let himself look back over his shoulder to see if she was still watching him. He finally turned when she reached the road, but of course, their little secluded spot by the river was out of sight by then, and his curiosity wasn’t to be assuaged.

Kit had never been one to shy away from what he wanted, and for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he found the young woman with the stormy grey eyes fascinating. She looked as if she was trying to take in the whole world at once, as if she couldn’t quite get enough of the world around her and were hungry for more.

That was a feeling Kit knew well .