6. Chapter 6
We fill the parish church on Christmas morning, lining every last pew with the sun streaming through stained glass upon our bowed heads.
Holly wreaths grace the end of each row and fresh white candles stand tall at the altar.
“I hope we can put last night behind us, Uncle,” I whisper as he stands beside me for the reading.
“I don’t recall you apologizing.”
My temper spirals again. “For what, compassion?”
His expression hardens. He leafs through the perfect gold edges of his enormous Bible and lets it fall open to Matthew chapter one for the reading. “You made a fool of yourself.”
The priest’s voice echoes. “Let us hear the Gospel according to Saint Matthew.”
I clutch the pew back in front of me as he works through the genealogy of Jesus in chapter one. Uncle’s gnarled finger slips down the page, turns it, and stops on chapter seven, sliding the book across the pew back as if sharing with me, yet his finger clearly indicates the message within.
Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine.
I clench my teeth.
We turn to Luke for the nativity reading, and I flip a few pages and point at a verse I’ve recorded in my notebook more than once. Silently I slide it across the pew back.
But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: And thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee.
He makes no indication he’s received the message.
It’s not until we rise at the conclusion of services that my simmering irritation extends to everyone gathered in this church—all of Uncle’s guests with fortunes large enough to upend poverty in a day, if they chose to be even a little charitable.
Even as my eyes remain downcast, I can almost feel Papa’s finger tapping the underside of my chin, urging me, when life’s problems grow tangled, to lift your eyes—to look past the world's concerns and focus on something infinitely more eternal. More valuable.
Yet I cannot bring myself to do it now.
I flatten a smile across my face and stand at the end of the pew, letting the guests pass. Uncle does not even glance my way as he slides into the aisle.
When the church has nearly emptied, I rise to leave, yet those words haunt me.
Lift your eyes.
So I do. I look up, and daylight pierces the dim sanctuary, filtered by the stained glass depiction of saints.
I’m blinded by beauty, unable to even make out the backs of our departing guests.
I blink a few times, and there, at the rear of the church, standing in the glow of candles, stands a striking man—tall and distinguished, with a sharp jawline and soft expression and… I’m staring. Gaping.
The stranger’s gaze catches mine and he smiles, those dark brown eyes disappearing into pleasant crescents that are all too familiar.
It’s him.
Simon Balfour has come to church, but he’s different.
He approaches with slow, intentional steps, hands in his pockets, and the same easy atmosphere that pulled me in so deep in Exeter. “Miss Snow.” His smile, warm and expressive and completely free of bristle, is terribly convincing, should we happen to ever disagree on anything.
“You… look different.”
He leans close, voice low. “Passable, I assume?”
I struggle for words. “Your beard. It’s gone.”
His face is smooth and surprisingly fresh, chiseled by difficulty, yet laugh lines and crinkles soften the edges considerably. It’s radiant with a strength and gentleness I’ve seen him live out. Somehow it’s more fitting this way.
He smiles, smoothing long fingers over his jaw. “I suppose I’ll have to stay long enough to grow it back.”
I cannot tear my gaze away. Breathless, I motion toward the door behind him. “Perhaps you’d join us in our sleigh. How did you come?”
“On my two legs.”
I blink. “All that way?”
“I’ve forgotten how a good long walk feels. And I’m learning how wonderful the sea air is—so different than Exeter’s dirty streets.”
My delight falters, and he notices. “What’s happened?”
I shake my head, trying to clear my worries. “I’m merely thinking of my father still in Exeter, coughing in that wretched air.”
“Silas Snow is your father.”
I nod. “Last seen in Exeter, beneath the Old Exe Bridge… in a distinctly recognizable old frock coat.” I lift my eyes. “Tell me, Simon Balfour. What do you know of Silas Snow?”
A muscle tics in his smooth cheek. “Merely that he lived well, led well, embraced the castoffs. And the way he vanished…” He shakes his head.
I grab his arm. “What? How did he vanish?”
He exhales, wrapping long fingers around the back of his neck. “He’d broken his leg. We were caring for him, the way he always cared for us. His leg was healing. He was able to move it a little.”
I swallow. “Yes? Go on.”
“He had given me his coat a few nights before. He insisted on having my theater coat and that his fit me better than him, for he’d grown so weak. Lost nearly two stone.”
I shudder, hugging myself. “Oh, Papa.”
“So he wasn’t in the best health, wasn’t as able-bodied. Then one morning, I climbed to his place in the old church tower ruins, and he was simply… gone. Every trace of him, as if he’d never existed.”
“But his leg was broken, and he was so weak. How could he—”
“Precisely. He didn’t simply wander away.”
I pause. Breathe. “Papa is a good man. Whatever trouble—”
“I know.”
I inhale, pressing my fingertips to my forehead. “What can we do now?”
“We should find him,” he says solemnly, and I nearly hug him. Odd how a single word, that we, can matter so very much. I’ve always stood alone quite capably, but it’s a welcome relief to find that this time I don’t need to.
He runs his fingers across his clean-shaven face. “It seems I’ll be staying for a time. Tell me what to do.”
“Come for Christmas—as a guest, not the diversion. I should like to give you the holiday I cannot yet give my father. And perhaps you’ll be able to make connections and change your circumstances… and change a few minds along the way.”
“We should concentrate on finding him.”
“And tell him, what, that he cannot come home? Little good it’ll do to find him now, only to have him tossed out by Uncle.”
He considers me, his jaw twitching sideways for a moment. “Should I bring anything?”
I smile, relief breaking over my soul. “Merely yourself.” Little else would have a greater impact.