Page 13 of Ellen Found

What a paltry present I gave Ellen Found. Maybe I can redeem myself in the spring, if ever I can get to a store. What would be the perfect gift for her?

“STAY A BIT,” ELLEN SAID to Charles and Gwen. “I have something for you.”

She had never received a present of any kind in her life, but here was One-Eyed—no, Fred Wilson—smiling at her, obviously curious to know how Mrs. Quincy would react to his carving.

Sergeant Reeves started to follow his men, but Ellen told him to wait too, hoping he wouldn’t be teased later by this little group he commanded. Not for nothing had she stayed up nearly all night, knitting like fury to finish the mittens.

Charles whispered to Gwen and patted her shoulder, then shrugged on his overcoat and hurried after the two privates Sergeant Reeves sent on ahead. “I’ll be right back.”

Mrs. Quincy turned her attention to the tree, a modest lodgepole pine that knew better than to compete with the potential majesty of the unfinished lobby. Mr. Wilson’s ornaments were positively perfect.

Ellen went to her room for her presents, which now seemed so paltry. What was she thinking? She picked up the presents wrapped in brown paper, the only thing available, and set them beside the tree.

Mrs. Quincy already sat in the step-down area around the fireplace, Mr. Wilson beside her. Ellen noticed for the first time that he must have stood closer to his razor than usual, and she didn’t know he owned a white shirt.

Here she was, wearing the brown skirt and gingham shirtwaist because this was a special occasion. The contrast couldn’t have been greater between tonight’s feast and last year’s hurried cheese and crackers and the sad men with nowhere to go on Christmas Eve except the Mercury Street Café. She was well-fed and wearing a new dress. Her shoulder barely pained her. If there was never to be a better Christmas Eve than this one, it was enough.

“I think my father’s been hiding a book for me,” Gwen whispered to Ellen when she joined her by the fireplace.

“I hope it’s one you’ll let me read to you,” Ellen said.

Sure enough, Charles returned with a book-shaped present, also done up in brown paper. Sergeant Reeves sat beside her. “I wanted to get you something,” he whispered, his eyes on Charles, “but I couldn’t even get past Fort Yellowstone this winter, let alone Gardiner. Maybe a bouquet of sagebrush when the snow melts a little?” All she could do was blush and smile. It was more than enough.

Charles added a log to the fireplace and joined them after dropping his present by the tree. “It’s so little,” he murmured.

“Books are everything,” she reminded him.

This event was her idea, so everyone looked at her. Ellen stood up, heart in her mouth, as she realized she had engineered this, from the tree on down. She glanced at Mr. Wilson, her fellow conspirator, who nodded his encouragement.

Everyone also knew her circumstances. She took a deep breath. “I never had a tree, and I never had a Christmas Eve dinner.” She smiled at Gwen, on sure ground now with the friendly child who had first sat with her on the train, and whose life she’d saved. Her heart swelled with an odd feeling of commitment or camaraderie. Maybe it was love. She didn’t know, but it was Christmas Eve in a wonderful place she could never have imagined only months ago.

“Gwen told me that her father writes in a journal,” she said. She handed her present to the wide-eyed child. “Mr. Wilson and I did this, Gwen. Merry Christmas.”

With the studied efficiency of someone who had opened many a present, Gwen carefully removed the yarn bow made from the final row of yarn on that old sweater from Mrs. Quincy. Gwen opened the journal and turned the blank pages Mr. Wilson had stitched together. “Papa, we can both write each night, can’t we?”

“We can, my dearest,” he said, with a long look at Ellen that made her stomach settle lower in her lap. He handed Gwen his present, which proved to be The Tailor of Gloucester . She pointed to the word. “Gloucester,” Charles said. “I know how you liked Peter Rabbit . This is by the same author.”

She hugged her father and Ellen, and after a moment’s shyness, Mr. Wilson, who rubbed his remaining eye and mumbled something about dust.

Such a moment. Ellen had never seen presents exchanged, and she knew she would remember the good feeling forever. But here was Mr. Wilson nudging her. “No, I think you should present it to her,” she said, handing him the package. “I knew Mr. Wilson likes to carve,” she said to them all, “and I asked him for something for you that reminded him of spring, Mrs. Quincy.”

Her boss gasped and shook her head, but Mr. Wilson wasn’t about to back down, now that he had the courage. Vera Quincy’s fingers shook as she unwrapped the carved wren, that perky little bird that was long gone to warmer climates as winter reigned.

“We... we both wanted to cheer you a little,” Ellen said.

Mrs. Quincy dabbed at her eyes but made no comment about dust. “I’ll set this wren where we can all see it. Spring is still a long way off.”

Ellen picked up the two remaining packages, handing the first one to Dan Reeves. She decided in that moment and forever after to say what she meant. “This is from Gwen and me. Thank you for having a steady aim that... that night.”

“Anyone with a rifle would have done what I did,” he said.

“But you were there, and you did it.” She touched her heart. “I will never forget.”

He swallowed several times, then took out the mittens and put them on. “I have regulation gloves, but it can get pretty cold out in the weather,” he said simply. “This’ll help.” He kissed her cheek.

She handed the other package to Charles. “Your gloves have gotten a bit raggedy from all those heated nails,” she told him. She wanted to laugh, but the mood in the room was strange to her. “You have one hundred and thirty-nine other rooms to finish down cold corridors.”

Everyone laughed, maybe willing to forget frigid days for a few hours. Mrs. Quincy hurried into the kitchen and came back with more cookies. “Divide these,” she ordered. “Ellen and I will bake more tomorrow for the rest of the crew. Thank you all, and good night.”

“One moment.”

From her apron Ellen took the envelope Mr. Reamer had handed her earlier and gave it to Mrs. Quincy. “This is from Mrs. Child to you, Mrs. Quincy.”

“Oh no!”

“Go on,” she coaxed. “Look what she wrote on the back.”

Mrs. Quincy turned over the letter slowly, as if fearing what she would see. “A Christmas surprise?”

Mrs. Child isn’t unkind, Ellen thought. “It can’t be that bad.”

“If I must.” Mrs. Quincy opened the envelope and read the letter. Her expression changed. “I never in my life ...” Mrs. Quincy sat down. “She’s officially offering me my job back. I guess she was right about the French chef.”

The others applauded, but no one looked happy, especially Mr. Wilson. Mrs. Quincy fanned herself with the letter. “I have until spring to think about it. I might stay.”

Ellen glanced at Mr. Wilson. This could be an interesting spring , she thought.

“It’s been a good day,” Mr. Wilson said as he and Charles doused the fires. Sergeant Reeves gave Ellen a small salute. As he left the lobby, she heard him whistling “Good King Wenceslas.”

She took Mr. Wilson’s arm and escorted him to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Wilson. The wren was perfect.”

“Thank you . I’ve been wanting to do something nice for her.” He chuckled. “Guess I needed a nudge.”

She waved goodnight to the Penroses and followed Mrs. Quincy into the kitchen. The dishes were done, and plates were ready for tomorrow’s pancakes and bacon, a rare treat, but it was Christmas Day, after all. There were ample leftovers for the day, so it would be like a little kitchen vacation for them.

Mrs. Quincy hugged her and went to her room, leaving Ellen to douse the lights. Ellen left one lantern burning and went to the back door, happy for a small moment with Plato. She looked down at the snow-covered mound of the bravest cat in the universe.

“Ellen, do you have a moment?”

Startled, she turned around to see Charles Penrose standing inside the kitchen. She hurried inside, hoping he wouldn’t think her a fool for mooning over Plato.

“I have something for you. I wanted you to have this without an audience.” He held out an envelope.

A present. Her name in firm lettering. I will keep this envelope forever , she thought. She opened it. Seeds. Charles came closer.

“Every autumn, Clare shook seeds out of her summer flowers,” he said, his voice low, even with no one else around to hear. “She never was able to plant these, and I’ve hung on to them for two years.”

“I can’t . . .” she began.

He raised his hand. “You can, please. When spring comes, plant them on Plato’s grave. Goodnight, and Happy Christmas.”

Ellen wished she could tell him that no one had ever done a nicer thing for her, but he would probably scoff at that. “I will save some of the seeds. You and Gwen can plant them later, somewhere else.”

“If you’d like.” He drew her close for a surprising moment. “Thank you again for my daughter’s life. Words can be inadequate, even for a Cornishman.”

“It’s just that ...” How to explain this? “I wish I could have done better for Plato.”

“If we could delve into the feline mind, I think Plato would say you did very well by him.”

“I wish I felt worthy of that much devotion,” she admitted, surprising herself. “Who am I, after all? My mother—”

“You never knew her.”

“But she was—”

“And you are you,” he said firmly. “I have something to say.”

She wondered at this quiet, capable man who usually kept his thoughts to himself. Why was he going to this trouble for her ?

“When I was eight, my father came out of the Dalcoath tin mine and said we were going to America,” he told her. “He never said what happened in the pit to cause such a decision. We came to America and managed well enough.”

“You had family. I have no one,” she reminded him. “No one now.”

“Are you so certain? My father worked with wood. He taught me everything I know and use today. The way I see it, you are your own teacher. Never discount that.”

“I have nothing!” she said, trying to remind him, the stubborn man.

He put his finger to her lips. “Most of us require teachers. You taught yourself kindness and bravery. You taught yourself . Think on that.”

She stayed a long time in the kitchen, holding the envelope to her cheek.