Adeste Fideles

1811

On Christmas Eve the sound of hooves against the snowed cobblestones awoke the slumbersome residents on Lombard Street. Alistair Sinclair opened his eyes to the sound in the drowsy liminal state one enters when not completely conscious and wondered if the hooves were imaginary or reflected the business of Baltimore outside his window. A sudden fear weighed down upon him, his stomach dropping despite his dormant body amongst the bed sheets.

In his sleep-induced trance, Alistair lay there with a strange, sickening dilemma about the tenets of right and wrong. The thoughts often began to examine the morality of all men but inevitably singled down to a peculiar focus on his own soul and misdeeds. It was not the first time this conviction haunted our dear fellow. Sometimes, it was a distant memory or a friendly ghost in the room. Today, despite the merriments of such a holiday-and like many days- this terror clutched at his shoulders with nails sunk to the bone, becoming one with him to the point Alistair could not discern times when he felt absolute peace. He could not remember times when his violent companion of anxiety was not present, perhaps only resting once his eyes closed each night.

With agitation against the bed sheets, Alistair thought for a moment to pray, not that God had ever heard his prayers before. But for once there was a desperation in his thoughts - he wanted to be rid of this plague, to enjoy the holidays with their new profound stability- to enjoy the life he fought for. Alistair no longer believed in a higher power, although one might consider his rise to mediocre success a divine miracle. Even in Maryland with a contentious history with religion and Catholicism, Alistair felt no desire to reach upon the temperamental peace of the one above.

The only thing Alistair believed in was his wife, Elsie.

“Come darling, there is much to do today,” she whispered against the warmth of his cheek before rising with a youthful buzz of energy. Alistair stared with melancholy at the ice chipped around the window, his hand subtly touching the birthmark in his eye, an anxious habit tied to that innermost fear. Yet Elsie’s cheeriness echoed into his soul, forcing him to rise with her and assist with a dutiful smile.

The Christmas Eve dread faded away with the help of Elsie, bouncing around their cobblestone home on Lombard Street. Incandescently happy, she did not notice Alistair disguising his feelings with a grand performance, the two moving from chore to chore to prepare for tonight’s dinner. It was their second Christmas together, the first where they felt financial stability compared to their two pasts. It was also their first dinner party with friends and neighbors in Baltimore- nothing grander than their fortunes, yet a festive, hopeful reminder of a prosperous future. While they did not directly celebrate Christmas due to the Puritan beliefs in Maryland and the couple’s personal vendettas against the church, the holiday was an excuse for festivities with their newfound acquaintances. Taking from his Scottish roots of Yule and Hogmanay, Alistair held a hopeful disposition that the merry fellowship of their neighbors and city would far surpass the need for rituals and the restrictions that the church brought to them. He watched Elspeth’s blonde curls glimmer in the candlelight reflection of flames during his labor, her cheeks altering from rosy to flushed with each new task she completed for tonight’s festivity. Alistair breathed in the renewal with scents of pine and fire, wondering when the soot from their fireplace would turn the aroma rotten.

Together, Alistair and Elsie made careful work of their tasks which began to assist the departure of Alistair’s dread. Soon he forgot altogether his earlier notion of conviction through assisting with the preparatory meals of brined turkey, potatoes, sweet vegetables, and sauces brimming on high heat. The smell of food, Elsie’s vibrant singing, and the delightful decorations of pine and wax candles soothed him. Although a storm raged outside, echoes of carolers and church bells leaked through the stone walls to fill their home with additional attempts of merriment.

In moments of genuine happiness, Alistair made it his mission to sneak kisses to his wife during any quick reprieve. Against her giggling lips, he suddenly felt paralyzed by the sounds outside their door-clipclop clipclop clipclop clipclop clipclop-

Soon after the wooden wheels of a carriage struck against the stone streets, leading the sounds far away. Alistair found himself free again, unable to recall why the sound of hooves struck him with such fear. Elsie sensed his shift and kissed him again, a sweet gentle press of lips for only his original terror to return, although he could not discern why the sounds outside triggered such a reaction. Alistair reciprocated her kiss passionately, closing his eyes to wish away his thoughts and to discern only her. Elsie’s endearment on his lips stirred as venom in his blood, for Alistair finally acknowledged in a soft embrace with his wife that he should tell her of the terrors of Christmas Eve that had startled him awake. The sound of hooves he could not comprehend in his fears other than it struck a nerve in the tight cords surrounding the one growing anxiety that now must come to an end:

The green box with a satin bow.

It was near noon now after the kiss of death and reminder of his plaguing dilemma. Elsie took a short moment to wash herself upstairs, taking a cold wet cloth from the sink to scrub her skin. Alistair followed her, stepping in front of the box to hide it as she hummed gently behind him, the sound of the rough linen against her soft skin. His grey eyes misted in thought, a strange hypnotism from the green box placed upon their bed.

The thought of turning to watch Elsie half-dressed appealed to his nature, although as he glanced over at her briefly, even her bright sensuality could not conquer his inner turmoil. What was she to think of this green box, the thing so accursed to his heart these past few months? Was a loving gift meant to default to much torture within his heart?

Would this dreadful feeling ever depart from him?

“I hope the storm does not deter our guests tonight,” she announced, looking out the window to the snowed streets below. Howling winds and speeding snowflakes flew past the iced window in their bedroom. There was such dismay in her voice that shook Alistair to his core, and for once his wife’s happiness overcame the dread of his pockets. Now, standing here for his wife to open and indulge herself with something other than basic linen and thrifted attire, this fear subsided for a moment.

“Yes dear,” he affirmed, stepping aside as his feet shuffled loudly on the dusty wood floors. “It would be a shame.”

His movements caused her to stir, her bent-over stance to wash her ankles now rising as her gaze met the cursed green box. Her blue eyes lit with curiosity, although her face scrunched upon her nose with terrible excitement, her lips hiding her smile.

“Alistair, gifts are opened on Christmas Day, not before,” she chastised teasingly. “Not that any of us would truly understand the traditions here...”

“This one is special,” he smiled in return. “After all, the traditions of the past do not dictate our future anymore- so open it, dearest Elsie.”

His wife rolled her eyes playfully before waltzing to the bed to stand before the green box. She gazed back again to look at him before he gave his gentle nod of approval. Elsie hesitated though not for the same reason as her counterpart, for she was far too excited to free herself of such an emotion.

Her left hand traveled to find him, squeezing his hand as she opened the box with the other. The gift revealed a lovely, intricate maroon dress packaged with copious layers of tissue paper. With the softest gasp, entranced, she departed her hold from him to remove the dress from the box carefully. It had a small lace along the decolletage and long silken sleeves, an older style but warm and inviting in the harsh Maryland winters. Elsie turned the dress over to look at the back of the dress, the bodice eased to accentuate a slender figure compared to past styles. With her occupation as a seamstress giving her knowledge in fashion, she realized that this purchase was a considerable expense, which Alistair, who valued their hard work yet dreaded the security of spending money, saw as a significant gesture.

“Oh Al, this is beautiful,” she whispered, turning it over as she walked over to their standing mirror grimed with chilled frost and humble age. Holding the dress to her neckline, she observed the change in her natural appearance, her cheeks rising in color to match the dress. The source of her renewed spirit wasn’t a simple new dress, but her husband’s devoted affection. “Are you quite certain?”

Alistair had not realized he had touched his birthmark again. Her reassurance haunted him awake as he caught her staring at him. While he never spoke of this action as a sign of nervous fear, Alistair knew his wife was not dimwitted nor uncaring to notice such a reoccurring motion over the last two years.

It was true that the dress was not an easy expense, but nor was it far beyond their means. The severest concept concerning having money was remembering the times when you never did, and Alistair, for most of his life, lived a poor and meager existence. This, Elsie was starkly aware of, yet she did not know the full truth of Alistair’s past in Scotland, the true source of his eternal dread.

The dress shopkeeper in New York encouraged him at the time- last summer- that such a purchase would delight Elsie. Women want gifts and pretty things in America, not practicality.

While this persuaded Alistair, afterward it was months and months of torture knowing that the money he spent was a weight on his heart. Suppositional questions and false, imaginative scenarios about needing the money he now wasted- no, spent- filled his mind and body with such holiday melancholy. The trepidations of needing that money never came, for her work as a seamstress and his as a bookseller covered all costs. Yet the perturbation of thought never ceased, despite knowing their financial security was well-founded and, most likely, unyielding. This fear slowly ate at him and Alistair wondered how much of him was truly left- how long did he have until it killed him?

In silence he stalked over, standing behind her to watch her in the mirror. Elsie glanced at her handsomely worn husband, leaning her neck against his shoulder. Both understood the lengths it took for Alistair to disregard the fear of money spent. He worked tirelessly but not past his limit, and there was not an ounce of greed in her husband- but fear was an overwhelming presence in their life. Elspeth disregarded her personal trepidations for the sake of her husband. The room was already full of lingering shadows of his past that it held no space for her own. Staring at his grey eyes in the reflection, she regretted her question immediately.

“It is nothing,” Alistair lied in reassurance to her sudden widened, soft eyes. He placed a hand on her waist and kissed the side of her head. “Nothing at all.”

The two standing before the mirror watched as Elsie held the dress at her neckline, emulating her wearing it. Alistair felt his constitution change at the sight of her, alight and jubilant. The mystery of Elsie’s light and love was as strange as the fear inside him, for while his love for her grew each day today it strangely felt consumed by his fear. Upon meeting her gaze in the reflection, he witnessed flashes of pity in her blue eyes. Sensing his turmoil, Elsie looked back down at the dress, touching the fabric soberly to pretend that she had not witnessed his fear, regret, and his trembling lie.

“It is the same color as your scarf,” she remarked, attempting to change the subject happily. With a nod and squeeze of her waist, Alistair understood her statement of nostalgia, a quick warmth of remembrance as he pulled her closer against him.

Elsie connected her new dress to the day they met, flashes of a maroon-purple scarf entangling the two of them together.

The Church at the time of 1809 felt inclined to assist immigrants, although this was more a guiding step rather than meaningful services of housing, food, and other necessities. In America, Alistair found himself yearning for transformation and with a lot of money, despite lacking financial acumen. The Church offered him some resources of guesthouses in Maryland and searched for opportunities for Alistair, but the haunted looks and hushed whispers of the clergy always left Alistair feeling half-welcomed in their establishment. Whether it was his darker tanned skin, the birthmark upon his face, his thick accent, or the accumulation of his status as an immigrant, Alistair doubted but acknowledged the smallest warmth he was granted, for it was more than he ever received from strangers and family alike.

Despite that dismay, Alistair knew how to repay them for their kindness with a small token of his coin and encouraging words. Upon leaving the Church one evening to offer his gratitude, a woman scrubbed the wood panel floors with rigorous ease. In an attempt to thank her for their hospitality and to bid her goodbye, Alistair found the sopping floor a strong opponent to his worn-out shoes. As he fell, a small squeak left the lips of his companion, who, when leaping up to assist, fell straight on top of him. A divine assistance from the floors of God.

The two laughed as Alistair rushed to remove his face from her neck, her blonde hair threatening to pour out from under her white veil. Up close, Elspeth examined the birthmark surrounding his right eye, a strange discoloration compared to the rest of his taupe skin- despite his youthful face, the fine lines reminded her of the driftwood surrounding her childhood home. So distracted not by his appearance but his gentle touch upon her waist, all was quiet as Elsie felt instant comfort upon him and Alistair enthralled by her natural beauty covered with her religious modesty. After a quick apology and crimson blush of embarrassment, it did not take long for the two to find refuge in each other away from the floorboards.

Elspeth was a novitiate- not sworn- yet the Church was the only sanctum she had left, although it was more a prison then. Alistair was a wounded animal in search of redemption, and while the two of them left God altogether that day, they did find something of a taste of salvation in each other. There was an unspoken connection between a Scotsman in America and the novitiate in the Church, the innocence of their pairing a great shadow in their hearts, deflecting the truth of their union.

None of them spoke on it now, their thoughts returning to the maroon dress, their hearts remarking on the only moment of tenderness of their past. Elspeth sparingly mentioned her past as a novitiate, her reluctance to discuss it evident in their relationship.

This Christmas was meant to be a moment of stability and safety, and Alistair knew his dismay would tarnish any positive sentiment. Yet Elspeth understood in her heart the way pain overtakes one’s mind, that distractions are folly attempts to soothe a festering wound. She knew that Alistair feared losing what they gained- they both did. Alistair had escaped Scotland and Elsie, well...she escaped everything. All of her pain and trepidations remained locked inside her rib cage, never escaping into her bloodstream and pouring from her lips. Her past was forever sealed, a lifeless tomb neither God nor any man could reach. The Church favored silent confession and secrecy, and to this, Elsie felt compelled to continue despite her scornful feelings toward faith presently. It was all she knew, after all.

Elsie paused in front of the mirror to wonder if she deserved this happy ending, to be gifted such generosity from a man who also fretted greatly at this mere expression of marital love. Horror gripped her at the mere thought, and she shook it away, sighing deeply with a strained smile.

“It is lovely, Alistair,” she whispered, turning to kiss him. “Thank you.”

The wind howled outside, reminding the couple of the impending storm. Elsie glanced over his shoulder at it, the ice glazing a cold sheet in contrast to the fireplace below, the warmth a sharp contrast to the outside. The tones of carolers drowned by the wind did not deter the holiday fellowship outside, the strength of cheer and kindness undeterred by the violence on this earth.

Elspeth looked once more at the dress in her hands, imagining how she would appear tonight amongst its layers. Although there was a twinge of shame, Elsie felt enthralled and proud to wear such a gift, a miraculously beautiful gesture. The maroon color soon removed her smile into sudden shock at the mistake of her memory.

“Oh goodness,” she gasped. “I forgot about Mrs. Warren’s cranberries.”

In his swift moment of happiness, Alistair also forgot about the guests at their upcoming dinner. Friendships grew difficult for two people running away from their pasts. As an immigrant, Alistair struggled with the idea of identifying with his culture that he knew little of, for fear of questioning or a lack of cohesive connection with those around him. Because Elspeth lacked the companionship and discretion she had known within the convent, she found it twice as difficult to adapt to life outside that flourished with openness yet simultaneous judgment.

Yet the pair needed community with others, or at least to hope that perhaps their current selves were enough delightful company- after all, neighbors never truly know the deepest secrets of those around them.

“I have to check on the shop, I can head to the market after,” Alistair reassured, rubbing her shoulders. Although he kept his distance from Mrs. Warren, she was not to be trifled with when it came to her favorite dishes or any of her opinions and ideologies.

“The sauce takes some time, I do not want to deter you from your journey,” she shook her head. “Besides, the shop will be a great walk in the snow, and I want you to return home without delay...I fear this storm will restrict our paths greatly.”

Alistair nodded, kissing her head as he departed their room to let her dress for the outside weather. Stomping down the small stairs to the dining room, he sighed contently at the bare tables and chairs that would soon be alight with decorations, linens, and candles. Placing his coats and layers on himself, he whistled loudly to Elsie to signal his departure. With a whistle of return like a songbird, he smiled before entering the frozen snowed streets of Baltimore.

Trudging in the hard snowbanks, Alistair let his despondence grow into contemplation. In the end, the green box with the dress was neither bad nor good, just a gift. Alistair felt some relief, although often after the suppositional thoughts, there were twinges of shame that flushed the fear away as a replacement.

The worst never happened- at least not again...so why did Alistair continue down this path of destruction? In what way could he find freedom from his thoughts and the suffocation of this weight upon his heart?

In kindness to himself, Alistair soothed his discontent until realizing that perhaps it was not the gift that was the problem- nay, it was the purchase of it. At the center of it all was the money and where it came from... a foreign coin soiled in the blood of his family.

The frigid air reminded Alistair of the cold numbing skin of his brother, the howling storm wind mimicking the sound of ocean waves…

The horses and carriages that passed him no longer scared him, the sound of hooves gliding across the snow-covered stones with quick necessity. The songs of other citizens grabbing their last-minute ingredients and gifts drowned out his thoughts of the past, his mind focused only on the sweet summertime thoughts of his wife, Elsie.

Alistair hoped, as he walked away from his home, that his ghosts would follow him too and get lost in the storm of snow forever.