Upon a Midnight Clear by Narya

Massachusetts
1884 C. E.
Christmas Eve

He heard the sobs as he rounded the bend. Young. Female. Tired, and in some distress; she'd been crying for a while, Maglor deduced. Strange that he hadn't heard it earlier, even over the jingling sleigh-bells. You're getting old, he told himself, and chuckled. His breath curled, frozen, away from his mouth.

He'd been old for a very long time now.

The source of the weeping sat on the parapet by the old Red Bridge. The town centre lights were some way away, but his Elf eyes saw her plainly enough. She was no more than eighteen or nineteen, dressed in an old-fashioned red gown with a wide tiered skirt; her golden hair was half-undone, her teeth were chattering, and – alarmingly on this clear, bitter night – her arms and shoulders were bare. She raised her head at his approach, and Maglor drew his cutter to a halt.

“Are you alright, miss?” he asked gently, climbing down.

She shook her head. Her eyes were wide in her pale, pretty face, and tears had clumped her long lashes together. “N-no. I've been w-walking and walking, and now I've t-t-turned my ankle in the snow, and my home's on the other side of town and my father will be s-so angry...”

Quickly Maglor unbuttoned his winter coat and tucked it around her shoulders. Immediately her shivering eased. “There. If it weren't so cold I'd take a look at that ankle for you, but as it is...” He offered her his arm. “I know I'm a stranger, but won't you let me give you a ride home?”

She blinked, and a sweet smile broke over her face. “That's terribly kind. Thank you.”

“Anyone would do the same.”

“Perhaps.” Gingerly she stepped down from the parapet; mindful of her ankle, Maglor took her weight on himself. “I'm Charlotte Brooke. My friends call me Lottie.”

“I'm Mark Lawrence.”

She took his hand as he helped her into the cutter. “Well, Mr. Lawrence, it seems to me you're not a stranger any more.”

Her hand was gloved in thin silk; his own was uncovered, for he had little need of gloves, and he felt a sharp chill through the fabric as she touched his skin. Poor child, he thought, she's frozen – and then he paused, and listened, and looked again.

Lottie Brooke hesitated in the act of tucking furs around her legs. “Is something the matter, Mr. Lawrence?”

“No. Nothing.” Maglor smiled at her. “Nothing at all.”

But as they drove away, he cast one last curious glance at the snow around the bridge, unmarked but for the tracks of his own horse and cutter.

The centre of town was empty now, but the lamplight glowed warmly on the slatted shop fronts. White picket fences glittered with frost; the town hall stone gleamed silver, and a hush lay over the empty streets.

“Where is your home, Miss Brooke?” Maglor asked.

“At the end of Walden Street – past the new church, by Fairyland Pond.”

He nodded.

“Do you know it?”

“I believe so, yes. Opposite Brister's Hill?”

“That's right.” She tilted her head prettily. “I only ask because you're new in town. Aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Where's your home?”

He gave her a sharp sideways gance. “I bought the house on the clifftops, just off Bennet Road.”

“That isn't quite what I asked.”

“No.” He held her eyes for longer this time. In frozen darkness, under the stars, they seemed to shine with a light of their own. “No, I know.”

“I'm afraid I'm taking you terribly out of your way.”

“I don't mind the drive. And it's good exercise for Asfaloth; he's rather inclined to be lazy.”

“Asfaloth?” She looked again at the elegant beast in the harness, as white as the snow that lay before them. “That's a funny thing to name a horse.”

“You can blame my cousin.” Maglor gave a flick of the reins. “Now, suppose you tell me what you were doing out by Red Bridge in the snow, without so much as a shawl to keep you warm?”

“Oh, Mr. Lawrence.” Her pretty face fell. “I had a fur wrap, but truly, I've had the most horrible time. I went to the Christmas Eve party at the Newbury house, and the Phillips boy was supposed to drive me home – and he did, for a little way, only he kept teasing and vexing me, and pulling my hair...” She paused, and patted her dishevelled ringlets. “Anyway, just as we came around the bend by Nashawtuc Creek, he snatched at my wrap – it was a joke, mind you, only a joke – and I pulled it back, and then the sleigh gave a jerk, and before I knew what had happened my beautiful wrap was down in the water.”

Maglor's brow creased. “Then why didn't this boy tuck you into the furs from the sleigh and take you straight home?”

Lottie Brooke cast her eyes downwards. “I'm afraid I did something very foolish, Mr. Lawrence. I was so angry that I made him stop the sleigh, and I told him if he couldn't behave politely, I'd walk home by myself. And I would have done it, too, if I hadn't fallen in the snow and got stuck near the bridge.”

“I see.” Oh, you poor child. Maglor felt a blade of fury at the idiocy of this Phillips boy, long gone though he likely was.

“Lucky for me that you were passing by,” she said with a winning smile.

Maglor's anger retreated, and he smiled sadly back.

“Where had you been at this late hour?” she asked. “You certainly weren't at the Newbury's Party.”

No, indeed. “I was out by Old Barrett Mill, taking food and blankets and toys for the children who live in the cottages.”

“So they'll have something pleasant to wake up to on Christmas morning.”

“Exactly.”

Lottie Brooke's smile widened. “Our very own Saint Nicholas.”

“Hardly. I'm no saint, that's for good and certain.”

They were passing the church now, bright and raw in its newness. Its white, sharp spire shot into the sky like the tip of a spear.

“Isn't it strange?” Lottie said softly. “As if it hasn't quite made its peace with the land.”

Maglor gave her an odd look, and nodded, and said nothing.

Presently they drew near the end of Walden Street. Brister's Hill rose out of the gloom on their right; on their left was a pretty house with shuttered windows, two chimneys, and a tiled, gabled roof. Leafless maple trees lined the driveway, and hemlock rustled in the woods behind. Beyond the fence, near the turnpike junction, was Fairyland Pond, looking for all the world like something out of the old tales – right down to the thin, swirling patterns recently etched by ice skates. The house itself was gently shabby; the porch was in want of painting, and the empty pots on its stairs were chipped, but it was, Maglor thought, a warm house – a loving house. The sort of house that anyone would want to return to after wandering in the night.

No lights shone onto the snowy yard; the family were clearly abed. Maglor brought his cutter to a halt outside the front door, but Lottie hesitated as he helped her down from her seat, and gave a winsome smile.

“Mr. Lawrence...” She laughed a little. “I wonder, would you mind taking me around the back? If it's all the same to you, I'd rather go in through the kitchens. Hettie keeps a key in the herb beds, and I'd hate to wake them all up; they'd make such a fuss about my ankle.”

“Of course.”

He helped her limp around the side of the house, and hunted through the snow in the stone trough by the back door until his fingers lighted on a heavy brass key.

“Don't forget your coat.” Lottie shrugged the garment off, and handed it back to him as he gave her the door key. Her smile now was quiet, and thoughtful. “Thank you again, Mr. Lawrence. You've been very good to me.”

Maglor folded the coat over his arm. “Will you be alright now, Miss Brooke?”

“I'll manage.” Suddenly her blue eyes seemed old beyond her tender years, and for a moment they gleamed again with that strange, cool light. “Goodnight, Mr. Lawrence.”

He listened for the door as he made his way back around the house, but it did not open – as he had known it would not. Instead he felt a gentle shift in the Song, as though an echoing note had faded, and settled back into place.

“Poor child,” he said again, aloud this time. He clicked his tongue at Asfaloth, who gave a reluctant harrumph and trotted away down the drive. Maglor hoped the family wouldn't be alarmed by the tracks the next day, especially since they led right to the kitchen door. He wondered whether he ought to go back, whether he should wake them, whether they would want to know that their daughter – dead for twenty years or more, going by her dress – had found him at the bridge, and made her way home for Christmas.

It was not until much later, when Asfaloth was rubbed down and stabled, and he was putting the sleek little cutter away for the night, that Maglor found the dainty silk glove on the velvet upholstery where Charlotte Brooke had sat.

Chapter End Notes

As I'm sure you've realised, this is my Maglor-centric take on the quintessential urban legend, the phantom hitchhiker - with a dash of Frozen Charlotte thrown in for good measure.  My test readers were divided on whether it should end here, but for me, the conversation with the the deceased's loved ones is a key part of any phantom hitchhiker tale.  If you want to see how this plays out for Maglor, please carry on to chapter 2...

He went back to Walden Street straight after breakfast. The world was beginning to stir; laughter and shrieking echoed from tall pastel houses, and passers-by tipped their hats and wished him a merry Christmas. With a practised smile he returned the sentiment.

Lottie Brooke's house looked alive and cheerful this morning. Its grey stone walls were bathed in the pink glow of the awakening day, and the shards of light gleamed on the flat, frozen pond. Already the smell of cooked meats and cakes wafted from the ground floor windows. On the air he heard the chatter of children, the cheerful sound of piano chords, laughter followed by a crash, scolding and teasing at some youngster's exuberant clumsiness – and then more laughter as the world was set to rights and the celebrations went on.

He took a breath and rang the doorbell.

Dogs yipped; the children shouted with excitement; over the hubbub a calm voice spoke, and the noise subsided. A tall, steel-haired, soft-eyed woman answered the door; she was perhaps sixty or sixty-five years old, straight-backed and startlingly handsome.

“Good morning, ma'am.”

“And a good morning to you, sir.” She looked him up and down – not unkindly, but with a frank curiosity that endeared her to Maglor at once. “How may we help you?”

“Is your name by any chance Mrs. Brooke?”

“Yes, it is.”

Gently, he continued. “And did you have a daughter named Charlotte?”

To his astonishment, no grief or shock crossed her face; instead, her elegant features settled into a fond smile. “What did she leave behind this time?”

“I...” Maglor, so rarely lost for words, blinked. “Forgive me, I don't understand.”

Mrs. Brooke held out her hand, still smiling, her eyes dancing as though deeply amused by a private joke. “Why don't you come in, sir? I think it's best if we talk inside.”

He followed her into a warm, airy hallway with papered walls and faded carpet on the stairs. In the parlour to his right the family were gathered; a small blond boy was rolling on the floor with a terrier pup; his parents watched and restrained him by turns, while an unseen pianist practised carols at the far end of the room, and a fire snapped and danced in the hearth. He received a few questioning looks as he passed the door, but nobody called out or spoke.

His hostess led him past the staircase and back towards the source of the cooking smells, pausing next to an open door on the left. “Abe?”

“What is it, Louise?”

“Would you come into the kitchen for a moment?”

A portly man with a resplendent salt-and-pepper beard emerged from his study; on seeing Maglor, he held out his hand. “Abraham Brooke.”

“Mark Lawrence.”

“How do you do, Mr. Lawrence?”

“How do you do?”

A rosy-cheeked maid in a cap and apron was busy at the kitchen range; Louise Brooke smiled at her as they entered, and quietly asked, “Hettie, could you leave us for a few moments?”

Hettie. Maglor remembered that name from last night.

“Yes, Ma'am.” Hettie took herself away through another door that presumably led down to a basement.

“Please sit down, Mr. Lawrence,” Mrs. Brooke said, still smiling.

Maglor took a seat at the small wooden table.

“May I bring you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”

“That's very kind, but no, thank you.”

She exchanged a glance with her husband. “I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Lawrence; you must think all of this so strange.”

He smiled a little at that. “I've lived long enough to know that the world can be a very strange place indeed, Mrs. Brooke.”

The old woman relaxed, and seated herself by his side. “That it can.” Her husband sat down opposite, and chewed thoughtfully on an unlit pipe.

“Twenty-four years ago,” Mrs. Brooke began, “our daughter Charlotte went out to a party on Christmas Eve. She quarrelled with the boy who was to drive her home, and she told him she'd walk the rest of the way.” For the first time sorrow dimmed her eyes, and the lines around her mouth deepened. “But it seems my beautiful, foolish, stubborn girl slipped on the ice and couldn't get up. That night was the coldest in living memory; she died alone in the snow by the old Red Bridge.”

Again Maglor felt the surge of vicious anger at the boy who had driven off in the sleigh, leaving Lottie to fend for herself. Abraham Brooke took his wife's hand and squeezed it tight.

“I think you knew that, though, didn't you, Mr. Lawrence?” Mrs. Brooke brushed a tear away, and smiled at Maglor again. “Tell me, how did you guess she was dead?”

“Her dress. The snow by the bridge – there were no footprints or tracks.” Maglor paused, unsure how much to say, but Mrs. Brooke seemed steady enough. “And...something about her eyes.”

Mrs. Brooke nodded slowly. “Very sharp.” She let go of her husband's hand, and reached out and took Maglor's own. “Mr. Lawrence, you aren't the first to find our daughter by the bridge and drive her home for Christmas. Oh, it doesn't happen every year; only on a snowy Christmas Eve, just like the night she died, and only when there's no-one around to see. She won't approach anyone she knew in life – I imagine she'd hate to give them a fright – but you're not the first traveller to find something of hers in your sleigh, and try to return it to us the next morning.”

Maglor smiled, and from his waistcoat pocket he drew the small silk glove.

Almost reverently, Mrs. Brooke took it in her hands, and for a long moment she closed her eyes. “My poor, sweet girl,” she sighed. “She had a kind heart. Oh, she had a temper too, but she was a good soul. Sometimes I wonder if these little trinkets are her way of telling us that she isn't unhappy, wherever she is.”

Mr. Brooke gave a gruff cough, and sniffed.

“Thank you, Mr. Lawrence.” Mrs. Brooke opened her eyes, and she laid the glove aside and took his hand again. “Truly. For being kind to my daughter, and for coming back to tell us what you knew.”

“I wasn't entirely sure I was right to do it,” Maglor confessed. “I only knew that if it were my family, I would want to be told.”

Mrs. Brooke nodded again. “Do you have plans for the day, Mr. Lawrence? Are you meeting family for Christmas – or friends, perhaps?”

“No, ma'am.”

A glance at her husband, who smiled, and then she turned back to him. “How would you like to have dinner with us – and games and a dance, afterwards?”

“I'd hate to be a nuisance -”

“Nonsense, the house is full already.” Mr. Brooke waved a large, pink hand. “What's one more?”

“You aren't the first friend of Lottie's we've welcomed under our roof on a moment's notice,” Mrs. Brooke added. “We'd be delighted to have you.”

And she took him by the arm and led him through to the parlour, and introduced him to the company as Lottie's friend Mr. Lawrence. None of them seemed to find it strange. There were three couples there – Lottie's siblings and their spouses, Maglor gathered – and their children, and an old maiden aunt and her companion, and a smattering of family friends, and a trio of noisy dogs as well as the yapping young pup. The piano player was a shy, long-limbed girl of fifteen or so; when Maglor admired her skill and offered to turn the pages for her, she blushed deeply and barely managed to squeak out her thanks. Mrs. Brooke moved serenely through the room, smiling and soothing, touching cheeks and kissing brows. Mr. Brooke handed around hot punch and coffee and tea; an uncle made everyone laugh with a display of ventriloquism; the old aunt muttered darkly about indulgence and sin, though when handed a tin of sugared almonds she guarded them as fiercely as any of the dogs, and ate most of the box herself.

When Hettie announced that dinner was served, they sat down to a feast of clam soup, and herring, and turkey in oyster sauce, and buttered turnips and stewed carrots and baked potatoes, and French pickles, and then afterwards there was ice cream and cake and a mountain of bon-bons and caramels. Their easy chatter drew Maglor in without probing or pressing, and after dinner, he was even persuaded to take part in charades.

“Oh, Mr. Lawrence, you ought to be on the stage!” exclaimed one of the young Miss Brookes, wiping tears from her eyes after his successful miming of The Merry Wives of Windsor.

Maglor smiled, but said nothing in response.

After games there were gifts – dolls, train sets, sweets, carved footstools, mittens and hats – and even though Maglor had been an unexpected guest, Mrs. Brooke had managed to slip away and quietly wrap a box or two for him.

“It's nothing much,” she apologised as he pulled the paper from a tin of home-made toffee and a trio of silk handkerchiefs.

“It's very kind of you.” Maglor kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

Then the tables and chairs were pushed back, and it was time for dancing. The shy pianist took her seat; this time a younger brother was on hand to turn pages for her, and she struck up a jaunty polka. Maglor settled himself by the fire, and watched the light of the flames flicker and gleam on the wood-pannelled walls.

Mr. Brooke drew up a stool next to him. “Are you alright, son?”

Son. Maglor's heart gave a bound, and immediately he berated himself for a sentimental fool. “I asked your daughter that same question last night, or very nearly.”

“And what was her answer?”

“She said 'I'll manage.'”

Mr. Brooke nodded. “And so we all must.”

Maglor watched as he lit his pipe. A pair of cousins laughed as they went the wrong way and fell over one another; in a corner, the old aunt snored. “Mr. Brooke, something's been troubling me. I hope you don't mind my asking, but what happened to the Phillips boy? The one who should have brought Lottie home?”

Mr. Brooke tapped the stem of his pipe against his teeth, and breathed slowly outwards. “If truth be told, he was heartbroken. He blamed himself, and perhaps he was right to do so. But less than a year after my daughter died, that boy went away to war. When he came back in sixty-five he was a broken man.”

“I see.”

For the first time, Mr. Brooke cast a lingering look at the scars on Maglor's right hand. “What happened to you, Mr. Lawrence?”

Maglor looked up sharply, startled by the direct question.

Mr. Brooke held up a hand. “I don't mean to offend. Keep your secrets, if that's what you need to do. It's only that Lottie never sent anyone to our door who didn't need our help, one way or another.”

That didn't come as a surprise. “A good soul,” Maglor said, echoing Mrs. Brooke's words from earlier. And a wise one.

“Was it the war?”

Maglor flexed his hand. “Yes.” Another lie that was halfway to being truth.

“You must have been quite the boy when you set out.”

“Yes, sir. I suppose I was.”

Mr. Brooke laid his right hand on Maglor's shoulder. “Well, I hope you'll spend some more time with us in the future, Mr. Lawrence, now that we know one another.”

Maglor looked at the half dozen couples laughing and dancing, at the small boy in the corner with his puppy asleep in his arms, at the tree decked with nuts and oranges and strings of beads, and topped with an eight-pointed star. New things on top of the old, and old things born anew. “Thank you, sir.” He smiled, and this time there was nothing practised or guarded or wary about it. “I'd like that very much.”