Santa Claus Surprise (Holiday Cozy

Mystery Book 8) Tonya Kappes

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SANTA CLAUS SURPRISE
A HOLIDAY COZY MYSTERY
BOOK 8
TONYA KAPPES
 CONTENTS

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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18

Books By Tonya
About Tonya
 TONYA KAPPES
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 PREVIEW

Santa Claus Surprise

As if on cue, the thick winter clouds overhead drifted apart and revealed the
bright, full moon. It glistened over Holiday Park, the sparkling lights from
downtown reflecting off the serene lake. The illuminated tree and the
manger seemed to take center stage, bathed in the moon's ethereal light.
Then I noticed it. A subtle shift in the shadows beneath the crib.
At first, I thought it might just be a trick of the light, or perhaps my eyes
adjusting to the sudden brightness.
But as I squinted and stepped closer, the unmistakable form of a pair of
legs, clad in dark trousers and worn shoes, emerged from under the crib.
The serene setting of Holiday Park, with its soft festive lights and
tranquil ambiance, suddenly felt eerie and unsettling. I felt the chill of the
winter night creep under my coat, and a tight knot formed in the pit of my
stomach.
Darren noticed my gaze and followed it.
"Oh no," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
We moved closer together, our previous task of setting up the sign
forgotten.
The joyous atmosphere of the upcoming Jingle Junction Jamboree
transitioned into a palpable tension, and the discovery we were about to
make threatened to cast a shadow over the entire festival.
 CHAPTER 1

T he distant crowing of a rooster, loud and clear, broke through the

chilly night air. It was odd to hear it at this hour, with the sky pitch-
black and the world asleep.
"Ugh, what's Dave the rooster up to now?" I muttered, trying to shift the
weight of the heavy wooden jack-in-the-box Darren and I were lugging.
With every step, the oversized spring inside the box made the wooden
Santa bob up and down, as if he, too, were chuckling at our predicament.
"I've no clue, Violet. Dave's usually quiet until the sun comes up. But
right now, let's just focus on getting this thing to the park," Darren replied,
out of breath and panting slightly.
The sand crunched beneath our boots as we hurried along the beach
path, doing our best to stay out of sight.
With every passing minute, I felt the weight of our secret responsibility
as a pair of Holiday Junction's secret Merry Makers. The Jingle Junction
Jamboree was just days away, and we had to place this giant holiday sign to
mark the grand finale.
Our destination was Holiday Park, a magical place during the Christmas
season.
Even from a distance as we rounded the seaside sidewalk that went up
the path from the sea to the downtown area, I could make out the lights of
the massive tree that stood in the fountain’s usual place.
The cold, crisp air seemed to still for a moment. Then a sudden and
surprisingly close rooster cry resounded, making both of us halt in our
tracks. Dave's crowing, louder and more insistent this time, sent a shiver
down my spine.
 "Why does it sound like he's right around the corner?" I whispered, my
breath turning to fog in the winter air.
"That's just impossible, Violet. Dave's post is by the airport. He
shouldn’t be anywhere near here." Darren squinted into the darkness, trying
to spot any sign of the infamous rooster.
“He could’ve gotten out of Diffy’s office,” I said, knowing Diffy Delk,
Dave’s owner, had an office in the business district just a few blocks north
of here.
The festive lights from the park bathed the area in a soft, multicolored
beam, creating a whimsical contrast to our current mystery. It was supposed
to be a quiet, covert mission. Just place the sign then retreat into the
shadows and let the townspeople enjoy the magic of the Jingle Junction
Jamboree.
The tension grew with every crow from Dave.
"I've heard rumors," Darren began, a mischievous glint in his eye, "that
Dave isn’t your ordinary rooster. Some say he’s got a sixth sense, like he
knows things."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "Now you're just trying to make me more
spooked than I already am. Come on, let’s move. We're almost at the park."
With renewed urgency, we quickened our pace.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the lake. The swan
paddleboats had cute light-up wreaths draped on them. They looked like
they were dressed for a Christmas party.
As we passed by the amphitheater, I saw it appeared to be awaiting its
Christmas pageant, and the scent of pine and cinnamon filled the air.
“Pay attention.” Darren brought my focus back to the task at hand. “We
have to get this sign up. I’ve got a final in about four hours.”
Darren had decided to go back to law school. Over the past few months,
he had been studying so hard for his semester final that we just never
figured our Merry Maker duties into his schedule.
Being the Merry Maker wasn't just any tradition. It was the tradition.
"We're nearly there," Darren whispered as we approached the park, the
distant sound of waves crashing to the shore now entwined with Dave’s
cock-a-doodle-doos.
Holiday Park served as a charming ending to downtown. Nestled at its
very edge, the park melded seamlessly into the town's vibrant heart.
 From where we stood, the distant luminescence from the town's
boutique shops sparkled like stars. Along the main street, vintage carriage
lights bathed the pathway in a warm, inviting halo, while pine wreaths with
white lights, hung gracefully from ornate dowel rods, cast a merry
atmosphere over the wintery scene.
And there was Holiday Park, a magical place during the Christmas
season.
The massive Christmas tree stood where the fountain usually did. Next
to it, a living manger scene added to the town's festive spirit.
"Just a little more, Vi," Darren encouraged, using the nickname he’d
recently coined for me.
A warmth spread through me at the sound of the name. I had to admit, I
liked the way "Vi" rolled off his tongue. It felt intimate, personal. And
somehow, coming from Darren, it felt right.
"Only you get to call me that," I teased, despite the heaviness of our
load, positioning my hands for the last few feet. “I see the manger.”
The manger, even though currently vacant, radiated a serene ambiance.
The beautifully crafted wooden structure had fresh hay scattered inside,
awaiting its daytime occupants. The backdrop was painted with a starry
night sky and a distant town, setting the perfect scene for the living nativity
that would come alive during the day. Soft golden lights hung overhead,
casting a gentle stream on the empty crib.
Or, rather, it should’ve been empty.
Darren and I shared a puzzled glance as Dave continued to crow. The
rooster's usually impeccable timing seemed way off tonight.
"Why on earth is he here?" I whispered, setting one corner of the heavy
sign down. Darren mirrored my action on the other side, and together, we
gently lowered the jack-in-the-box, Santa’s happy face bobbing, next to the
manger.
As if on cue, the thick winter clouds overhead drifted apart and revealed
the bright, full moon. It glistened over Holiday Park, the sparkling lights
from downtown reflecting off the serene lake. The illuminated tree and the
manger seemed to take center stage, bathed in the moon's ethereal light.
Then I noticed it. A subtle shift in the shadows beneath the crib.
At first, I thought it might just be a trick of the light, or perhaps my eyes
adjusting to the sudden brightness.
 But as I squinted and stepped closer, the unmistakable form of a pair of
legs, clad in dark trousers and worn shoes, emerged from under the crib.
The serene setting of Holiday Park, with its soft festive lights and
tranquil ambiance, suddenly felt eerie and unsettling. I felt the chill of the
winter night creep under my coat, and a tight knot formed in the pit of my
stomach.
Darren noticed my gaze and followed it.
"Oh no," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
We moved closer together, our previous task of setting up the sign
forgotten.
The joyous atmosphere of the upcoming Jingle Junction Jamboree
transitioned into a palpable tension, and the discovery we were about to
make threatened to cast a shadow over the entire festival.
 CHAPTER 2

I began pacing the ground, the cold sand crunching beneath my boots, my
mind racing faster than the beats of my heart. Dave, the ever-so-loud
rooster, crowed once more, making my nerves jump.
Darren had gone around to see if the person was, by chance… sleeping.
Good idea, but the man was definitely not sleeping.
"We need to call your dad," I finally said, stopping to look at Darren.
He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "If we call him, it'll
look like we spent the night together."
I raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on my lips. "Would that be so
bad?"
He chuckled. "Not for me. But it would give the town a lot to talk about
in the morning."
I threw my hands up in exasperation. "Okay, fine. Then it'll look like we
were out as Merry Makers. Either way, we're in a pickle."
He grinned. "A Christmas pickle. Those are supposed to be lucky."
I shot him a mock glare. "Do I look like I feel lucky right now?"
Darren stepped closer and took my hands in his. "Okay, listen. We need
to let the police know about the body without implicating ourselves. Maybe
we could make an anonymous call?"
I bit my lip, thinking. The Christmas lights around the manger cast a
gentle sheen on Darren's concerned face. "But they'll trace it back to us
eventually. It's a small town. Secrets are like hot pies here. Everyone gets a
slice."
Darren looked thoughtful for a moment. "What if we leave a clue for
someone to find the body and then we make ourselves scarce? Make it look
like someone else stumbled upon it."
I considered the idea. "It might work. But who?"
Before Darren could answer, Dave decided to give another one of his
signature crows.
"Would you shut up, Dave?" I exclaimed, exasperated.
Darren chuckled. "Well, Dave seems to be the only other witness.
Maybe we can make him spill the beans."
I laughed, despite the situation. "If only roosters could talk."
Darren squeezed my hands. "Come on, Vi. Let's figure this out. And,
whether we’re Merry Makers or not, nothing's going to ruin our Christmas
cheer."
He snapped his fingers as an idea lit up his face. "Or we could say you
got an anonymous tip, since you're the editor-in-chief at the Junction
Journal."
Darren was right. I did get tips all the time.
I tilted my head, intrigued by the suggestion.
"Keep talking," I encouraged him, sensing there might be merit in this
little twist.
"You could be working late at the office, as you often do during the
holiday rush. You received an anonymous letter or call hinting about
something odd at the park. You called me to come with you, and I waited
for you at the lighthouse," Darren elaborated.
I considered the plan. It was clever, and it might just be our ticket out of
this mess. "I like where you're headed with this. It keeps us out of the direct
spotlight, at least for now, but I’m worried your dad will get a warrant to
check my phone records or emails, and that’ll show no tip came in.”
“What if you say you heard Dave crowing, which we did?” Darren was
making a better case. “And you called me because you were working late
and heard Dave. I told you I’d walk you home, and this is exactly the way
we’d walk to get from my house to yours.”
“That would work.” I nodded.
Darren pulled his phone from his pocket, and his fingers hovered above
the screen.
"You ready for this?" he asked, looking at me.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. "As ready as I'll ever
be." I gulped, trying not to see the body.
He dialed a number, waiting for a second.
 After a few rings, a groggy voice answered, "Strickland."
"Dad," Darren began, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's me, Darren.
Look, I know it's early, but... Violet and I are at Holiday Park. We... well,
we found something you need to see."
A pause ensued before Chief Matthew Strickland replied, his voice
muffled but discernibly concerned.
"No, we're okay. But there's a... a body." Darren hesitated, swallowing
hard. "Under the manger."
Another pause, longer this time.
"We didn't touch anything," Darren reassured him. "We just stumbled
upon it. Violet heard Dave crowing while she was working late at the
Junction Journal. She called me since it was unusual for this time of night,
and I decided to walk her home instead of having her walk by herself.”
So it really didn’t seem unusual when I heard him say it, which I hoped
was enough of a cover-up for when they did arrive and see the big Merry
Maker sign there.
Doggone Merry Maker.
It wasn’t like I signed up to be the Merry Maker. No. No way. It was by
chance, which largely looked like the situation now—except the dead body
I’d found before was that of the Merry Maker at the time.
I’d barely taken a breath in Holiday Junction before I found out that that
man was the Merry Maker. The one and only person who did know he was
the Merry Maker told me I had to become the secret spreader of cheer in the
victim’s place.
Literally, I’d barely taken a breath.
Darren's eyes darted around nervously. He was clearly trying to process
everything while still on the call. "I swear, Dad, we just happened upon it,"
he quickly added.
"I understand, son. I trust you," Chief Strickland responded, his voice
firm. "But this is a crime scene now. You and Violet need to step back,
avoid touching anything else, and wait for me."
“A crime?” I stopped pacing, my eyes growing big.
Darren nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah, Dad, we haven't touched
anything."
After another brief pause on the line, Chief Strickland said, "Keep it that
way. And remember, you two found a body. We don't know if it's a crime
yet or what happened. But it's important we handle everything by the book."
 “I think he meant that for me,” I said and went back to walking around.
It helped me keep the jitters away. “Breathe deep. In and out.”
I sucked in a deep breath and let it out in one long, steady stream, trying
to do all the mindfulness junk I had been learning at the yoga class in the art
district. I’d been having a little bit of anxiety after I got back from a friend’s
wedding in my hometown. We were in a bit of a tornado while I was there.
Luckily, no one was hurt and nothing was destroyed, but it had stirred
something up in me from when a tornado had hit our home during my
childhood in Kentucky. I remembered how we didn’t have a basement but
did have a crawl space under our single-story home, which we called a
ranch home.
I recalled how fear smelled. My mama, Millie Kay, had grabbed me up
and shoved me in the crawl space, telling me to stay there while she ran to
get supplies. While I was sitting on the cold gravel floor, hunched over, I
heard a very loud train coming my way and then passing over me.
I was young, but I knew there was no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks
that a train was anywhere near our home. It was a frightening time for me.
My mama couldn’t make it back to me in time. She left me down there.
As a good Southern girl, I’d been taught at a young age to be very
strong and stoic. After my mama emerged from a closet in the house, the
situation was fine. The roof was torn off the house, and there was a little
water damage, but that was fixable.
Like my very Southern mama said, “Bless our hearts, but as my
grandma always said, 'If it ain't the Good Lord's will, a little elbow grease
and Southern grit can mend just about any mess.”
Unfortunately for me, no amount of elbow grease or Southern grit
helped me to forget or even get over the fact I was left alone, scared and
thinking I was about to die because I’d eaten my share of grits and worked
hard enough to warrant the banishing of any scary feelings.
So when I was thrust back into a tornadic situation, though I was with a
roomful of people, the memories had brought back so many anxieties that I
decided to take a yoga class.
I was starting to think all this breathing junk was a bagful of coal, until I
got to about the sixth long, deep breath.
“Vi,” Darren said, breaking me out of my head and breathing routine,
“are you okay?”
 “I’m fine.” I shoved my numb, tingling hands into the pockets of my
jacket. “I got a little anxious. That’s all.”
“I told my dad that I was walking you home,” Darren said, thinking this
was the reason for my sudden shift.
“I appreciate you defending my honor, but that’s not necessary. I don’t
care if people think I was at your house or we were hanging out at…” I
pulled my phone and hands out of my pocket and noticed the time. “Four
a.m.”
I looked back toward downtown, away from the manger, when I saw
headlights from a car coming our way.
“It’s the fact the Merry Maker sign is right there.” I pointed at it. “I
don’t want people to know it’s you and me.”
“We can say it was already there when we were walking by.” He rocked
back on the heels of his shoes, pushing his hands farther into the front
pockets of his jeans.
“Keep building lies upon lies?” I asked.
“Then what do you expect us to do?” he questioned above the sound of
the car coming to a halt and a car door slamming.
The sound of footsteps grew more defined, echoing through the silent
night. The rhythmic, heavy footfalls I recognized instantly.
Chief Strickland had a commanding presence, even in his stride.
However, the accompanying patter was lighter, almost tentative.
The night, which had temporarily cleared, was shrouded once again in
mystery as the moon slipped behind a thick veil of clouds. Everything
around us was blanketed in a soft darkness, only intensified by the
occasional whisper of the winter wind rustling the leaves of the nearby trees
as we waited for Darren’s dad.
A hushed stillness lay over us.
The normally audible hum of nighttime critters had dimmed, as if even
they were awaiting the next move in this unfolding drama. Every so often,
the distant jingle of a bell from a far-off church tower broke the silence,
reminding us that amidst the uncertainty, it was still the holiday season.
I tried to steady my breathing, focusing on the cold air as it filled my
lungs, feeling the chill on my face. I leaned slightly closer to Darren,
seeking some semblance of comfort in his proximity.
"Evening," Chief Strickland boomed in his familiar deep voice as he
emerged from the shadows with his wife, Louise, by his side. A flashlight
illuminated their faces just enough to confirm their identities.
“Oh, honey, not again,” Louise Strickland, Darren’s mama, cried out to
him. She hurried over and took Darren into her arms, like a mom should, to
comfort him.
Louise, even in the depths of winter and at this ungodly hour, carried
her distinct style with her.
Around her head, she wore a vibrant headscarf, its pattern a medley of
deep blues and golds, tied in a knot at the base of her neck, keeping her hair
tucked neatly away.
The ends of the scarf fluttered softly in the winter breeze. Over her
usual attire, she had thrown on a thick woolen caftan, its length reaching her
ankles.
The caftan was a rich emerald green, embroidered with golden
snowflakes and intricate patterns around the cuffs and hem. A brooch
shaped like a Christmas wreath was pinned near her shoulder, glinting
subtly in the sparse light.
While her feet were snug in fur-lined ankle boots, her hands were
encased in leather gloves, embroidered to match her caftan. Louise, even at
this hour, was the epitome of elegant winter warmth.
“Thanks, Mom,” Darren said, and he patted her before he pulled away.
“I’m fine. The body is over there.” He aimed his words at his father and
pointed at the manger.
Louise wasn’t getting much from Darren, so I was her alternative. She
turned to me.
“Violet, are you okay?” she asked with concern and shifted her body
toward me. “Do I need to call Millie Kay?”
“Oh no.” I waved her off. “I’m fine.”
Chief Strickland followed Darren over to the manger, leaving Louise
and me there by ourselves.
“My goodness.” She shook her head and frowned with the edges of her
eyes and mouth. “Do you know who it is?”
“I didn’t look at the face.” I shook my head too. “I only saw the legs and
feet.”
“Why on earth were you looking in the manger?” she asked. Her eyes
slid over to the Merry Maker sign, but she kept a tight lip.
Please, please, please don’t lie, I told myself.
 I cleared my throat. “We were walking by, and that’s when we noticed
the feet.”
Phew, it wasn’t a lie. That was what had happened.
“At this hour?” she questioned, reminding me that she was actually my
boss and co-owner of the Junction Journal with Marge, her sister-in-law,
Chief Strickland’s sister.
She also reminded me that she, too, was a journalist just like me, and
our curious sides always got the best of us.
“You know, the brisk night air is good for the cobwebs in my head, and
I’ve really got to get all the Jingle Junction Jamboree events in the morning
online edition. The events start”—I pulled my phone out again to get the
time—“in, like, seven hours.”
The Jingle Junction Jamboree’s first day of events was scheduled to
start at noon. It was my job to get the online edition posted and updated,
making sure everyone knew where and when each event was happening. I
also had to go to every event and take photos, which I would post along
with some great taglines in the photo gallery online.
“Well, you see, we have the Art District Snow Sculpture Showdown
starting at noon,” I began, eager to divert Louise’s journalistic instincts.
“Local artists are going to be creating snow sculptures, and there's a
competition for the best design. Families can participate too. The winner
gets featured on the front page of the Junction Journal.”
Louise's eyebrows perked up.
"That sounds lovely. I've always enjoyed the creativity this town pours
into such events.” She sighed and glanced over at the commotion in the
manger.
"And then, over at the downtown boutique,” I continued, “they're doing
a Christmas sweater workshop. People can design their own sweaters with
all sorts of embellishments. There's also a ceramics workshop next door
where kids can paint their own Christmas ornaments."
“Oh, that will be delightful,” Louise said, her eyes alight with
excitement, though I knew her better than to believe she took a second of
joy in a sad situation.
It was just like her to try to make everyone feel a little better or point
out something to look forward to in light of what we were seeing.
"Marge mentioned something about a Christmas carol karaoke?" she
asked, making nervous chitchat.
 I just went with it.
"Yes. Over at the Brewing Beans Coffee Shop,” I added quickly.
“Starting at three p.m., anyone can sign up and sing their favorite Christmas
tunes. And the Hippity Hoppity Ranch is having a Winter Wonderland
Walk. They've set up lights and decorations all through the fields and barns.
There's even a small petting zoo with reindeer.”
“That’s always a hit with the little ones,” Louise nodded, a shaky tone to
her voice.
"And down by the seaside, there's a Christmas market,” I continued,
listing more events off the top of my head. “Some of the local shops will be
selling handmade crafts, and others will be food vendors with seasonal
treats. There will also be a giant ice rink.”
I leaned a little to see what Darren and Matthew were doing. I couldn’t
see past the large crib.
“And let’s not forget,” I said, breaking the eerie silence, "Santa will be
taking photos with the kids in the sleigh by the tree.” I gestured to an area
just a few feet away.
We both turned to look at the tree that had been lit up last night. The
tree’s lighting was on a timer, so it would soon shut off to avoid spoiling the
actual lighting for the village.
“But the highlight is that Mayor Paisley, our beloved canine mayor, will
be there in her festive attire to light the Christmas tree tonight,” I said. We
knew that wherever Mayor Paisley was, a big crowd always followed.
"Oh, Mayor Paisley.” She shook her head. “That was the best thing the
Village ever did.”
Holiday Junction was considered a village, which meant they had a little
more leeway with various laws when it came to the government. Holiday
Junction’s government really consisted of a city council who voted upon all
the laws.
A while back, in the days when Holiday Junction was less touristy than
it was now, someone had come up with a brilliant idea. No, not the concept
of the Merry Maker, though that was a great idea, but the thought that the
town could raise money by hosting a mayoral election for a dog.
The way to raise money was to charge one dollar per vote. The election
garnered plenty of money, got picked up by the national news, and gave
tourism to Holiday Junction a boost, and the council never looked back.
 Today, not only did the canine mayor still give tourists a reason to come
to Holiday Junction, but it also inspired the government to really do up
every single holiday, which gave the village name additional significance.
Here we were today, one of the biggest tourist destinations for every
holiday.
“Mayor Paisley sure does knows how to steal the show. She might just
overshadow Santa this year," Louise teased in a hushed whisper and nodded
to the manger, where the men were emerging.
We stopped talking and turned to the men as they approached.
“I’m not going to move the body, but it’s Elias Beckford,” Matthew said
in a lowered voice as he frowned. “It appears as if he’s had hypothermia.”
Louise gasped, covering her mouth with one hand, her shivering in the
cold making the gesture even more pronounced.
“Elias Beckford? Oh no.” Louise tsked, shaking her head.
I turned to look at her and noticed the genuine sorrow in her eyes.
“You knew him?” I asked.
“Everyone in Holiday Junction knew Elias, dear. He'd been a part of our
community for years, though in an unconventional way. Homeless, yes, but
he had a spirit that was indomitable.” Louise nodded slowly, her eyes
misting up. “Every summer, he'd be around, sharing stories, helping out
where he could. Many folks offered him a place to stay, but he always
declined.”
“He wasn’t around in the winter, though,” Matthew noted.
“That’s right,” Louise said, her voice growing softer. “We used to worry
about him during the cold months, but then we heard he'd usually travel to
Carsonville during the winters. They have a shelter there. It’s a bit more
established than anything we have here. We all just assumed he'd gone there
this winter as well."
Chief Strickland interjected, “But why he'd be back here, in this
freezing cold, is what we need to figure out. There's something more to
this.”
Louise’s eyes darted to the Merry Maker sign for a split second before
returning to mine. She seemed to want to say something, but she held back.
“It's just heartbreaking. No one should be alone, especially not in such cold
conditions.”
“Darren, why don’t you go on and walk Violet home?” Matthew started
to give his authoritarian orders as the chief of police. “And I’ll go ahead and
call Curtis to come get the body before the sun comes up.”
He was referring to the village’s coroner.
As Darren and I started to walk away, I heard Matthew pulling out his
phone, his voice purposeful yet hushed.
"Curtis, it's Matthew. We have a situation down by the manger... Yes,
Elias Beckford. Hypothermia, it seems. We need to move him before
dawn."
Louise wrapped an arm around each of us and pulled us into a brief,
tight embrace.
“I will see both of you this afternoon,” she whispered, her voice thick
with emotion.
Darren nodded. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as we walked,
trying to provide some comfort and warmth.
The streets of Holiday Junction, usually beacons of holiday cheer, now
seemed desolate and hauntingly silent, the weight of what had just
happened pressing down on us.
I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder one last time and catch a
final glimpse of the manger and the tragic scene we'd just left behind. The
silhouettes of Matthew and Louise were fading in the distance, and the glow
from the streetlights cast elongated shadows on the snow-covered ground.
A shiver ran down my spine, and it wasn't from the winter air. The
question loomed in my mind, echoing Louise's thoughts. Why was Elias
here, especially when he had known safe havens in the past? Had
something, or someone, compelled him to stay in Holiday Junction this
winter?
"I can't shake the feeling that there's more to Elias's story than we
know," I finally whispered to Darren, my breath forming clouds in the
chilly air.
Darren squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. "We'll find out," he said
with determination. "For now, let's just get you home safely.”
 CHAPTER 3

T he first light of dawn began to peek over the horizon, casting a soft
golden hue over the world. From the French doors of my parents’
cozy kitchen, I took in the scene, my fingers cradling a steaming cup
of coffee.
The comforting aroma of the brew mingled with the scents of pine and
fresh snow in the chilly morning air.
My gaze settled on the outdoor living space, which stretched out beyond
the doors between the cottage and my parents’ home.
An expansive brick fireplace dominated the space, its rough stone
facade draped with hanging golden stockings that shimmered in the
morning light. My dad sat by the fireplace, reading the physical copy of this
week’s Junction Journal. The fire crackled softly, and orange light
illuminated the cozy area, casting shadows on the plush outdoor couches.
The couches, draped with soft white and plaid cushions, invited
relaxation, their fabric contrasting beautifully with the festive throw pillows
bearing cheerful messages of Merry Christmas and whimsical reindeer
illustrations.
Beside the sitting area stood a grand Southern farm-style table. Mama,
Millie Kay, always had it set to perfection, anticipating impromptu
gatherings or the company of loved ones. Elegant ceramic plates, gleaming
cutlery, and sparkling glasses stood ready, their neat arrangement broken
only by the occasional pinecone or sprig of holly.
It was a Southern thing, and Mama was Southern to her core. The old
saying that you could take the girl out of Kentucky but couldn’t take
Kentucky out of the girl was true of Mama.
 On the far side, a red-and-white blanket with intricate snowflake
designs was casually draped over a lounge chair, beckoning someone to
wrap up in it and enjoy the ambience. Galvanized metal buckets filled with
logs and greenery added a rustic touch, waiting beside the fireplace to fuel
the flames or serve simply as a decorative element.
The whole setup was a picture of holiday serenity, every detail
meticulously chosen and placed by Mama’s expert hand. Even in the grip of
winter and under the weight of recent events, the scene radiated warmth and
the timeless charm of the festive season.
I took a deep breath.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the kitchen as the
soft hum of the refrigerator filled the background. I was lost in thought,
gazing at the outdoor Christmas decorations, when Mama's soft footsteps
broke my thoughts.
She entered the kitchen, her hair neatly combed and sleep still clinging
to her eyes.
"Mornin', sugar," she told me in her signature Southern drawl, moving
to the coffee pot.
I glanced her way, taking in her comfortable pajamas.
"Mornin', Mama. You sleep okay?" I asked.
She nodded, pouring herself a mug of the hot beverage.
"Where's your daddy?" she asked. Mama looked around before she
peeked out of the French doors.
I pointed outside and at the fireplace, where Daddy’s silhouette could be
seen stoking the morning fire. The embers contrasted with the frosty
morning, creating an almost ethereal scene.
“Reading the paper, drinking his coffee in the freezing cold.” I shook
my head.
Mama chuckled softly. "He does love that outdoor area so much. Or
maybe he knows I prefer the warmth of the inside and leaves it all to me."
I snorted half-heartedly, the weight of the night’s events still pressing on
me.
Mama caught on instantly. Her eyes, always so sharp, narrowed slightly
as she looked at me. Normally, I would've laughed at one of Mama's
Southern witticisms, but this morning was different.
“Too early for a joke?” She set her mug on the kitchen table next to me
before she approached me, her face etched with concern. "Violet, sugar,
what's eatin' you?"
I sighed, turned, and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. I knew I
would have to get comfortable when I told her about this morning’s
shocking discovery.
“Another dead body?” she shrieked. “How many does this make that
you’ve found? I mean, you need to hang up your pad of paper and become
an undertaker. My lord,” Mama gasped. “Forgive me,” she said to the air,
like the Lord was scolding her for using his name in vain. “But come on,
Violet.”
The kitchen was a vision out of a Christmas postcard. Green garlands
hung in the windows, sparkling with fairy lights. Red and gold ornaments,
ones I recognized from my childhood, hung from the ceiling, swaying
gently. The table was covered with a white lace tablecloth, decorated with
delicate red poinsettias. Mama's collection of porcelain Santa figurines
stood proudly on the wooden counter, each one with a unique pose and
expression. The scent of cinnamon and pine filled the air, contributing to
the ambience of warmth and festivity.
I took a moment to soak in the familiar sights, a temporary distraction
from the reality I was about to share.
Mama's brow furrowed as she waited for me to continue. The gentle
morning light streamed through the window, reflecting off the shimmering
decorations.
“You’d think after the first time, I'd be immune to the shock,” I started
slowly, trying to find the right words. “But seeing Elias like that... It just felt
so wrong. Why was he even there?”
“Did you say Elias?” Mama asked. Her jaw dropped.
“Yeeesss,” I said, feeling the word come out in three syllables instead of
one. “Why?”
Mama jumped up and hurried over to the kitchen’s built-in desk, where
she loved to sit and do all the bills and plan events for the Leisure Center.
The Leisure Center was an old building Mama had bought with the
grand idea of turning it into what was technically a senior citizen center.
Of course, she had to put her Southern spin on the term and call it a
Leisure Center. The place held activities like bingo, line dancing, and now
knitting classes and painting classes, to name a few pastimes that appealed
to people Mama’s age.
The Leisure Center had really taken off for her, and I was happy.
 She ran her finger down one of the notebooks on the desk. When the
finger stopped where she wanted it to, she tapped it a couple of times.
“Don’t tell me it was Elias Beckford,” she said with worry on her face.
I stared at her, trying to gauge the depth of her concern. "Yes, Mama,
Elias Beckford. How did you know?”
She exhaled heavily, shaking her head. She joined me again with the
notebook in her hand.
"Elias came by the Leisure Center a few times these past weeks. Said he
wanted to join a few classes. I remember him looking out of sorts, more
than just the usual hardship of being homeless." She frowned. “I really
think he was only there to get out of the cold because he stayed all day.”
Mama paused, gathering her thoughts. "You know, Violet, with the cold
setting in so hard this year, I decided to do something about it. I opened up
some rooms at the Leisure Center to provide shelter for those who needed
it. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone being out in this freezing weather."
I looked at her, knowing surprise was evident on my face. "Mama,
that's... that's amazing! But isn't that... I don't know, a bit risky?"
She waved off my concern.
"Don't you worry your pretty head about it. I jumped through all the
hoops and dotted all my i's and crossed all my t's. And to make sure
everything was safe and proper, I even got a couple of deputies from the
police department to work night shifts as security. They've been great,
helping out and keeping an eye on things.” She put the notebook on the
table before she turned to go grab the coffee carafe.
I let out a sigh of relief. Mama always had a way of surprising me with
her big heart and Southern ingenuity. But as much as I found dead bodies,
Mama tended to find herself ending up on the wrong side of the law—and
the laws.
"But Elias..." she continued, her face turning somber. “After I told him
about my opening up some beds, he was the first to get checked in to stay at
the Leisure Center. So it doesn't make a lick of sense why he'd be out in that
manger in the middle of the night."
A shiver ran down my spine.
"Then something must have drawn him out, or someone," I whispered,
the gravity of the situation sinking in. The mystery of Elias Beckford was
becoming more intricate with each revelation.
 “That’s a shame.” Mama sighed. She walked over to the French doors
and threw them open. “Noah, you get on in here. We don’t want you to get
hypothermia like the man in the manger.”
“Jesus?” Dad called, his brows pinched in confusion.
“Just get in here like I said,” Mama snapped back, in that tone that
meant no arguing. She turned to me, her eyes filled with worry. "This
town... I swear, it seems like we can't catch a break."
Dad shuffled in, rubbing his hands for warmth.
"What's all this talk about the man in the manger?" he asked with
confusion.
I exchanged a glance with Mama. It seemed like this morning would be
filled with much more explaining than any of us had anticipated.
The sun’s soft golden rays began to illuminate the room, casting a
warmth over the festive decorations.
"Mama, Dad, I need to head over to my place and get ready for work." I
walked over to the dishwasher to put my mug inside it.
"You sure you're okay, sugar? It's been quite the morning." Mama's
concerned gaze met mine.
"I'll be fine, Mama," I replied, offering a reassuring smile. "I just need a
moment to process everything and get my day started."
Dad gave me a supportive pat on the back. "Take care, sweetie. And
remember, we're here if you need to talk or just want some company."
"Thanks, Dad. I'll see you both later." I nodded, grateful for their
understanding.
“Don’t forget your daddy put the Christmas tree box in your family
room, so be sure you get up your decorations after work,” Mama called to
me as I stepped out of the main house and made my way to my little
garage-turned-home. On the way, I couldn't help but feel a mix of unsettling
emotions around the mystery of Elias's death.
The day had only just begun, and I had a feeling it would be a long one.
As I entered my cottage apartment, I felt the cocoon-like warmth of my
own space wrap around me. My living area was an open concept—a modest
kitchenette that flowed into a cozy family room and, off to the side, my
small but comfortable bedroom.
The cold of the morning still bit at my cheeks, reminding me to bundle
up for the day ahead. Slipping off my coat, I walked over to the small space
heater and flipped it on to take the chill out of the room while I headed to
my bedroom.
I opened my closet and riffled through my options. I settled on a pair of
thick dark leggings and a cream-colored chunky knit sweater. I added some
woolen socks and grabbed my favorite pair of waterproof snow boots. After
tying up my long blond hair in a loose bun, I caught a glimpse of myself in
the mirror. It was good enough for the day’s events.
Once dressed, I moved to the kitchenette counter where I kept my
planner. I opened it to today's date and reviewed the list of events scheduled
for coverage. Winter Wonderland Walk at Hippity Hoppity Farm where
Millard Ramsey, the owner, had put up lights and decorations throughout
the fields and barns, including a small petting zoo with reindeer.
The Christmas Market along the shore would be packed with people
looking for those special handmade crafts and food vendors offering
seasonal treats.
Tonight was the Christmas parade that would end at Holiday Park,
where Santa Photo Sessions were going to be taken and Mayor Paisley
would appear.
I grabbed my phone and began texting Radley, one of the three
employees of the Junction Journal. Mama was the other one but only when
she wanted to come.
"Hey, Radley," I typed. “Good morning. I’ve got you covering the
Winter Wonderland Walk at Hippity Hoppity Farm today. Let me know if
this is a problem.”
Hoping he'd agree, I grabbed my bag, threw in my essentials, and
paused for a moment to look around and make sure I had everything I
needed.
Not like I couldn’t come back in minutes if necessary.
On my way out the door, my phone chirped.
After pulling on my coat, I headed out into the brisk morning air. As I
walked through the backyard, I took a moment to glance toward my parents'
house. Through the frosted windows, there was no sign of movement.
Mama and Dad were probably cozying up inside with their morning coffee.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone just as I approached
the gate. The hinges creaked slightly as I pushed it open, signaling my
transition from the warmth of home to the awaiting world beyond.
Looking at my phone, I saw a text from Darren.
 Stepping onto the pavement of the sidewalk, I turned left to walk down
Heart Way. Although I’d lived here for only a few years, the street felt
familiar and comforting.
The aged oaks and pines stood tall, their branches intermingling
overhead, creating a canopy that glistened with morning frost.
Christmas lawn decorations captured my attention. Neighbors had gone
all out this year. Twinkling lights draped from trees, reindeer made of lights
grazed on front lawns, and inflatable Santas waved cheerfully.
If only we had some snow, I thought, wondering if we were going to
have a white Christmas.
I took the time to call Darren instead of texting him back while I walked
up to Main Street, wanting to stop into Brewing Beans and get my coffee.
I’d yet to decide if I wanted to walk to the office in the cold or take the
trolley.
The phone was cold against my cheek.
“Good morning,” Darren answered. “I wanted to check in before I took
my test this morning to see how you’re doing.”
“Good morning,” I repeated to him. I exhaled, wrapping my free hand
around my arm for warmth as I continued walking. "I'm good, Darren.
Thanks for checking in. I mean, it's never easy stumbling across something
like that. But you don’t need to worry about me. You just go ace that test.”
He chuckled softly on the other end. "Always looking out for everyone
else, aren't you, Violet? But seriously, after everything you've been through,
it's only natural I'd worry a little."
I grinned, my breath visible in the cold morning air.
“Thank you.” I couldn’t stop smiling. It felt good to have someone who
had stolen a piece of your heart worry about you.
“And speaking of looking out, I was having coffee with Mama this
morning, and she said Elias had been staying at the Leisure Center. They
had beds opened up for the homeless."
“Huh,” Darren replied. Then he paused as though he was processing the
information. "That's surprising, to be honest. So why was he at the park?"
He asked the same question I had.
"I've been wondering the same thing," I confessed, slowing my pace as I
took a left on Main Street and then crossed the road to the side where
Brewing Beans was located, a few shops away. "There's a piece of the
puzzle missing."
 "And I'm sure you're going to find out.” He laughed. “Maybe he was out
there and lost track of time.”
“Maybe. Anyways, good luck with your test. And call me as soon as
you get out,” I said. Then I added, “After work, why don’t we grab a bite to
eat before we go to the parade?”
"That sounds great,” he said, confirming our earlier plans to go to the
parade together.
Ending the call, I pushed open the door to Brewing Beans, grateful for
the warmth that greeted me.
As I stepped into Brewing Beans, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and
cinnamon welcomed me. The cozy glow from the interior bathed the
sidewalk, a stark contrast to the chilly morning outside. I pushed the door
open, and the familiar chime signaled my entrance.
The café felt like a Christmas wonderland. The walls shimmered with
silver and gold garlands, intertwined with strings of multicolored lights.
Snowflakes dangled from the ceiling, catching the light in a dazzling
display. In one corner, a grand Christmas tree stood, its branches weighed
down with sparkling ornaments, delicate icicles, and festive coffee mugs.
Hazelynn, the owner, stood behind the counter, engaged in animated
chatter with a customer. When she spotted me, a playful gleam sparked in
her eyes, hinting she had some news or gossip to share.
As I patiently waited, she handed the customer their steaming drink, her
words spilling out faster than the coffee from her machine. Sensing her
urgency to converse with me, the customer grabbed their beverage with a
nod and hurried out of the shop.
Almost bouncing with anticipation, Hazelynn quickly proceeded to my
side, her holiday cheer evident in her bright smile.
Hazelynn leaned in with a twinkle in her eye. “So, what’s the buzz?”
“Honestly?” I quirked a brow. “Just coffee. Need it to kickstart my day.”
She smirked, leaning against the counter.
“Not what I meant. Heard any news on Elias? Given your”—Hazelynn
tilted her head suggestively toward me, her eyes dancing with mischief,
referring to my relationship with Darren—“current status with Darren, I
figured you'd be in the loop.”
I took a moment to respond, sidestepping a direct answer. “Darren's
swamped with his law exam this morning.”
 “Ah, right! Preparing to be our town’s dashing lawyer, eh?” She
grinned, pointing a playful finger at me. “Lord knows we need someone
better than Diffy Delk.”
As we bantered, Hershal approached and handed me a to-go cup.
“Morning, Violet. Your daily dose.” He winked.
I smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Hershal. Keeping the town informed
requires caffeine.”
Hazelynn nudged her husband, her lips pursed in mock disapproval.
“Don't egg her on. She's feisty enough.”
He chuckled, shooting a teasing look at his wife.
“And whose fault is that? Now, back to the grind. The Winter
Wonderland Walk crowd's swamping us today.” He looked around the
coffee shop.
Before I could leave, Hazelynn’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial
whisper. “If you hear anything about who did Elias in, promise you’ll let me
know?”
I blinked, taken aback. “Did him in? Elias died of the cold,” I said,
wanting to set the record straight. “Now, Hazelynn, this is how rumors get
started.”
She leaned in closer, shaking her head slowly.
My eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Accident? Last I heard, Elias
succumbed to the cold.”
Hazelynn shook her head.
“We supplied the coffee for the cops at the park earlier. Let’s just say the
chatter wasn't about a simple hypothermia case,” she said.
My heart raced. Not wasting another moment, I headed out the door and
toward Holiday Park.
The sight of the yellow police tape around the fountain and the manger
scene stopped me in my tracks.
The chilling reality hit me.
A chalk outline was marked where Elias once lay.
As I was lost in the shock of it all, my grip on the coffee cup slackened.
The sensation of hot liquid spilling on my leggings yanked me back to the
present, the dark stain serving as a grim reminder of the situation.
Another random document with
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 Before proceeding to alter her play, Miss Mitford took the
precaution to secure and read Byron’s Two Foscari, and was
delighted to find that he had dealt with the subject at a point
subsequent to her own, so that the plays were not likely to clash.
Furthermore, she found little in Byron’s work to commend, and
thought it could scarcely meet with any success from representation.
“Altogether, it seems to me that Lord Byron must be by this time
pretty well convinced that the drama is not his forte. He has no spirit
of dialogue—no beauty in his groupings—none of that fine mixture of
the probable with the unexpected which constitutes stage effect in
the best sense of the word. And a long series of laboured speeches
and set antitheses will very ill compensate for the want of that
excellence which we find in Sophocles and in Shakespeare, and
which some will call Nature, and I shall call Art.” And as proof that
her judgment was not warped by petty jealousy—jealousy of Byron,
on her part, would indeed have been stupid—it is interesting to recall
the criticism which Macready made in his “Diaries” some years after,
when seriously reading Byron’s Foscari with a view to its adoption.
Under date April 24, 1834, he wrote:—“Looked into the Foscari of
Byron. I am of opinion that it is not dramatic—the slow, almost
imperceptible progress of the action ... will prevent, I think, its
success in representation.” In June, 1835, he wrote:—“Read over
Lord Byron’s Foscari, which does not seem to me to contain the
power, or rather the variety and intensity of passion which many of
his other plays do.”
Having satisfied herself that she had nothing to fear from Byron’s
work she once more applied herself to her own in the endeavour to
supply it with those elements in which she and her kindly critics knew
it to be deficient—but it was a labour. “I am so thoroughly out of heart
about the Foscari that I cannot bear even to think or speak on the
subject. Nevertheless, the drama is my talent—my only talent—and I
mean to go on and improve. I will improve—that is my fixed
determination. To be of some little use to those who are dearest to
me was the only motive of my attempt, and I shall persevere.”
 CHAPTER XVI

“GOD GRANT ME TO DESERVE SUCCESS”

Still working at high pressure with her magazine articles, Miss

Mitford was able to give the promised attention to Foscari, and in
June, 1822, dispatched it with its new fifth act—it was the seventh
revision of this particular act—to London and, this time, to Charles
Kemble for she now held the opinion that the play was not exactly
suited to Macready’s style. In the meantime, it was her intention to
write something more ambitious “a higher tragedy, with some fine
and splendid character, the real hero for Macready, and some
gallant-spirited youth, who may seem the hero, for Mr. Kemble.”
Having sent off the manuscript she tried hard to forget it and to
possess her soul in patience, but now and again in her letters—very
few, now that she was so busy—there are indications of her anxiety.
“If my Foscari were to succeed I should be tempted to have a pony-
chaise myself”—this because a friend had called and given her the
pleasure of a short ride—“I do so love a drive in a pony-chaise! You
know, everything that I want or wish I always say ‘if Foscari
succeeds.’ I said so the other day about a new straw bonnet, and
then about a white geranium, and then about a pink sash, and then
about a straw work-basket, and then about a pocket-book, all in the
course of one street.”
In August and September she paid flying visits to town to see
Kemble about the play and found him so charming that she
confessed—hoping no one would tell Mrs. Kemble!—she was the
least in the world in love with him and that he ranked second to
Napoleon in her imagination. He made her a promise that, subject to
the approval of Macready—then on an Italian tour—he would
produce the play the first of the season. “Nothing I believe, is certain
in a theatre till the curtain is fairly drawn up and let down again; but,
as far as I can see, I have, from the warm zeal and admirable
character of the new manager and his very clever and kind-hearted
lady, every reason to expect a successful début. Wish for me and
Foscari. You have all my kindest and gratefulest thoughts, though a
tremendous pressure of occupation will not allow me to express
them so often as I used to do.”
Unfortunately Kemble was unable to fulfil his promise, Macready
having arranged first for the production of another play, “but,” said
she, “Charles Kemble, my dear Charles Kemble says—almost
swears—it shall be acted this season, and with new dresses and
new scenery. There has been a terrible commotion in consequence
of C. Kemble’s reluctance to delay. If it were not for my absolute faith
in him I should despair.”
Kemble kept his promise, as well as he was able, by producing the
play during the year 1826, but only at the expense of a quarrel with
Macready—a quarrel fanned by Mrs. Kemble who, although Miss
Mitford had written of her as “the clever, kind-hearted lady” was
subsequently described in a letter to Talfourd, as making statements
“so artificial, so made up, so untrue, so circular—if she had said a
great deal less without the fine words and the ‘Dear Madams’ I
should have believed her much more.”
At this juncture, and before there was any idea of the possibility of
friction between himself and Kemble, Macready had suggested to
Miss Mitford that she should write him a historical play and went so
far as to outline the plot. To have such a suggestion from the great
tragedian was in itself sufficient to send her into an ecstasy—here
was proof positive of his belief in her—and so, submitting the project
for Talfourd’s approval, and being urged by him to proceed, she set
to work at fever heat, towards the close of 1822, on the play of
Julian. It was strenuous work and all the while the author was torn
with the fear that she would not be able to produce anything worthy
of Macready. Dr. Valpy was being continually referred to for his
judgment on the various characters—whether they were too weak or
too strong—too prudish or too improper—and Talfourd was besought
to “speak the truth, fearlessly, and say whether I shall give it up.” At
last it was finished and was sent to Macready and Talfourd for their
judgment and criticism.
“My execution falls very short of your design,” she wrote; “but
indeed it is not for want of pains—I think one reason why it is so ill
done, is the strong anxiety I had to do well—to justify your and Mr.
Macready’s kind encouragement—the stimulus was too great.” Both
Macready and Talfourd made corrections and suggestions, which the
author duly acted upon and thereby won unstinted praise from her
two friendly critics. “I hope you and he are as right in your praise, as
in your censure—but I confess that I am not yet recovered from my
astonishment at the extent of your approbation—I am afraid you
overrate it—sadly afraid. And yet it is very delightful to be so
overrated. It would be a shame if I did not improve with the
unspeakable advantage of your advice and your kindness and all the
pains you have taken with me.”
On Julian, which she characterized as worth a thousand of
Foscari, she was ready to stake all her dramatic hopes and when, at
length, in February, 1823, Macready read the play in the green-room
and promised its production in ten days or a fortnight, her delight
was unbounded. It was produced in the second week of March, with
Macready as the principal character, and met with instant success.
The author went to town on a visit to her friend, Mrs. Hofland, in
Newman Street, that she might the better enjoy the exquisite pain
and pleasure of seeing her play presented for the first time. Although
she had sent and received many messages to and from Macready,
through their mutual friend Talfourd, she had not met him until this
occasion and it is no figure of speech to say that they were each
considerably struck with the other. Miss Mitford’s verdict on the
interview, conveyed in a letter to Sir William Elford, was “He is just
such another soul of fire as Haydon—highly educated, and a man of
great literary acquirements—consorting entirely with poets and
young men of talent. Indeed it is to his knowledge of my friend Mr.
Talfourd that I owe the first introduction of my plays to his notice.”
 The result to Miss Mitford in cash on the production of Julian was
£200, not a vast sum in the light of present-day successes, but still
very fair considering that it only ran for eight days, having to be
withdrawn in favour of another play. In any case the money was very
acceptable to the inmates of the little cottage at Three Mile Cross.
The endeavour to clear up outstanding debts weighed heavily on
Miss Mitford and, short of a reserve for the barest necessities, the
whole of her income was being devoted to that end. A few things of
value had been saved from the wreck of the Bertram House
establishment, notably some choice engravings, and those were
sent to Mrs. Hofland in London who had promised to warehouse
them until such time as the owners, having acquired a larger house,
might send for them. Any hope of this contingency, which Miss
Mitford may have entertained, had been dispersed by the year 1823,
and so we find her writing in June of that year begging Mrs. Hofland
to try and dispose of some of the pictures to Messrs. Hurst and
Robinson and to arrange for the sale of the rest either at Sotheby’s
or Robins’s.
It was indeed a most anxious year, notwithstanding the triumph of
Julian and the fact that its author was one of the most talked-of
women of the day.
 Mary Russell Mitford.
(From a painting by Miss Drummond, 1823.)
During her stay in London to witness the production of Julian and
at one of her interviews with Macready the two had discussed
another play project, various subjects for treatment being suggested
—among them that of Procida (subsequently abandoned because
Mrs. Hemans was found to be at work on it), and Rienzi which Miss
Mitford very much favoured but Macready did not as he thought her
outline of the plot would entail on her a greater strain than she could
stand. For a time the matter was left in abeyance, as she had much,
just then, wherewith to occupy her mind. Kemble was threatening
her with a lawsuit if, as she much desired, she withdrew Foscari—
she rather feared that its production after Julian would do her no
good—and she was so tossed about, as she said, between him and
Macready, “affronting both parties and suspected by both, because I
will not come to a deadly rupture with either,” that she got quite ill
with worry. To add to her miseries the editor of the Lady’s Magazine
absconded, owing her £40. “Oh! who would be an authoress!” she
wofully wrote to her old friend Sir William. “The only comfort is that
the magazine can’t go on without me [its circulation had gone up
from two hundred and fifty copies to two thousand since she had
written for it]; and that the very fuss they make in quarrelling over me
at the theatre proves my importance there; so that, if I survive these
vexations, I may in time make something of my poor, poor brains.
But I would rather serve in a shop—rather scour floors—rather nurse
children, than undergo these tremendous and interminable disputes
and this unwomanly publicity. Pray forgive this sad no-letter. Alas!
the free and happy hours, when I could read and think and prattle for
you, are past away. Oh! will they ever return? I am now chained to a
desk, eight, ten, twelve hours a day, at mere drudgery. All my
thoughts of writing are for hard money. All my correspondence is on
hard business. Oh! pity me, pity me! My very mind is sinking under
the fatigue and anxiety. God bless you, my dear friend! Forgive this
sad letter.”
It was truly a sad letter, so unlike the usually bright, optimistic
woman, that he would be dense indeed who failed to read in it other
than evidence of a strain almost too great for this gentle woman to
bear. And what of Dr. Mitford at this time? What was he doing in the
matter of sharing the burden which he alone, through negligence and
wicked self-indulgence, had thrust upon his daughter? Truly he was
now less often in town and the famous kennel was in process of
being dispersed—there was neither room nor food for greyhounds at
Three Mile Cross—but short of his magisterial duties, which were, of
course, unremunerated, his time was scarcely occupied. At last the
fact of his daughter’s worn-out condition seems to have been borne
in upon him and in her next letter to Sir William, dated in May, 1823,
she has the pleasure to record:
“My father has at last resolved—partly, I believe,
instigated by the effect which the terrible feeling of
responsibility and want of power has had on my health and
spirits—to try if he can himself obtain any employment that
may lighten the burthen. He is, as you know, active,
healthy, and intelligent, and with a strong sense of duty and
 of right. I am sure that he would fulfil to the utmost any
charge that might be confided to him; and if it were one in
which my mother or I could assist, you may be assured
that he would have zealous and faithful coadjutors. For the
management of estates or any country affairs he is
particularly well qualified; or any work of superintendence
which requires integrity and attention. If you should hear of
any such, would you mention him, or at least let me know?
The addition of two, or even one hundred a year to our little
income, joined to what I am, in a manner, sure of gaining
by mere industry, would take a load from my heart of which
I can scarcely give you an idea. It would be everything to
me; for it would give me what, for many months, I have not
had—the full command of my own powers. Even Julian
was written under a pressure of anxiety which left me not a
moment’s rest. I am, however, at present, quite recovered
from the physical effects of this tormenting affair, and have
regained my flesh and colour, and almost my power of
writing prose articles; and if I could but recover my old
hopefulness and elasticity, should be again such as I used
to be in happier days. Could I but see my dear father
settled in any employment, I know I should. Believe me
ever, with the truest affection,
“Very gratefully yours, M. R. M.”
A pathetic and tragic letter! At last the scales had dropped from
her eyes. And yet, though the letter is, as it stands, an implicit
condemnation of her father’s laziness, it is overburdened with
affectionate praise of him and a catalogue of virtues in all of which
his life had proved him notably and sadly deficient. Dr. Mitford,
regenerated, as presented by his daughter, cuts a sorry figure; for
him the art of “turning over a new leaf” was lost, if indeed he ever
practised it. Proof of this was forthcoming in the next letter
addressed to the same correspondent and written three months
later! “I hasten my dear and kind friend, to reply to your very
welcome letter. I am quite well now, and if not as hopeful as I used to
be, yet less anxious, and far less depressed than I ever expected to
feel again. This is merely the influence of the scenery, the flowers,
the cool yet pleasant season, and the absence of all literary society;
for our prospects are not otherwise changed. My dear father, relying
with a blessed sanguineness on my poor endeavours, has not, I
believe, even inquired for a situation; and I do not press the matter,
though I anxiously wish it, being willing to give one more trial to the
theatre. If I could but get the assurance of earning for my dear father
and mother a humble competence I should be the happiest creature
in the world. But for these dear ties, I should never write another line,
but go out in some situation as other destitute women do. It seems to
me, however, my duty to try a little longer; the more especially as I
am sure separation would be felt by all of us to be the greatest of all
evils.
“My present occupation is a great secret; I will tell it to you in strict
confidence. It is the boldest attempt ever made by a woman, which I
have undertaken at the vehement desire of Mr. Macready, who
confesses that he has proposed the subject to every dramatic poet
of his acquaintance—that it has been the wish of his life—and that
he never met with any one courageous enough to attempt it before.
In short, I am engaged in a grand historical tragedy on the greatest
subject in English story—Charles and Cromwell. Should you ever
have suspected your poor little friend of so adventurous a spirit? Mr.
Macready does not mean the author to be known, and I do not think
it will be found out, which is the reason of my so earnestly requesting
your silence on the subject. Macready thinks that my sex was, in
great part, the occasion of the intolerable malignity with which Julian
was attacked.” [A scathing article on Julian appeared in one of the
magazines and was considered, by both Macready and Miss Mitford,
to have been inspired, if not written, by Kemble.]
Continuing her letter Miss Mitford detailed how she proposed to
treat the subject and concluded with another appeal for interest in
securing her father employment:—“Pray, my dear friend, if you
should hear of any situation that would suit my dear father, do not fail
to let me know, for that would be the real comfort, to be rid of the
theatre and all its troubles. Anything in the medical line, provided the
income, however small, were certain, he would be well qualified to
undertake. I hope there is no want of duty in my wishing him to
contribute his efforts with mine to our support. God knows, if I could,
if there were any certainty, how willingly, how joyfully, I would do
all.... If I were better, more industrious, more patient, more
consistent, I do think I should succeed; and I will try to be so. I
promise you I will, and to make the best use of my poor talents. Pray
forgive this egotism; it is a relief and a comfort to me to pour forth my
feelings to so dear and so respected a friend; and they are not now
so desolate, not quite so desolate, as they have been. God grant me
to deserve success!”
Again how pathetic! And how tragic is this spectacle of a worn-out
woman of thirty-six, pleading for help and comfort, and promising,
like a little child, to be good and work hard; and that notwithstanding
her twelve hours a day at the self-imposed task—which she now
finds to be drudgery—or the terror with which she views this great
opportunity now offered her by Macready and which she dare not
refuse lest she be blamed for letting slip any chance of earning
money. And all that a worthless father may be shielded and the real
cause of the trouble be obscured.
To add to her burdens—her mother was taken suddenly and
seriously ill shortly after the above letter was written, necessitating
the most careful and vigilant nursing. Her complaint—spasmodic
asthma—was so bad that, as the daughter recorded, “I have feared,
night after night, that she would die in my arms.” Eventually she
recovered, but meanwhile, of course, all literary work had to be
abandoned, not only because of the constant attention which the
patient’s condition demanded but by reason of the “working of the
perpetual fear on my mind which was really debilitating, almost
paralyzing, in its effect.”
 CHAPTER XVII

OUR VILLAGE IS PUBLISHED

With her mother now convalescent, the year 1824 opened to find
Miss Mitford more composed in mind. She was still turning over in
her mind her friend Macready’s great commission, but as he had
bade her take plenty of time, she occupied herself with gathering
together and polishing the Lady’s Magazine articles on country life
with a view to their publication in volume form. Mr. George B.
Whittaker, of Ave Maria Lane—“papa’s godson, by-the-by”—was the
chosen publisher and we may be certain that there was much
fussing and discussion between the parties concerned before the
details were finally arranged. Mr. Whittaker was, according to his
godfather’s daughter, “a young and dashing friend of mine, this year
sheriff of London, and is, I hear, so immersed in his official dignities
as to have his head pretty much turned topsy-turvy, or rather, in
French phraseology, to have lost that useful appendage; so I should
not wonder now, if it did not come out, till I am able to get to town
and act for myself in the business, and I have not yet courage to
leave mamma.”
Had Mr. Whittaker known what was in store for him he would
probably have lost his head; but neither author nor publisher had the
faintest notion that the modest volume, then projecting, was to be the
forerunner of a series destined to take the world by storm and to be
the one effort—apart from dramatic and sonneteering successes,
which were to fade into obscurity—by which alone the name of Mary
Russell Mitford was to be remembered.
 Its modest title— Our Village—was the author’s own choice, and it
was to consist of essays and characters and stories, chiefly of
country life, in the manner of the Sketch Book, but without
sentimentality or pathos—two things abhorred by the author—and to
be published with or without its author’s name, as it might please the
publisher. “At all events,” wrote Miss Mitford to Sir William, “the
author has no wish to be incognita; so I tell you as a secret to be
told.”
“When you see Our Village,” she continued, “(which if my sheriff
be not bestraught, I hope may happen soon), you will see that my
notions of prose style are nicer than these galloping letters would
give you to understand.”
The excitement of preparing for the press revived her old interest
in life and stirred her once again to indulge in that free and
blithesome correspondence which had been so unceremoniously
dropped when her domestic troubles seemed so overpowering. Her
introduction to Macready had been followed by an introduction to his
sister whom, as usual, Miss Mitford found to be all that was
charming. In her impulsive fashion she quickly divined the characters
of both and wrote of her impressions to her confidant, Sir William.
“They are very fascinating people, of the most polished and delightful
manners, and with no fault but the jealousy and unreasonableness
which seem to me the natural growth of the green-room. I can tell
you just exactly what Mr. Macready would have said of me and
Julian. He would have spoken of me as a meritorious and amiable
person, of the play as a first-rate performance, and of the treatment
as ‘infamous!’ ‘scandalous!’ ‘unheard-of!’—would have heaped every
phrase of polite abuse which the language contains on the Covent
Garden manager; and then would have concluded as follows:—‘But
it is Miss Mitford’s own fault—entirely her own fault. She is, with all
her talent, the weakest and most feeble-minded woman that ever
lived. If she had put matters into my hands—if she had withdrawn
The Foscari—if she had threatened the managers with a lawsuit—if
she had published her case—if she had suffered me to manage for
her; she would have been the queen of the theatre. Now, you will
see her the slave of Charles Kemble. She is the weakest woman that
ever trode the earth.’ This is exactly what he would have said; the
way in which he talks of me to every one, and most of all to myself.
‘Is Mr. Macready a great actor?’ you ask. I think that I should answer,
‘He might have been a very great one.’ Whether he be now I doubt.
A very clever actor he certainly is; but he has vitiated his taste by his
love of strong effects, and been spoilt in town and country; and I
don’t know that I do call him a very great actor ... I have a physical
pleasure in the sound of Mr. Macready’s voice, whether talking, or
reading, or acting (except when he rants). It seems to me very
exquisite music, with something instrumental and vibrating in the
sound, like certain notes of the violoncello. He is grace itself; and he
has a great deal of real sensibility, mixed with some trickery.”

The old Wheelwright’s Shop at “Our Village,” in 1913.

As far as it goes, and based on so slight an acquaintance, the
portrait is not much short of the truth, as witness Macready’s own
diaries wherein, strong man that he was, he set down all his faults
and failings. But he was a much-provoked man, the reason being
that he never did, or could, descend to the low level of his
tormentors. As for his being, or not being, a great actor, Miss Mitford
must be forgiven her hasty judgment; posterity rightly disagrees with
her.
Spring was just merging into summer and the thoughts of jaded
and satiated townfolk were turning to the consideration of green
fields and smiling meadows when the first modest little volume of
Our Village issued shyly forth from George Whittaker’s office. “Cause
it to be asked for at the circulating libraries,” urged the designing
author of all her friends.
The book caught on; its pages were redolent of the country; its
colour was true and vivid; it told of simple delights and did for
Berkshire what no author had ever previously done for any place.
Charles Lamb, then in the full enjoyment of his fame as Elia, said
that nothing so fresh and characteristic had appeared for a long time.
Sir William Elford was delighted but ventured the suggestion that the
sketches would have been better if written in the form of letters, but
this the author denied by reminding him that the pieces were too
long, and too connected, for real correspondence; “and as to
anything make-believe, it has been my business to keep that out of
sight as much as possible. Besides which, we are free and easy in
these days, and talk to the public as a friend. Read Elia, or the
Sketch Book, or Hazlitt’s Table-Talk, or any popular book of the new
school, and you will find that we have turned over the Johnsonian
periods and the Blair-ian formality to keep company with the wigs
and hoops, the stiff curtseys and low bows of our ancestors. ‘Are the
characters and descriptions true?’ you ask. Yes! yes! yes! As true as
is well possible. You, as a great landscape painter, know that in
painting a favourite scene you do a little embellish, and can’t help it;
you avail yourself of happy accidents of atmosphere, and if anything
be ugly, you strike it out, or if anything be wanting, you put it in. But
still the picture is a likeness; and that this is a very faithful one, you
will judge when I tell you that a worthy neighbour of ours, a post
captain, who has been in every quarter of the globe, and is equally
distinguished for the sharp look-out and bonhomie of his profession,
accused me most seriously of carelessness in putting The Rose for
The Swan as the sign of our next door neighbour; and was no less
disconcerted at the misprint (as he called it) of B for R in the name of
our next town. A cela près, he declares the picture to be exact.
Nevertheless I do not expect to be poisoned. Why should I? I have
said no harm of my neighbours, have I? The great danger would be
that my dear friend Joel might be spoilt; but I take care to keep the
book out of our pretty Harriette’s way; and so I hope that that prime
ornament of our village will escape the snare for his vanity which the
seeing so exact a portrait of himself in a printed book might
occasion. By the way, the names of the villagers are true—of the
higher sketches they are feigned, of course.”
The sales were beyond the wildest dreams of the author and
publisher, for it was well reviewed in all the literary papers and
discussed in all the literary circles. “Where is Our Village?” was the
question folk were asking each other, and when the secret leaked
out, there was a constant stream of traffic from here, there and
everywhere to the quiet village of Three Mile Cross, whose
inhabitants were the last of all to discover that they had been “put
into a book.” What a theme for the cobbler over the way! How he
must have neglected his work to watch the congratulating visitors
who thronged the cottage opposite, all asking the beaming and
delighted author “How she thought of it?” and “Why she did it?” And
when, at length, a copy of the book itself found its way to the parlour
of the George and Dragon and the cobbler saw himself as “the
shoemaker opposite,” we can almost fancy we catch the gratified
light in his eye and hear his astonished—“Well! I’ll be jiggered!”
And since no letter to any of her numerous correspondents ever
contained so charming a description, here let us quote from Our
Village its author’s picture of her own dwelling:—“A cottage—no—a
miniature house, with many additions, little odds and ends of places,
pantries, and what-nots; all angles, and of a charming in-and-out-
ness; a little bricked court before one half, and a little flower-yard
before the other; the walls, old and weather-stained, covered with
hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and a great apricot tree; the
casements full of geraniums (ah! there is our superb white cat
peeping out from among them); the closets (our landlord has the
assurance to call them rooms) full of contrivances and corner-
cupboards; and the little garden behind full of common flowers,
tulips, pinks, larkspurs, peonies, stocks, and carnations, with an
arbour of privet, not unlike a sentry-box, where one lives in a
delicious green light, and looks out on the gayest of all gay flower-
beds. That house was built on purpose to show in what an
exceeding small compass comfort may be packed.”
That is Miss Mitford’s miniature of her village home. Seeking it to-
day, the literary pilgrim would be sadly disappointed if he carried this
description in his mind. The walls have been stuccoed—that ugliest
of make-believes—and a wooden sign The Mitford springs from
between the windows in an attempt—honest enough, no doubt—to
compete with its neighbour The Swan, the sign of which swings all
a-creak over the garden-wall. It has lost its cottage aspect, the
windows are modern and even the chimney-pots have been
replaced by up-to-date pottery contrivances and a zinc contraption
which tries to look ornamental but is not—in striking contrast to the
village shop next door which is still the village shop as described by
Miss Mitford, “multifarious as a bazaar; a repository for bread, shoes,
tea, cheese, tape, ribands, and bacon”; full of that delightfully mixed
odour, a pot-pourri of eatables and wearables, which always
characterizes such establishments; proudly ruled by a Brownlow,
one of a line of Brownlows unbroken from long before Miss Mitford’s
day.
Inside, The Mitford is less of a disappointment, for most of the
rooms remain unchanged, and one quickly sees how truly its
delighted owner limned it when she wrote of its angles and in-and-
out-ness. Unhappily the garden behind has been spoiled by the
erection of a large hall wherein the gospel is preached, light
refreshments may be partaken of, and the youth of the village
assemble o’ nights to tighten their muscles on trapeze and horizontal
bar. In Miss Mitford’s day they achieved this end by following the
plough—but other times other manners, and we are not for blaming
them altogether. The pity is—and it is our only grumble—that when
that truly noble philanthropist, William Isaac Palmer, conceived the
notion of honouring Miss Mitford’s memory by preserving her
residence, he did not insist on a restoration which would have
perpetuated the external, as well as the internal, features of the
cottage.

Miss Mitford’s Cottage at Three Mile Cross, as it is to-day (1913), with the sign of
the Swan Inn on the one hand, and Brownlow’s shop on the other.
Was Our Village its author’s announcement to all and sundry, that
come what might, whether of want, drudgery, or disillusionment, she
could still carry her head high, look the world in the face— and
smile? Probably it was. A strong case can be made out for the view
that, apart altogether from her love of rurality, Our Village was a
deliberate glorification of the simple life which had been forced upon
her, a deliberate pronouncement that Home was still Home, though it
had been transferred from the magnificence of Bertram House with
its retinue of servants, to an extremely humble cottage set between a
village “general” on the one side and a village inn upon the other.
With all the success which now seemed to crowd upon our author,
the year was not without its anxieties for, shortly after her mother’s
recovery, her father was taken suddenly ill and, as was his wont on
such occasions, required a great deal of attention. He made a fairly
speedy recovery, however, and in July we read of him and Mrs.
Mitford taking exercise in a “pretty little pony-chaise” the acquisition
of which the daughter proudly records—it was a sign, however slight,
of amended fortunes. Late in the year, Dr. Mitford had a relapse and
became seriously ill, and even when convalescent was left so weak
that he was a source of considerable anxiety to his wife and
daughter. This illness must have convinced Miss Mitford that it would
be futile to count upon her father as a bread-winner, and that
conviction seems to have spurred her to work even harder than
before. The Cromwell and Charles play still simmered in her mind,
while there were a “thousand and one articles for annuals” to be
written, together with the working-up of a new tragedy to be called
Inez de Castro. Not satisfied with all that, she wrote in the July to
William Harness, asking whether he could influence Campbell, then
editing the New Monthly Magazine, to engage for a series—“Letters
from the Country,” or something of that sort—“altogether different, of
course, from Our Village in the scenery and the dramatis personae,
but still something that might admit of description and character, and
occasional story, without the formality of a fresh introduction to every
article. If you liked my little volume well enough to recommend me
conscientiously, and are enough in that prescient editor’s good
graces to secure such an admission, I should like the thing
exceedingly.”
Talfourd wrote urging her to a novel, but this she wisely declined,
and commenced to work, in great haste on still another tragedy
which had been suggested by a re-reading of Gibbon’s Decline and
Fall of the Roman Empire. It was no new project, for she had written
of it “in strict confidence” to Sir William Elford more than a year
before, but it had been left to lie fallow until an opportunity arose for
its execution. When the suggestion was made to Macready he at
once saw the possibilities in the theme and promised to give the play
his best consideration, although he made the significant suggestion
that not only should the author’s name be kept a dead secret, but
that the play should be produced under a man’s name because the
newspapers of the day were so unfair to female writers.
 Luckily the haste with which she had started on Rienzi soon
subsided, and it was not ready until 1826 when Macready took it and
the Cromwellian play with him on an American tour, promising to do
nothing with either unless they could be produced in a manner
satisfactory to the author. The original intention had been to produce
Rienzi at Covent Garden that year, but the idea was abandoned.
In the meantime preparations were well advanced for a second
series of Our Village, “my bookseller having sent to me for two
volumes more.” Eventually the series extended to five volumes, the
publication of which ranged over the years 1824 and 1832. Of these
volumes there appeared, from time to time, a number of most
eulogistic reviews, particularly noticeable among them being those of
“Christopher North” in the Noctes Ambrosianae of Blackwood’s
Magazine. In reviewing the third volume he wrote:—“The young
gentlemen of England should be ashamed o’ theirsells fo’ lettin’ her
name be Mitford. They should marry her whether she wull or no, for
she would mak baith a useful and agreeable wife. That’s the best
creetishism on her warks”—a criticism as amusing as it was true.
 CHAPTER XVIII

MACREADY AND RIENZI

In the previous chapter we mentioned that Rienzi was not ready until
1826 and that its production at Covent Garden during that year was
postponed because of a disagreement between Macready and
Young. As a matter of fact the play was finished to the mutual
satisfaction of its author, and her friends Talfourd and Harness, early
in 1825, but when submitted to Macready he would only accept it on
condition that certain rather drastic alterations were made. In this he
was perfectly justified for, be it remembered, he was not only an
actor of high rank but a critic of remarkable ability—a combination of
scholar and actor which caused him to be consulted on every point
connected with the drama and whose judgment was rarely wrong.
Upon hearing his decision Miss Mitford appears to have lost her
composure—we will charitably remind ourselves that she had put
much labour and thought into this play—and to have rushed off to
consult the two friends who, having read the play, had already
pronounced it ready for presentation. Upon hearing Macready’s
suggestions Harness was considerably piqued, the more so as in
addition to his clerical duties, he was, at this time, enjoying a
considerable reputation as a dramatic critic, his writings in the
magazines being eagerly looked for and as eagerly read when they
appeared. There is no doubt that he, backed up by Talfourd,
counselled Miss Mitford not to adopt Macready’s suggestions, but
Macready was not the man to brook interference from outsiders and
told Miss Mitford that not only must she alter the play in accordance
with his views, but without delay if she required him to produce it.
This naturally placed the author in an awkward position for she knew,