The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

“Reuben, I’ve never believed the old clichés about things happening for the best,” said Phil. “Or that this or that coincidence is a miracle. But if ever there was a situation that seemed to be designed by God, it’s this one. He’s at his lowest ebb and now these children appear—.”

“But Dad, this is only going to work if he finds out about the children before he does harm to himself.”

Finally, Reuben asked to be alone. He just had to be alone to think about all this. Phil understood of course. He’d go see how little Christine was doing. And he would leave the decision on all these things to Reuben.

Reuben folded his arms on the marble table and rested his forehead against them. He prayed. He prayed to God with all his heart to take care of Jim. He prayed aloud. “Lord, please don’t let him take his life because of what I’ve done. Please. Please don’t let him be destroyed by all this. Please restore him to us and to his children.”

He sat back, his eyes closed. He whispered his prayers aloud, in a desperate attempt to have faith in them.

“I don’t know who You are, I don’t know what You are,” he whispered. “I don’t know if You want prayers or listen to prayers. I don’t know if Marchent’s with You, and whether she or any other power between heaven and earth can intercede with You. I am so scared for my brother.” He tried to think, to think and pray and think it all through. But his thoughts ended in confusion.

Finally, he opened his eyes. In the light of the flickering candles, in the light of the flickering fire, he saw the purple blossoms of the orchid trees dripping down from the airy shadows. A sudden sense of peace came over him, just as if someone was telling him that things would be all right. And it seemed for a moment he wasn’t alone, but he couldn’t figure why he had that feeling. Surely he was the only one in the vast shadowy conservatory with its black glass and dim candlelight. Or was he?

It was about seven o’clock when Lorraine and Jamie came in the front door. By then, bedrooms had been prepared for all of the Maitlands on the front and the east side of the house.

Lorraine was extremely attractive, a tall very delicate woman, perhaps too thin, with a narrow very sweet face. It was one of those faces that seems incapable of guile or malice of any kind. Great vitality to her eyes, and a generous mouth. She wore what was obviously a fine vintage suit of some sort of ivory-colored grosgrain material trimmed at the pockets with black velvet. Her long straight blond hair was free over her shoulders, and girlish. She didn’t have a hat.

Christine flew into her mother’s arms at once.

Beside them stood Jamie, about five foot four inches tall, and very much the man of twelve in his blue blazer and gray wool pants. He was blond like his mother, with a short neat Princeton haircut, but the resemblance to Jim was striking. He had Jim’s clear, almost fierce gaze, and he had at once extended his hand to Reuben.

“I’m delighted to meet you, sir,” he said gravely. “I’ve followed your articles in the Observer for some time.”

“The pleasure’s mine, Jamie,” said Reuben. “You can’t imagine. And welcome to the house, both of you.”

Immediately Lisa and Phil encouraged the children to come with them, and to let Reuben have a few words alone with Lorraine.

“Yes, darlings, now both of you go with Mr. Golding, please,” Lorraine said. “You don’t remember me, Professor Golding, but we did meet once in Berkeley—.”

“Oh, I do remember,” Phil said at once. “I remember it perfectly. Garden party at the dean’s house. And we talked, you and I, about the poet William Carlos Williams, and that he’d been a doctor as well as a poet. I remember that well.”

This surprised and delighted Lorraine and put her at ease immediately. “And you actually remember that very afternoon!”

“Of course I do. You were the prettiest woman there,” said Phil. “And you had on the most beautiful hat. I never forgot that hat. You looked so very British in that big brimmed hat. So like the queen and the queen mother.”

Lorraine blushed as she laughed. “And you, sir, are such a gentleman,” she said.

“But come,” said Lisa, “let’s get this young man some supper, and Christine, dear, you come with us too; we have hot cocoa in the breakfast room, and let Master Reuben and Mrs. Maitland talk alone.”

At once, Reuben led Lorraine into the library, to the inevitable Chesterfield couch before the fire that all the household preferred to the couches and hearth of the cavernous front room.

He took the club chair as always, as if Felix were sitting in the wing chair when in fact no one was sitting there.

“This is all my fault, as I told you,” Lorraine said. “I’ve handled this badly.”

“Lorraine, these are Jim’s children, are they not? Please let me assure you, we are not shocked and we are not disapproving. We are happy, happy for Jim, happy ourselves. And Jim will be happy as well when he knows. My father and I want you to understand this immediately.”

“Oh, you are so very kind,” she said, her voice darkening slightly with feeling. “You are so like your brother. But Reuben, Jamie, I mean Jim, does not know about these children. He must never know.”

“But why in the world do you say that?”

She broke off for a moment, as if to collect herself and her thoughts, and then, in a rush of lilting and silvery British speech she gently explained.

The children had known that Jim was their father since they were ten years old. Professor Maitland, their stepfather, had made Lorraine promise before he died that she would tell them when the right time came. They had the right to know the identity of their true father. But they knew their father was a Catholic priest, and for that reason they could never approach him until they were fully grown. “They understand,” she said, “that any talk of children would be the complete ruin of their father.”

“Oh, but Lorraine, it’s the opposite,” said Reuben immediately. “He must know. He would want to know. He will acknowledge these kids privately and immediately. Lorraine, he’s never forgotten you—.”

“Reuben,” she said in a soft voice, laying her hand gently on Reuben’s hand. “You don’t understand. Your brother could be forced out of the priesthood if this becomes known to him. He would have to tell his archbishop. And the archbishop could simply remove Jim from his ministry. It could destroy him, don’t you see? It could destroy the man he’s become.” Her voice was low, urgent and sincere. “Believe me, I have investigated this. I’ve been to your brother’s church. He doesn’t know this, of course. But I’ve heard him preach. I know what his life means to him now, and Reuben, I knew him very well before he ever became a priest.”