Page 23 of Ellen Found
“Just one hundred and thirty-nine rooms to go!” Mr. Wilson said to laughter.
Gradually, the men moved away, chatting in small groups, heading toward their own rustic boardinghouse, destined to be torn down when the project ended, and they moved on to other jobs.
Mr. Reamer cleaned his glasses thoughtfully, carefully, as he dideverything. “Thank you for this Christmas surprise, Charles,” he said. “It means more than I can say. Bless you all, and good night.”
What a paltry present I gave Ellen Found. Maybe I can redeem myself in the spring, if ever I can get to a store. What would be the perfect gift for her?
“STAY A BIT,” ELLEN SAID to Charles and Gwen. “I have something for you.”
She had never received a present of any kind in her life, but here was One-Eyed—no, Fred Wilson—smiling at her, obviously curious to know how Mrs. Quincy would react to his carving.
Sergeant Reeves started to follow his men, but Ellen told him to wait too, hoping he wouldn’t be teased later by this little group he commanded. Not for nothing had she stayedup nearly all night, knitting like fury to finish the mittens.
Charles whispered to Gwen and patted her shoulder, then shrugged on his overcoat and hurried after the two privates Sergeant Reeves sent on ahead. “I’ll be right back.”
Mrs. Quincy turned her attention to the tree, a modest lodgepole pine that knew better than to compete with the potential majesty of the unfinished lobby. Mr. Wilson’s ornaments were positively perfect.
Ellen went to her room for her presents, which now seemed so paltry. What was she thinking? She picked up the presents wrapped in brown paper, the only thing available, and set them beside the tree.
Mrs. Quincy already sat in the step-down area around the fireplace, Mr. Wilson beside her. Ellen noticed for the first time that he must have stood closer to his razor than usual, and she didn’t know he owned a white shirt.
Here she was, wearing the brown skirt and gingham shirtwaist because this was a special occasion. The contrast couldn’t have been greater between tonight’s feast and last year’s hurried cheese and crackers and the sadmen with nowhere to go on Christmas Eve except the Mercury Street Café. She was well-fed and wearing a new dress. Her shoulder barely pained her. If there was never to be a better Christmas Eve than this one, it was enough.
“I think my father’s been hiding a book for me,” Gwen whispered to Ellen when she joined her by the fireplace.
“I hope it’s one you’ll let me read to you,” Ellen said.
Sure enough, Charles returned with a book-shaped present, also done up in brown paper. Sergeant Reeves sat beside her. “I wanted to get you something,” he whispered, his eyes on Charles, “but I couldn’t even get past Fort Yellowstone this winter, let alone Gardiner. Maybe a bouquet of sagebrush when the snow melts a little?” All she could do was blush and smile. It was more than enough.
Charles added a log to the fireplace and joined them after dropping his present by the tree. “It’s so little,” he murmured.
“Books are everything,” she reminded him.
This event was her idea,so everyone looked at her. Ellen stood up, heart in her mouth, as she realizedshehad engineered this, from the tree on down. She glanced at Mr. Wilson, her fellow conspirator, who nodded his encouragement.
Everyone also knew her circumstances. She took a deep breath. “I never had a tree, and I never had a Christmas Eve dinner.” She smiled at Gwen, on sure ground now with the friendly child who had first sat with her on the train, and whose life she’d saved. Her heart swelled with an odd feeling of commitment or camaraderie. Maybe it was love. She didn’t know, but it was Christmas Eve in a wonderful place she could never have imagined only months ago.
“Gwen told me that her father writes in a journal,” she said. She handed her present to the wide-eyed child. “Mr. Wilson and I did this, Gwen. Merry Christmas.”
With the studied efficiency of someone who had opened many a present, Gwen carefully removed the yarn bow made from the final row of yarn on that old sweater from Mrs. Quincy. Gwen opened the journal and turned the blank pages Mr. Wilson had stitchedtogether. “Papa, we can both write each night, can’t we?”
“We can, my dearest,” he said, with a long look at Ellen that made her stomach settle lower in her lap. He handed Gwen his present, which proved to beThe Tailor of Gloucester. She pointed to the word. “Gloucester,” Charles said. “I know how you likedPeter Rabbit. This is by the same author.”
She hugged her father and Ellen, and after a moment’s shyness, Mr. Wilson, who rubbed his remaining eye and mumbled something about dust.
Such a moment. Ellen had never seen presents exchanged, and she knew she would remember the good feeling forever. But here was Mr. Wilson nudging her. “No, I think you should present it to her,” she said, handing him the package. “I knew Mr. Wilson likes to carve,” she said to them all, “and I asked him for something for you that reminded him of spring, Mrs. Quincy.”
Her boss gasped and shook her head, but Mr. Wilson wasn’t about to back down, now that he had the courage. Vera Quincy’s fingers shook as she unwrapped the carved wren, thatperky little bird that was long gone to warmer climates as winter reigned.
“We... we both wanted to cheer you a little,” Ellen said.
Mrs. Quincy dabbed ather eyes but made no comment about dust. “I’ll set this wren where we can all see it. Spring is still a long way off.”
Ellen picked up the two remaining packages, handing the first one to Dan Reeves. She decided in that moment and forever after to say what she meant. “This is from Gwen and me. Thank you for having a steady aim that... that night.”
“Anyone with a rifle would have done what I did,” he said.
“But you were there, and you did it.” She touched her heart. “I will never forget.”
