Free Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton Page A

outrage as Julian, Anne, and Charles discussed plans for Kit Smith’s future. They didn’t talk about providing for his needs until his health was fully restored, but about taking him into a kind of protective custody. If they had their way, Kit would spend the rest of his days confined at Blackthorne Farm, under a comfortable, caring form of house arrest. Theidea made my skin crawl, but the worst part was that Kit had no voice in the proceedings. What if he didn’t want to return to the farm? Would the invitation become an ultimatum?
    The military medals bit into my palm as I clutched the soft suede pouch. Kit peered up at me from the Heathermoor Asylum ID, and I gazed back at him, bewildered by the intensity of my emotions. Kit had smiled at a knife-wielding lunatic; he’d starved himself; he’d stood on abandoned runways, keeping watch for long-dead airmen. There was no reason to believe that he was sane.
    Yet I knew as surely as I knew my sons’ names that the soul I’d glimpsed behind those violet eyes wasn’t that of a madman.
    When Charles brought in the sandwiches, Julian ate heartily, but I scarcely managed a crust. I could sense Anne’s gaze on me throughout the meal, and when Julian and I were getting ready to leave, she took me aside.
    â€œI do know what you’re feeling,” she said, “but you mustn’t let yourself be beguiled by Kit. He’s a sick man. He needs special care.”
    â€œWhy don’t you call the Heathermoor Asylum?” I muttered. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to have him back.”
    Anne’s green eyes blazed. “If you think I could do such a thing, then you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” She turned to go, but I caught her by the arm.
    â€œI—I’m sorry, Anne,” I faltered. “I shouldn’t have spoken so harshly. You’ve been … more than kind.”
    The anger drained from her face, to be replaced by something resembling pity. “He’ll break your heart,” she said, too softly for the others to hear. “The same way he broke mine.”

S nowflakes danced in the headlights as Saint Christopher carried us back to Oxford. It was scarcely three o’clock, but the sun was already low on the horizon. Pinpricks of light dotted the plains as lamps were lit in isolated farmsteads, then winked out, one by one, as a swirling cape of snow swept across the open plains.
    I put the suede pouch in Kit’s carryall and kept the battered bag on my lap. As dusk closed in around us, I thought of him lying in the Radcliffe, haloed by golden light, dreaming of a war that had been over for half a century.
    â€œCharles and Anne are a lovely couple,” Julian said brightly.
    I made no comment.
    â€œThe Somervilles are going to visit Kit tomorrow,” Julian continued. “I’ll have to remember to tell Dr. Pritchard to expect them.”
    â€œGood idea,” I said, gazing down at the canvas bag.
    A few miles passed before Julian observed, “You’re awfully quiet, Lori.”
    â€œAm I?” I thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess I don’t have much to say.”
    Julian sighed. “It’s not easy to accept, I know, but it explains a lot, don’t you think?”
    â€œNo,” I said bluntly.
    â€œThen tell me how he ended up at Saint Benedict’s,” Julian challenged. “How did the son of a prosperous landowner come to live among drunks and drug addicts? Why did he smile when Bootface tried to kill him? Why did he choose to go hungry in the midst of plenty?”
    I toyed with the tab on the carryall’s zipper while I gave Julian’s questions careful consideration. “As a priest,” I said finally, “you should know better than most people that there’s another way to look at Kit’s behavior.”
    â€œGo on,” said Julian.
    â€œKit comes from a comfortable