Chapter One
London 1892
December Thursday afternoon
“You’ve entered the children in what?” Celeste Stillwell stared at the elderly headmaster of Saint Alban’s School in open-mouthed amazement.
“I’ve entered them in the Children’s Choral Competition.” Samuel Dobbins wiggled his bushy white eyebrows at her. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea, Miss Stillwell?”
“But sir, we don’t have a choir,” Celeste said faintly, hoping she wouldn’t fall from the hard-backed chair to the floor in the first faint of her life. “And the Children’s Choral Competition is one of the finest in London.”
“ How hard can it be?” the old man asked, pulling on his high collar. “Just have them sing a Christmas carol or two, and we’ll win. Easy enough.”
A Christmas carol or two . Celeste’s brain reeled at his words. Singing a “carol or two” at the CCC as it was known—and a triple threat if there ever was one—was like suggesting one address the Queen as “Vicki.”
And expecting to win the one hundred pound prize the competition offered was just as daft.
“I know you must have studied music before you started teaching here,” Headmaster Dobbins continued. “All young ladies of gentle birth study music. Just pick the children you think can quickly learn whatever songs you choose and set a practice time. I’ll be sure the building is at your disposal.”
Recalling her lackluster efforts at the keyboard while growing up, Celeste tried again. “My piano playing is not that good, Headmaster.”
“But I’ve heard you sing in chapel so you know music,” Dobbins said blithely. “You can conduct and let one of the other teachers to accompany you. Or perhaps the new teacher we’ve hired plays. Seems a pleasant chap, bachelor from somewhere up north. Can’t recall his name right now. He starts on Monday, so you can ask him them. You may start your auditions on Monday after chapel.”
The conversation was obviously over, because Dobbins stood and headed for the corner to take his hat and coat off the rack. “After all, it’s only a carol or two. Don’t worry, Miss Stillwell . Christmas is not quite a month away so you have plenty of time. Good day to you.”
There was nothing to do but follow him from his office. Returning to her empty classroom, Celeste sat at her desk and drummed her fingers on the top. The children were long gone but she could almost hear their young voices as they recited their lessons. She would not have traded her four years at this school. Teaching and working part-time in her friend Holly Chamberlain’s letter writing business provided her with enough income to meet her needs.
But to enter the Children’s Choral Competition! Celeste doubted seriously that any of the other teachers would agree to help when they heard of Headmaster’s mad scheme, or that any of Saint Alban’s student body sang choral style music, much less read it.
And with Christmas less than a month away, where in London— with hundreds of programs being prepared— was she going to find an accompanist to help her create a children’s choir? She offered up a hasty prayer that the new teacher did indeed play the piano.
After donning her coat and hat, she left the school and boarded an omnibus for the next neighborhood and Hope House, where she helped the residents improve their reading and writing.
They were an odd bunch, these retired old soldiers who pooled their pensions to rent and share a house. Jasper Collins, Timothy Blunt, Toby Noble and Duncan Kincaid had all served in Afghanistan twenty years ago. After meeting again at a soldiers’ Social Club, and being life long bachelors, decided to set up housekeeping together. Duncan, a retired Army cook, who was in charge of Hope House’s kitchen, couldn’t read at all, and the others struggled to read beyond the first form.
But Celeste suspected that Bart Collins, the newest resident, was a man of education. Far younger than the
London 1892
December Thursday afternoon
“You’ve entered the children in what?” Celeste Stillwell stared at the elderly headmaster of Saint Alban’s School in open-mouthed amazement.
“I’ve entered them in the Children’s Choral Competition.” Samuel Dobbins wiggled his bushy white eyebrows at her. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea, Miss Stillwell?”
“But sir, we don’t have a choir,” Celeste said faintly, hoping she wouldn’t fall from the hard-backed chair to the floor in the first faint of her life. “And the Children’s Choral Competition is one of the finest in London.”
“ How hard can it be?” the old man asked, pulling on his high collar. “Just have them sing a Christmas carol or two, and we’ll win. Easy enough.”
A Christmas carol or two . Celeste’s brain reeled at his words. Singing a “carol or two” at the CCC as it was known—and a triple threat if there ever was one—was like suggesting one address the Queen as “Vicki.”
And expecting to win the one hundred pound prize the competition offered was just as daft.
“I know you must have studied music before you started teaching here,” Headmaster Dobbins continued. “All young ladies of gentle birth study music. Just pick the children you think can quickly learn whatever songs you choose and set a practice time. I’ll be sure the building is at your disposal.”
Recalling her lackluster efforts at the keyboard while growing up, Celeste tried again. “My piano playing is not that good, Headmaster.”
“But I’ve heard you sing in chapel so you know music,” Dobbins said blithely. “You can conduct and let one of the other teachers to accompany you. Or perhaps the new teacher we’ve hired plays. Seems a pleasant chap, bachelor from somewhere up north. Can’t recall his name right now. He starts on Monday, so you can ask him them. You may start your auditions on Monday after chapel.”
The conversation was obviously over, because Dobbins stood and headed for the corner to take his hat and coat off the rack. “After all, it’s only a carol or two. Don’t worry, Miss Stillwell . Christmas is not quite a month away so you have plenty of time. Good day to you.”
There was nothing to do but follow him from his office. Returning to her empty classroom, Celeste sat at her desk and drummed her fingers on the top. The children were long gone but she could almost hear their young voices as they recited their lessons. She would not have traded her four years at this school. Teaching and working part-time in her friend Holly Chamberlain’s letter writing business provided her with enough income to meet her needs.
But to enter the Children’s Choral Competition! Celeste doubted seriously that any of the other teachers would agree to help when they heard of Headmaster’s mad scheme, or that any of Saint Alban’s student body sang choral style music, much less read it.
And with Christmas less than a month away, where in London— with hundreds of programs being prepared— was she going to find an accompanist to help her create a children’s choir? She offered up a hasty prayer that the new teacher did indeed play the piano.
After donning her coat and hat, she left the school and boarded an omnibus for the next neighborhood and Hope House, where she helped the residents improve their reading and writing.
They were an odd bunch, these retired old soldiers who pooled their pensions to rent and share a house. Jasper Collins, Timothy Blunt, Toby Noble and Duncan Kincaid had all served in Afghanistan twenty years ago. After meeting again at a soldiers’ Social Club, and being life long bachelors, decided to set up housekeeping together. Duncan, a retired Army cook, who was in charge of Hope House’s kitchen, couldn’t read at all, and the others struggled to read beyond the first form.
But Celeste suspected that Bart Collins, the newest resident, was a man of education. Far younger than the
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