The Baker's Tale Read Online Free Page A

mind. The colours, the smiles, the good cheer.
    We passed a group of carolers, singing in a language that Ruby did not understand:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Adeste Fideles laeti triumphantes,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Venite, venite in Bethlehem.
    The voices were a beautiful orchestra to her.
    â€œChristmas brings back the pleasures of our childhood,” Marie said as she took my arm.
    Mr. Joy lived in a large brick house in a fashionable part of London. A servant met us at the door and retreated to announcethe arrival of Miss Ruby Spriggs. That was unnecessary, since Ruby had followed him inside and rushed to embrace Mr. Joy before the announcement.
    â€œThank you for coming,” he told us. “Christmas is far more merry when viewed through the eyes of a child.”
    Everything in the house was beautifully kept. Holly and mistletoe were much in evidence. Mr. Joy led us into the parlour and introduced us to his other guests.
    A large evergreen tree laden with ornaments rose to the ceiling. Rosy-cheeked dolls hid behind clusters of green needles. Jolly-faced little men perched among the boughs. Fiddles and drums dangled from branches. There was a star at the top.
    Ruby stared in wonder.
    Then it was time for gifts. I had asked for the honour of bringing rolls and pastries to accompany dinner. Ruby gave our host a portrait she had drawn, which Mr. Joy promptly declared was the finest likeness of himself that he had ever seen. Marie had knitted a scarf for him in Christmas colours. Christopher had fashioned a window box in which Mr. Joy’s gardener could plant flowers in the spring.
    Following that, it was Mr. Joy’s turn to give. A music box for Marie. New coats for Christopher and myself. And for Ruby . . . A doll’s house with an open front and three distinct rooms. A parlour, a bedroom, and kitchen. Each room had miniature furniture crafted from wood. The kitchen came with an assortment of diminutive utensils and a set of tiny platters with delicacies glued tight on top.
    Ruby’s eyes opened wide and her lower jaw dropped in the manner of a toy nutcracker. There was a cry of joy and the never-to-be-forgotten image of a wildly happy child.
    Dinner was served. There were eighteen guests. Ruby was seated with Christopher and Marie on either side.
    Mr. Joy spoke a brief blessing about Christmas being a time to remember the less fortunate and expressed the hope that someday part of the Christmas spirit would live in all hearts for all of the year.
    During dinner, he engaged easily in conversation over a wide range of subjects from cheerful topics to more serious reflections. He adapted to whomever he was speaking with, whether that person was the wealthy banker seated to my left or Marie.
    Mr. Joy also proved to be an expert at carving. A roast goose is universally acknowledged to be the greatest stumbling block to perfection in that science. Many aspiring carvers who began successfully with legs of mutton and enhanced their reputation through fillets of veal, quarters of lamb, and even ducks have been defeated by a roast goose.
    To Mr. Joy, resolving a goose into its smallest component parts was a performing art. No handing the dish over to a servant, no hacking and sawing at an unruly joint. No noise, no splash. The legs of the bird slid gently down into a pool of gravy. The wings seemed to melt from the body. The breast separated into a row of juicy slices to reveal a cavern of stuffing.
    When the meal was done, Mr. Joy turned to Ruby with a twinkle in his eyes.
    â€œCome with me,” he said. “I would not be surprised if we found a gingerbread soldier in the drawing room. Let us go and look for him.”
    It seemed to Ruby as if the drawing room was all nooks and corners. And in each nook and corner, there was some little chair or cupboard or something or other that made her think therecould not