Silent Night (5 page)

The Ninth Chapter

So stick up Ivie and the Bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.

“The True Christmas” Henry Vaughan

A
fter we had caught Portia up with the recent developments, we five sat up until the fire fell to ash. Still Father did not emerge from his study, and there were no noises from within. Eventually we made our way up to bed with no forthcoming announcement, wishing each other a happy Christmas as we went. Much later, when Brisbane had exhausted himself admirably in his marital attentions, I lay wakeful in the silent, snowy night.

“Brisbane?” I whispered into the darkness. I do not know why I whispered. We had proven quite thoroughly that our room was thoroughly incapable of communicating noise to the rest of the household.

He made no answer and I poked him firmly.

“For God’s sake, Julia, give me another hour at least. I am only human.”

“Where is the betrothal ring?”

“Hmm?”

I poked him again. “Where is the betrothal ring? It disappeared from Father’s desk. What became of it? I think Aunt Hermia is worried it might have been Rose. I believe Mary when she said she did not take it.”

He shrugged one heavy shoulder. “We can make a search for it tomorrow. I shall make enquiries in London as well. Whoever has it will want to dispose of it quickly enough. Monk can ask at the usual places and perhaps it will turn up.”

“It is Christmas Day tomorrow,” I observed. “We always play games. You and I can make a search for the ring and Aunt Hermia’s little jewel while we pretend to play sardines. Now, we shall need a plan—”

Brisbane rolled over swiftly, stopping my mouth with his own. I pulled my head back and gave him an appreciative look. “I thought you said an hour.”

* * *

The next morning dawned like something from a Christmas wish. The snow had stopped, piling itself gently in drifts about the Abbey, christening everything in newborn white. William IV arrived with a tray and threw back the curtains to let in the brilliance of the morning. Brisbane and I fortified ourselves with tea and toast and plans before bathing and dressing for the day. First breakfast, then church in the village where Brisbane held a few quiet conversations with local folk, betraying nothing of what was said except a single brisk nod to me as we slid into our box. Confirmation, then, of what we had theorised in bed. I gave a deep sigh of thankfulness and turned my face up to Uncle Fly, the vicar of Blessingstoke, restored to robust enough health to deliver the Christmas homily but not so much that it lasted above quarter of an hour. The vegetarian curate led the singing, and over it all, Jane the Younger kept up a dull roar of protest at being forced to wear a bonnet bedecked with silken holly leaves.

We returned to the Abbey, those of us come from London, the residents of the Abbey, and those who lived at the Home Farm. It was a modest Christmas by March standards, but a happy one. Father was jolly as I had seldom seen him, jesting loudly with Hortense at his side—as honoured guest and no more, for no announcement had been made, but clearly some understanding had been reached. After luncheon, presents were opened, and the children ran wild, trailing ribbons and wrappings after them as they capered about the Abbey. Then they withdrew, claiming they had a Christmas surprise for us all and informing us strictly that we must not enter the dining room until they were ready.

Father waved them off merrily and the staff entered for the presentation of their gifts. Hampers of food and coal had been sent to all the cottages in the village, but these gifts were chosen particularly for the servants who lived in. They filed by in order of rank, Hoots thrusting himself firmly ahead of Aquinas in a Bath chair so old it might have carried the Regent himself. Father and Aunt Hermia handed the gifts to the staff, but when Rose came forward, I gave her the parcel bearing her name.

“Happy Christmas, Rose.”

She opened the box, staring into it for a long minute. She put out a tentative hand, then all pretence of hauteur was gone. She was a child again, fairly dancing as she tore away the last of the glittery tinsel I had affixed to the parcel. Inside was a hat, the grandest, gaudiest hat I could find, festooned with enormous velvet roses of luscious pink. She put it on and twirled.

“It is lovely on you, Rose. I hope you will wear it on your next day out.”

“I will, my lady, and all the village will be agog, they will.”

“So you mean to stay in Blessingstoke?”

She flicked a quick glance to where William IV, stood in his livery, his powdered wig striking a rather elegant note. “I think there’s something to be said for the local scenery, my lady. Although you are mighty kind to offer me a place and I don’t forget it.”

She bobbed a curtsey and withdrew, no doubt to find a looking glass with which to admire herself. The footmen had opened their presents and were preparing to quit the room when I motioned for William IV to come near.

“My lady?”

I handed him a small box. “This is not for you, William. It is for Rose.”

He opened it and lifted out a plain, slender gold ring. “I do not understand, my lady.”

Nin appeared then, rubbing thoughtfully against my ankles as I talked to William. “You cannot marry the girl without a ring. I know she is with child, and furthermore, I know you have been playing at being a ghost in order to visit her chamber at night.” I had initially suspected that a small woman might have found it difficult to master pattens, but later it occurred to me a man would find it equally challenging to walk gracefully in them. As part of his enquiries at church, Brisbane had questioned the maid who witnessed the apparition. She claimed the spectre was frightfully tall, something quite over eight feet, but allowing for exaggeration her description confirmed my suspicions. I smothered a smile at the notion of poor, besotted William cloaking himself in phantom draperies to visit his ladylove. “My husband has made enquiries in the village and has learned you come from a family of farmers. As it happens, Lady Hermia says Wee Ned is ready to leave work, and Whittle will need someone with a strong back to replace him. Wee Ned is above seventy, you know, and his rheumatism is playing up. He means to go and live at the seaside with his sister which means his cottage will be empty. None of the other gardeners have need of it, so it is yours if you want the position.”

“A cottage?”

“Not a large one, but big enough to keep a wife and child. You will not be rich, but I think you could be happy.”

His mouth worked, but no sound came out for a long moment. “My lady, I do not know how to repay you—” He broke off. Nin stared up at him adoringly then gave a pretty little yowl.

I was not so kind “Well, to begin, you can tell me what you did with the rings,” I said softly.

His brows flew up. “What rings?”

“The two rings that have gone missing from the Abbey. One was a sentimental coral piece of Lady Hermia’s, but the other was an emerald belonging to his lordship and quite valuable. If you give them to me, I will return them and nothing further need be said. I know you have been in difficulties because of the situation with Rose, but so long as the property is restored, there is no reason what you have done cannot be overlooked as a youthful peccadillo.”

“But I have stolen nothing!” His face had gone so white his freckles stood out starkly against the pale skin.

I stared at him. “But if you did not take them, who did?”

Just then, Nin pounced upon a piece of tinsel, clamping it firmly in her jaws. She trotted off, her tail waving sinuously. And I knew.

“Hell and damnation,” I muttered.

William flushed the colour of holly berries.

“My apologies, William. A lady should not swear, but I am provoked.”

“I heard nothing,” he said loyally.

I smiled. “Come with me.”

We followed Nin to the little alcove tucked behind the fireplace. As we watched, Nin slid between the stones, bearing her tinsel away in triumph. I looked to William.

“We must retrieve what she has lodged there,” I instructed. To his credit, William did not flinch. He contorted himself in exceedingly painful ways, but he had fished out all of her trophies while she paced and protested. It made for an interesting collection. There was Father’s emerald and Aunt Hermia’s coral ring, a pile of tinsel, a pocketwatch, a pen, and Jane the Younger’s teething ring.

“How on earth did she manage that?” Aunt Hermia demanded. We had gathered a crowd as we worked, and as everyone was well-lubricated with wassail, it was viewed with much hilarity. Eventually a protesting Nin was put into a basket and carried out, and the trophies were distributed to their rightful owners. Rose sat very close to William IV, and Hoots was issuing orders from his Bath chair while Aquinas went about the actual business of running the Abbey. Aunt Hermia, relieved Rose was not the culprit as she had feared, drank off two cups of wassail in quick succession, while Plum made eyes at our brother Benedick’s sister-in-law, a prissy young lady from Ireland whose accents grated upon the nerves but who at least kept him amused. I managed to pull Hortense away for a brief chat under the guise of admiring the decorations.

“Well? Are you to be my stepmama?” I asked.

She gave me her gentle, beautiful smile. “I am afraid I must refuse.”

“Refuse? On what grounds? Is it because of Brisbane?”

“No. Nicky is like a son to me, and nothing more. You know this better than anyone, although your father has not been so easy to persuade. Hector spoke with Nicky before he proposed to me, and he believed your husband’s assurances that we are fond of each other, but nothing more. Of course, then I turned down his proposal of marriage, and he immediately thinks, La! She loves the boy and they have both lied to me.”

I smiled at the notion that anyone would refer to Brisbane as a boy. “I do understand your attachment to each other, and I know it for what it is, Fleur. But if you truly only love Brisbane like a son, why did you turn Father down?”

She gave one of her graceful Gallic shrugs. “I must refuse because I do not wish to be the Countess March. I am not the sort of woman who would like to spend her time in the country. Can you see me, hiring servants and opening village fêtes? Next you will have me bottling fruit and spinning wool! No, I am a creature of the city, and in the city I will stay.”

“But why does Father look so happy if you have refused him?”

She flapped a hand. “Because he did not really want to marry, either! Your father is a man of habits. Bellmont is his perfect estate where he can play at being king in his castle. He does not wish for me to disarrange things. But when he first proposed marriage to me, he believed my refusal was absolute, that I did not wish to see him again. Before we could come to an understanding, you and Plum were injured and his children must always be his first priority.”

“I am sorry for that, Fleur.”

“I am not. It makes him the man I love.”

“You love him? Truly?”

“And he loves me. But we do not need to be married to be in love. No, that is an old-fashioned way of thinking, and I am a very modern lady, no?”

“Where does that leave you?”

She gave a Gallic half-shrug. “In the shocking position of being official mistress of the Earl March.”

“Oh, heavens,” I murmured.

Her eyes were shining. “It is a very long time since I created a scandal. I am quite looking forward to it.”

The Tenth Chapter

Silent night! Shadowy night!
Purple dome, starry light!
Pouring splendour of centuries down,
Gold and purple, a glorious crown,
Where the manger so rude and wild
Cradles a sleeping child.

“Silent Night”
pub.1881, Scribner’s Monthly

S
ome time later, the children beckoned us to the dining room. They were dressed in an assortment of nightdresses and robes, some with turbans wound around their heads, others with fantastical eastern draperies forming their costumes.

“What are you meant to be?” I asked my nephew Tarquin. His brown woolen robe was stuffed unevenly with humps.

Behind his spectacles, he rolled his clever eyes. “I am a camel, Aunt Julia. A
Bactrian
camel. They are Asian ungulates, you know. We had to make one because we couldn’t find one in the village.”

“I should think not.”

“It is quite alright,” he informed me. “We found almost everything else.”

The boy did not exaggerate. The noise from the dining room was deafening, and the smell when the doors were thrown open was thoroughly foul.

“Good God,” Father demanded. “What have you children done?”

“We are presenting the story of the Nativity in tableau with animals,” said Tarquin’s sister Perdita. She was dressed as one of the kings with a long beard of blue wool liberated from her mother’s knitting basket. Father roared with laughter at the sight, and I clasped Brisbane’s hand in mine.

We were escorted inside and told to find seats, but most of the cast had overturned them, for in addition to the costumed camel, there was a cow I had sent down to the Rookery from London. The peacock I had brought from India along with his pale wife—Feuilly and Madame Feuilly—stood in lofty disdain as they surveyed the chaos. Several piglets, doubtless siblings of our Christmas feast, ran under the furniture and squealed in terror while one of my nieces, sporting fake whiskers as the innkeeper, fed them plum puddings. The dogs were there as well—Crab the mastiff and Brisbane’s lurcher Rook were guided by the shepherds while Mr. Pugglesworth and Florence sat in the manger on top of the doll meant to be the infant Jesus. Chickens clucked and shrieked as the cats, Peter Simple and Christopher Sly, stalked them behind the manger, and somehow Nin had liberated herself from her basket and joined the cast, imperious as an empress on a cushion carried by one of the kings who had lost his frankincense. Over it all, Grim perched on a bust of Shakespeare, quorking his delight.

“It is madness,” Brisbane said, and he laughed until tears gathered in his eyes.

“It may be madness, but it is an entirely March Christmas,” I told him. “And do not forget, this is only half the family. The rest will be here for Twelfth Night.”

But that is a tale for another time.

* * * * *

Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail took
And God bless you, and send you
A happy new year.

“Here We Come A-Wassailing”
Traditional English Carol