"Papa," Chloe asked rather anxiously, "was all well at the vicarage?"
Sir Phineas's brow was knit in abstraction, and Chloe had to repeat the question before she gained his attention.
"What? Oh yes, quite well. In fact, I invited Mr. Henry to come dine with us this evening, help drag the Yule log in."
"Did you, Papa? How splendid," Chloe said.
The vicar of St. Andrew's Church was a pleasant young man, shy and a little too solemn, perhaps, but very earnest, eager to please. He was new to their parish and having a difficult time of it, as the previous incumbent, poor Mr. Bledsoe, held the living for some sixty-odd years. Squire Daniels was heard to remark loudly every Sunday that he was having difficulty becoming accustomed to being preached at by some cub not even old enough to shave.
Chloe had indignantly told him that she was perfectly sure Mr. Henry did shave, perhaps as much as thrice a day, but that had only made the old squire roar with laughter. With Mr. Henry having a hard time gaining acceptance hereabouts, Chloe was pleased that Papa had been kind enough to think of the young man on Christmas Eve.
Lucy received the news of Mr. Henry's inclusion in their party with indifference, and Agnes merely turned another page of her book. Chloe thought Emma would be as pleased as she, but her older sister had fallen unusually silent.
Chloe could not refrain from remarking triumphantly to Lucy, "There! Did I not tell you when I was hanging the mistletoe that we might have another visitor besides the squire. Someone young and handsome."
"Young, perhaps," Lucy said with a lift of her brow. "But certainly not handsome. Mr. Henry's chin is too pointed."
"And he is thin as a broomstick," Agnes murmured from behind her book.
Emma shot to her feet. "I do not see anything wrong with Mr. Henry's chin, and he might not be so thin if—if he had someone to properly look after him."
Chloe and the others only stared at her. It was rare to hear Emma speak so sharply. Looking considerably flustered, she excused herself, declaring matters in the kitchen warranted her attention, and bolted from the room.
"Well! Whatever got into her?" Lucy asked.
"Probably worried that there won't be enough pudding to go around," was Agnes's conjecture.
Emma might have been disconcerted at the prospect of providing for an extra guest, but Chloe did not think so. She had never seen her serene elder sister behave so oddly, nor Papa either. His air of melancholy only seemed to increase after Emma's withdrawal. But when he caught Chloe staring at him, he was quick to smile and shake off the mood.
He paced about the chamber, loudly admiring Chloe's decorations, saying all that she would have wished to hear His voice was filled with enough enthusiasm to have fooled anyone else. But although Chloe was tone-deaf as far as music was concerned, she was pitch-perfect regarding voices. And in her father's voice she detected an undercurrent of something that filled her with unease.
After he had inhaled deeply of the evergreen swags adorning the windows, Sir Phineas paused in front of the picture at the far end of the room.
Chloe had woven a wreath of bright green sprigs about the oval frame of her mother's portrait.
"Bless me, child," Sir Phineas said softly. "You even remembered the rosemary."
"Aye, Papa." Chloe joined him, linking her arm through his. "Rosemary for remembrance."
He said nothing but merely squeezed her hand, and for a moment the two of them stood in silence, regarding the image of Maria Waverly captured by the artist's velvet brush strokes. Mama could not have been much older than Emma now was when the sitting had been done. Clad in one of those quaint, old-fashioned gowns with the full skirts, her honey brown hair spilled over her shoulders in sausage curls, her blue eyes seemed misty, and her lips tipped in a shy smile full of secret dreams.
Chloe had always loved the portrait and regretted that her mother had never sat for another that would have been more recent. Mama had died when Chloe had been but nine. Although the precise image of her mother had grown dim with the passing of time, memories remained of warmth and gentleness, gentle hands, gentle voice, gentle smile.
Chloe sensed that even after seven years, Papa yet mourned Mama's passing. Never in words, but in the way he sometimes gazed at the portrait, his eyes lit with tenderness, his smile melancholy.
But when Chloe gazed up at her father, she was disconcerted to see that he was not looking at the portrait but at her, and the expression on his face was one of a deeper sadness than she had ever seen before.
"Papa," she whispered. "What is it? What is wrong?"
She thought he might have answered her but for the presence of her two sisters at the other end of the room. As it was, he merely shook his head.
"Nothing, my dear. You know what a sentimental old fool I become on Christmas Eve. It seems to be a time when memories come flooding back, often more than the heart can hold."
With that, he turned away from her, assuming the mannerisms of his usual bluff self. Striding back toward the fire, he called out, "For shame, Agnes. Close up that book. No more musty Greeks on Christmas Eve. Lucy, my dear, open up that pianoforte and give us a song."
Chloe saw that all opportunities for confidences were at an end, especially as Mr. Henry arrived shortly thereafter. The young man had been dining at Windhaven so often of late, he seemed quite like an old friend of the family. Of course, Lucy could not resist threatening to trap the solemn clergyman under the mistletoe. He did blush so delightfully.
Emma was moved to protest as she rejoined them from the kitchens. Chloe noted that Emma had removed her apron and tidied her hair. "For shame, Lucy. You should not tease poor Mr. Henry so."
"I do not mind, Miss Waverly," Mr. Henry stammered. "The custom of a kissing bough is pagan, and I would never permit mistletoe in the church. But in one's home, I see no harm in it."
And Chloe fancied that Mr. Henry regarded her eldest sister rather hopefully, but Emma, her cheeks firing as red as his, was quick to look away.
Chloe could not say precisely that she failed to enjoy the evening that followed. They had a fine dinner, and the custom of bringing in the Yule log was ever dear to her heart. She loved gathering before the fire, watching the colors leap among the flames, telling stories of ghosts and legends of days long gone by. Lucy might lament that they could not celebrate the holidays as they did in the great manors with house parties and balls, but what Chloe treasured most was these quiet gatherings, her family drawn so close about her. For one night, at least, all of them were snug and secure against the world.
It would have been perfect but for her feeling that tonight somehow the world was managing to intrude. She knew not exactly how or in what form, only sensing its disturbing presence in that look of anxiety that kept creeping back into Papa's eyes.
Chloe was not sorry when the little party broke up early. Mr. Henry insisted he must get back to the vicarage to go over his sermon for the morrow, though Chloe did not doubt that he must have already rehearsed it a dozen times.
Long after she and her sisters had retired to their beds, Chloe lay awake, waiting for Agnes to cease her restless tossing. The room Chloe shared with her younger sister had once been the nursery, relict of the days when they had still had a governess. Windhaven had many bedchambers, but the house was so badly in need of repairs, not many of them were habitable.
When Chloe was certain she heard the sound of Agnes's soft snoring, she slipped out of bed, draping her robe over her nightgown. Tiptoeing through the door, she crept back downstairs.
Chloe had been doing this as long as she could remember, sneaking out of bed after her sisters were asleep. Sometimes Papa sent her back to the nursery. But more often she ended up tucked on his lap while he read to her.
After she had grown too old to sit upon his knee, she had formed the custom of curling up on the rug by his feet, leaning against him. Reading had often given way to talk about matters of great importance, why fairies could no longer be found in Norfolk, what i
t felt like to fall in love, why a man like Napoleon would want to conquer England anyway when he could have been so much more comfortable at home by his own fireside.
When she reached the parlor, Chloe peered inside. Papa was still up, as she had known he would be. Not reading as he often did, ensconced in the wing-back chair, but simply staring into the fire, looking frighteningly old. Chloe hesitated upon the threshold, fearing that perhaps this was one night she should leave Papa alone. Whatever sorrow, whatever worry oppressed him; it might be too great, too private for him to share, even with her. As she wavered, on the verge of retreating, he looked around as though sensing her presence.
"Chloe!" His voice sounded harsh, almost angry "You should be abed, child, getting your sleep."
"Yes, I am sorry, Papa. I did not mean to disturb you."
But when she started to back away, he cried, "No, no, you are not disturbing me. I only…" He raked his hand back through his graying hair with a weary sigh. "Come in, child. Come in and warm your feet by the fire. You have forgotten your slippers and will be chilled to the bone."
Chloe glanced down, for the first time noticing that her feet were bare and quite cold. Yet Papa could hardly scold. It was a failing of both of theirs, overlooking such trivialities as gloves and slippers.
Chloe approached and settled into a corner of the settee, tucking her feet beneath her nightgown. Papa managed to summon a smile for her, but she thought it was the saddest one she had ever seen.
"Perhaps it is just as well you have come down," he said. "I have a present for you. I meant to save it for the morrow, but now ..." He struggled forward, heaving himself to his feet.
Chloe saw that several wrapped parcels had been deposited on the parlor table. Papa fetched the smallest one for her. She accepted it with delight. Her fingers trembled with eagerness, yet she restrained herself, peeling the paper away slowly, savoring the suspense. The object tumbled free of its wrapping, falling into her lap. Chloe saw that it was a quaint wooden carving of a very venerable-looking old gentleman attired in long robes and a flowing beard.
"I have had that tucked away for a very long time," Papa said. "So long, I had nearly forgotten it. I picked it up during my travels with the diplomatic corps in Spain."
"Who is it supposed to be, Papa? A wizard like Merlin?"
"No, my dear, it is Saint Nicholas. The Spanish believe he is the patron saint of all young, unmarried ladies."
Chloe turned the statue over in her hands, admiring the delicate and intricate carving from all angles. She was most fascinated by the heavy-lidded eyes, which looked so solemn, so wise.
"Thank you so much, Papa," she said. "Now I shall have two guardians looking out for me, you and Saint Nicholas."
All traces of Papa's smile fled. His face resumed that expression that had haunted her all evening. He strode abruptly to stand by the fire, his back to her. Although a dozen fears and doubts crowded to Chloe's mind, she forced herself to remain silent, to wait patiently. At last, Papa faced her again, resting one hand heavily along the mantel, not noticing when he dislodged some of the holly clusters.
"Chloe, there is something I must tell you. I wish it did not have to be this soon. I had wanted Christmas to be over, our revels unspoiled before I—" He broke off unhappily.
"What is it, Papa?" Chloe asked, fighting a sensation of rising alarm.
"When I was gone so long this afternoon, I did not spend all of my time at the vicarage. During part of it, I was preparing for a journey."
Her heart sank. She could not remember Papa ever being gone, not even overnight.
"What sort of journey?"
"First to London and then ..." Sir Phineas trailed off, looking completely dispirited, but he straightened, making an effort to rally. "Actually, it is a cause for congratulations, my dear I have managed to obtain a post again, in the diplomatic corps. What do you think of that?"
Chloe did not know what to think. She could only regard her father blankly, feeling as though her entire orderly world were suddenly being turned upside down. Of course, she had always been aware that as a young man, Papa had once had a very promising career in government service. He had achieved fame for uncovering a nefarious plot against King George. Some dissenters dissatisfied with the conduct of the American War had plotted treason, to assassinate the king. Only owing to Papa's diligence had the scheme been uncovered. The king, in his gratitude, had made Papa a knight. But that had all been so long ago. Papa had retired from civil service when he had married Mama and inherited Windhaven from his uncle.
Sir Phineas fidgeted at Chloe's lengthy silence. "I know it is sad that we have to part, but are you not pleased for me?"
Chloe forced a brittle smile to her lips. "Oh, very. Congratulations, Papa. 'Tis only that it is all so sudden."
"Not as much for me. I fear I have been writing letters for some time now to Captain William Trent. I obtained this post through his influence. You remember my mentioning Captain Trent?"
"Of course, Papa." She was not likely ever to forget Captain Trent, although she had never met the man. Windhaven was an entailed estate. Since Sir Phineas had had no sons, Captain Trent, although a very distant relative, stood to inherit Windhaven. Chloe loved her home, creaky floorboards, drafty chimneys and all. It was difficult to think that someday it would be appropriated by a total stranger. Yet she did not dwell on that grim prospect now, being pressed by a more immediate source of distress. "I am sure it was very kind of Captain Trent to help you secure a post," she said. "But, Papa, you are a knight, a landowner. Surely you have too many duties here, are far too important a man to—"
"Ah, but it is a very important position, very grand. Only think, my dear. I am to be part of the foreign embassy in Portugal."
"Portugal!" Chloe felt herself wax pale. "Papa, there will be fighting on the Peninsula. Napoleon's army—"
"It is only Spain that has allied itself with France, my dear, Portugal is still quite safe, I assure you. I will be in no danger."
Chloe only shook her head. "Why, Papa? I don't understand why you want to do this thing."
"Well… er." He could not seem to meet her eyes. "You must realize that Windhaven has always been more of an encumbrance than anything else. When a man reaches my age, he must give some thought to his future."
"Is it your future you are thinking of, Papa, or ours?" Chloe demanded "Mine and Emma's, Lucy's and Agnes's."
Sir Phineas flung out his hands in a helpless gesture. "Hang it all, my dear, what is so wrong with that? When a man has four daughters of marriageable age and no dowries, it is high time that he did think of their futures. A girl needs a respectable portion if she is to marry well. Indeed, marry at all."
"I don't, Papa," Chloe said desperately. "I don't need a dowry or a husband. Marriage is not the only prospect. I could become a governess. I have always been fond of children. That would make one less for you to worry about and ..."
She faltered, seeing that her argument was only causing her father to shudder, look more determined. Tears came then, falling unbidden down her cheeks. Although her father pulled forth his pocket handkerchief to check their flow, Chloe saw that there was no hope of her dissuading him from his course.
"But you could be gone so long, Papa. From all of us, from Windhaven," she whispered brokenly. "For months, perhaps years."
"Oh, tush, child. It will never be that long. I am sure we will have soon thrashed that rascal Napoleon, making it safe to travel on the continent again. I will bring you and your sisters over. What a grand time we will have. We might even go to Paris."
"Lucy would like that." Chloe sniffed.
Sir Phineas waxed eloquent with promises, wonderful visions. Although he did not quite reconcile Chloe to the imminent separation, he managed to coax a smile from her.
As he led her from the parlor, urging her to return to the warmth and comfort of her bed, he wrapped his arm about her shoulders, giving her a bracing squeeze. "After all, 'tis you I am counting upon t
o be the bravest, to look after your sisters in my absence."
Her? The sorriest shatterbrain in all the world? Chloe chuckled at such a ludicrous notion. "What about Emma? She is the eldest."
"So she is. I have no doubt she will see you all well fed and warmly clothed. And Lucy will be here to apprise you of the latest fashions, stay abreast of the neighborhood gossip. Agnes will be certain to keep all of your feet firmly planted on the ground, see that you remain practical. But you, my dear Chloe, will have the most important task of all."
"And what is that, Papa?"
He gave her chin a playful pinch. "You will be the Keeper of Dreams Make sure that no one gets too sensible to indulge in a little whimsy, to keep faith when there seems little reason to do so, to believe that even the impossible can often be very possible."
Chloe thought he was teasing her but only partly so. The light in his eyes was quite tender. In any case, with utmost solemnity she gave her promise to execute his commission.
"I will, Papa," she said.
He brushed a kiss lightly upon her brow. The hall clock chiming midnight seemed to set a seal upon her pledge.
" 'Tis Christmas Day, Papa," she said. She glanced toward the windows, where little could be glimpsed but swirling whiteness set against the ebony mantle of night. "Remember the legend you told me? The one about the animals?"
"Aye. During the first hour of Christmas Day, all the beasts are said to genuflect in honor of the Christ child."
"I should like to go out some Christmas after midnight, to see if it is really true."
"Ah, but remember the rest of the legend, my dear. Anyone who catches the animals thus is said to be doomed to perish within the year."
"Then I shall wait until I am an old woman and don't care about living anymore."
"I hope you never grow to be that wearied of life, my dear."
Sir Phineas stood watching as Chloe headed up the curve of the stairs, her honey brown hair shimmering in the candlelight. So many times had this scene been played out between them, him shooing the child back to bed long after she should have been asleep. Child? Nay, no longer. Had he been so fond and foolish not to see it happening? The inches adding slowly to her height, the womanly figure starting to blossom. He seemed to have glanced away but a moment and Chloe had grown up. All his daughters had.
Christmas Belles Page 2
