by Edith Layton
Maude went down the stairs to hear that more company had arrived. Their voices announced them better than the butler could. It was the rest of her family. She sighed.
Cousin George and his wife were already in the salon, asking the children the questions they always did, and nodding as they didn’t listen to their answers. Their own two sons sat in a corner of the room, ignoring their younger cousins with as much boredom as they did each other. Both obviously thought themselves too good for the family they were in. They were dressed with care in cutaway coats and embroidered waistcoats with double rows of buttons, outsized winged collars, and high cravats. One studied the ceiling, and the other an unread book held in a languid hand. But since they were both plump and heavy featured and resembled their parents as closely as piglets did their littermates, their attempt at bored sophistication looked like little more than acute indigestion.
Her parents nodded with pleasure as they listened to George explaining something to the children. Maude heaved another sigh. George was always explaining something to someone. The fact that he was usually right didn’t make it any better. Not for the first time, she wondered why the idea of having the family all together at Christmas was always so much better than the reality of it. She loved them all, and not having them with her at this joyous season would have pained her. But it was always a shock to discover how much having them always did pain her.
Maude told herself it was a very small family, after all. She stepped forward to greet them. And then froze in the doorway as she heard a trill of unfamiliar laughter. It stopped her in her tracks, and she tilted her head the way that a rabbit does when it hears the high, keening cry of a hunting hawk overhead. Because it was delicious laughter—light, giddy, artificial, flirtatious laughter. A quick glance showed her Miles standing in deep conversation with a woman. An unknown woman. His wide shoulders blocked her face, but Maude could see the bell of a golden gown in front of his long, black-trousered legs.
She wasn’t a jealous woman. Even though she knew she wasn’t worthy of Miles, she didn’t begrudge other women eyeing him or seeking him out on all sorts of ruses at village picnics and parties. She might as well resent people gaping at her house or gardens. He was simply worthy of attention. He’d never given her real cause to worry about his faithfulness—he couldn’t help it if it was her nature to worry about why he stayed constant to her.
But something elemental in her nature stirred now. Maybe it was the way Miles stood as he spoke with the unseen guest, his head to the side—as her own was as she listened to a new burst of that trilling laughter. He was enchanted. Or fascinated. She could see it in his stance. And in the way his head was inclined, politely, but also as though to catch every note of that silvery laughter. She looked upward at the swags of evergreen over the heads of the couple, and was suddenly delighted to remember that with all the fuss of getting the house ready she had forgotten to get the mistletoe.
She also remembered that she was wearing her new gown. And that the light of the winter evening subdued the color of her hair until one could almost think it was brown or black—not the despised, unfashionable red she was afflicted with. She looked as well as she ever had—or could, she thought. And so she took in a deep breath and walked into the room prepared for anything—except for not being noticed at all.
Cousin George was expounding about why steam engines would never replace the horse, and his wife stood at his side, bored and inattentive as ever. But since Simon and his friend were obviously bursting with impatience for a chance to refute him, none of them saw Maude come in. Or cared, if they did, she thought as she walked past them. Her parents had gotten Philip to themselves, and were being entertained by him. Not a hard task, Maude thought, since all Philip had to do was to breathe in and out to accomplish that. They didn’t so much as look up as she passed by.
And Miles was talking with the most beautiful woman Maude had ever seen—aside from those shown on the top of chocolate boxes. She had golden hair and larkspur-blue eyes, alabaster skin and a gown that showed as much of it as was descent. She had a deep bosom and an even tinier waist than Maude did, even laced up as she was. But she was much taller, Maude thought with incredulous envy, and every statuesque inch of her was willowy and graceful in spite of her sumptuous bosom. She belonged in miniature, on the top of the newly cut Christmas tree, or gracing the label on an expensive soap. She was merely magnificent, Maude decided. And obviously fascinating Miles, because Maude was certain he’d never have noticed her as she came and stood by his elbow if those celestial eyes hadn’t turned to look at her, causing him to turn to see what she saw.
“Oh, there you are. Cressida, let me introduce you to my wife. My dear, this is Cressida Lampert. Cressida, my wife, Lady Maude.”
Maude inclined her head, but the beautiful Cressida curtsied. It was so gracefully done Maude wondered if she were a dancer.
“My dear Lady Maude,” Cressida said in a beautifully modulated voice, with undertones of amusement, “how very good to meet you at last. I’ve always wondered what the fortunate lady Miles decided upon looked like. Now I know. You see, I’ve envied you half my life, my dear,” she said with a gurgle of irresistible, throaty laughter.
Maude could only stand there, shocked. And jealous. Because she could never say such a thing, even if she’d ever thought it. Only such a woman could. And because there was absolutely nothing clever she could think to say in answer. She could only stand there with a stupid grin and say, “Oh. Oh, really?” before she could think to ask, “Have—have you known each other very long?”
“A long while ago,” Miles said, just as Cressida said sadly, “Yes, Long—and well.”
Miles grew still.
“Oh, you’ve never told her!” Cressida exclaimed as she saw Maude staring up at Miles in confusion. “Oh, dear, that makes it even more… We were engaged to be wed, once upon a time,” she told Maude.
“Before I went to war,” Miles said.
“And after,” Cressida put in quickly, and Miles frowned.
“Not long after,” he said, and Cressida looked at him in hurt surprise.
Maude began to feel that neither of them knew she was in the room anymore, and curiously like she was a little girl listening to adults talking about something she oughtn’t know.
“Oh, I see,” she stammered, though she didn’t, and suddenly didn’t want to anymore.
“My brother, that rogue over there in the corner,” Cressida said, tilting one shapely shoulder toward a niche near the fireplace where two men Maude hadn’t noticed were sitting, deep in conversation, “was a companion-in-arms with Miles. They were in the same unit and then fought in the Peninsula together. We were leaving a friend’s house in Torquay, on our way to London for Christmas. But one of the horses threw a shoe and while we were having it seen to in that charming little village of yours, Charles remembered Miles lived nearby. He had the notion of dropping in to pay a call. Just for a Christmas greeting. And yet this rogue,” she said, smiling up at Miles, “insisted we stay to dinner. I hope it’s no inconvenience?”
No more than the moon loosing from its moorings in the sky and crashing down into the dining room, Maude thought, but smiled and said, “Good heavens, no! It would be our pleasure.”
*
She was widowed. She was wealthy. And she’d never forgotten Miles. Cressida was merely magnificent, Maude thought, her head aching as dinner wore on.
Soup gave way to fish, which made room for shellfish and aspics, which in turn gave way to meat and fish patties and cutlets, and on to fowls, with only a token nod to the hostess…who didn’t know what she was eating, if she was eating, she was so busy thinking and watching.
Malign Fate had seated the marvelous Cressida at her host’s right hand, down the table from Maude. Because Maude would have seated her in the coal bin. But custom said a lady guest must sit next to her host. And that was on the opposite end of the table from her hostess. Maude was stranded at the foot of the table by
herself. Or as good as. She’d drawn Cressida’s brother on one side, and his friend, Sir Blaise, on the other. Charles had his sister’s coloring, but twice her weight, and Sir Blaise was thin, brown, bland and smiled a great deal. But even if she’d been seated with Apollo and Michelangelo’s David, both with the conversational skills of angels, she wouldn’t have been able to ignore the way Miles and Cressida were carrying on. Well, she had to admit, not so much carrying on as looking to her as if they wished they were.
But things became more interesting when Charles had his sixth glass of wine. “Tolerable, very tolerable, eh Blaise?” he asked, after he’d swallowed it. “Trust Miles to have a nose. And eyes,” he said, inclining his bulky body forward as he tried to sketch a bow to Maude as he sat. “Women and wine, the fellow’s a connoisseur. Absolutely. Always was. He had a way with both, didn’t he though?”
“He did, indeed,” Sir Blaise agreed.
“Could have used a nose like that in the family, eh?” Charles said on a gusty, wine-laden sigh. “Richard would drink cat pi—Oh, pardon, my lady. Wine got my tongue, don’t you know. But the truth is, my late brother-in-law didn’t know distilling from ditch water. Scotch whiskey or French wine, it was all the same to him. Drink it down, and wait for it to smack him silly, that was all he knew.” he said, then sighed with pleasure at his refilled glass and drank it down again.
“Women, too,” Sir Blaise said. “Miles had an eye. Don’t know how Richard got Cressie a’tall. Lucky fellow.
“Got her when she broke with Miles, don’t you know,” Charles said sadly. “A love match gone wrong, and before he could change his mind, she upped and took Richard. Married him in a fit of pique. Acted in haste, repented at leisure. Hot and hasty. She knows better now. Just look at her now,” he said, with the outsized sadness that can be achieved only after seven glasses of wine.
They did.
“Well, then! Lovely, Christmas coming and all,” Sir Blaise said, suddenly remembering who they were talking with when he saw Maude’s face as she watched Miles and the beautiful Cressida.
But he had never told her! Not a word. She knew about his war experiences. He’d told her those during those first long afternoons, when she’d finally gotten him to talk as she’d paced by his side, trying to get his mind off the pain of trying to walk again. She knew about his experiences with women in London from rumor. But not that he’d been engaged to marry! And to such a paragon.
Cressida held court from her end of the table. She was a wonderful storyteller. She even had Cousin George sitting with his mouth closed, and his two greedy sons stopped feeding long enough to listen with their mouths open. She spoke about her travels in Spain. She had a way of talking about the terrible war with Napoleon as though it had only been a diversion. She could talk about herself and her brother and Miles in the days when they were all young and free in ways that made Maude wish she had been there. Until she realized she’d have been nothing to them then. And maybe still was not. Miles sat listening, too, laughing in the right places, but his grave gray eyes were troubled as he watched Cressida.
The fowl came and its bones went; the roast arrived, was dealt with, and left the table in shambles. Then the desserts were paraded in. They were a disappointment only because the house had been filled with the scents of gingerbread and mince, cinnamon and spicy plums and puddings all day. But those treats were waiting in the wings for Christmas.
So, evidently, was the magnificent Cressida. Because when the ladies left the men to their port, Cressida found her way to her hostess.
“We only meant to stop an hour,” she said, coming to sit beside Maude, the golden silk of her skirt making Maude’s wine-red gown look merely dark, “and here we’ve stayed to dinner. Now Miles has asked us to stay the night, because of the hour. I do hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Maude said. “Heavens, no! It’s the very thing.” She swallowed hard and smiled as though delighted.
“He mentioned our staying over Christmas, but we’ve so many obligations in London,” Cressida said. “Still…we shall see,” she said gaily.
Maude knew she ought to second Miles’ invitation, for courtesy’s sake. She knew she should find a way to ask about that long-vanished engagement, too. Instead, she asked about London as though it were her life’s ambition to live there one day.
When the men joined them, they grouped around the piano. They sang carols. At least some did. Cressida’s brother and his friend snored bass accompaniment from the depths of their chairs near the fire, in concert with Maude’s father. Her mother went to bed early, and Cousin George’s two sons sat gobbling sweetmeats and trying to look pained.
Maude wasn’t surprised to hear Cressida had a clear, lilting soprano and could sing harmony to any tune. So could Maude, but unintentionally. She never sang, because she loved music and knew she couldn’t carry a true tune. So she sat and watched and listened, as always. But not quite as always.
She watched Miles, and couldn’t fault him. He was a perfect host. If he smiled at Cressida at all, she couldn’t say it was any more tender than his smile at Simon or his old friend Charles, for that matter. If his gaze met Cressida’s with approval it was only in the secret, silent language of singers. Maude had often seen and envied the way singers acknowledged each other that way, as if to say, “Isn’t this fun? See how we two make this one thing better together?” In truth, only their voices met, touched, toyed, moved with each other, and found joy together. Maude saw that, and knew the fear that gripped her was folly and foolishness. But it was no less keen for that.
Watching Simon was better. She’d missed him badly, not because she doted on him more than the others, but because when he’d left she’d felt his absence like a piece missing out of the puzzle of her life. There’d been no more children after Zoe, though she wouldn’t have minded. Simon’s leaving had made her realize one day they’d all be gone. Then it would be just herself and Miles again. She wondered if that would be enough for him now. After all, she no longer had youth to recommend her, or the promise of a new family in her.
Miles smiled at her, and often, too. He knew she loved his voice. So he sang on. But he sang with Cressida. And Cressida sparkled in the gaslight like the frost on the outside of the windows of the warm room.
When it was time for the boys to go to bed, Maude excused herself from the room, saying she had to see Zoe…and not saying she didn’t want to keep seeing Miles and Cressida. She managed to intercept Simon on the stair as he was dashing up to bed.
“I forgot the mistletoe,” she said breathlessly. Simon paused and looked at his friend. “Yes, I saw,” he said.
“I didn’t forget it at first,” she explained. “Children had stripped the lower branches. I couldn’t reach the higher ones and was going to come back with a step stool, but then I forgot.”
“The local people believe mistletoe from our wood is best,” Simon told his friend. “Because there’s a holy well there. The vicar says it was in a Druid’s grove once.”
“Oh, keen!” his friend said.
“My mother’s superstitious,” Simon explained, with a slight blush.
“I’m not,” Maude said. “It’s tradition. I’d hate to have Christmas without it. Will you come with me in the morning and harvest some? You don’t have to,” she said, grinning. “You can always dare to be the first in the family to have Christmas without mistletoe from the grove.”
He looked at the other boy again, and she grew impatient. Couldn’t he do anything without looking for his friend’s reaction?
“Well…certainly,” he said, finally.
She held out her arms so she could gather him in and kiss him goodnight. But he grew tense at her first touch. She hesitated. It would be absurd to shake his hand. She settled for kissing his forehead, and then watched him race upstairs with his friend. She was almost bowled over by Philip as he tore after them, eager to be invited to his brother’s room so he could chat with the older fellows. She stopped him for a quic
k hug and a kiss, thought about insisting he go to bed at the proper time, and then sighed. She remembered how brief the holiday was, how brief boyhood itself was. She walked up the stairs very slowly.
Zoe was sleeping. Daisy, the nursery maid, whispered, “Cool as a cucumber, my lady. She’ll be right as rain in the morning, just you see.”
“Then off you go to bed,” Maude said. “I’ll stay with her awhile.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Daisy said in shock. “I’ll stay the night, to be sure.”
Daisy was as much part of the family as the house itself. She felt an outsized obligation to the family. Dismissing her for the night would hurt as much as dismissing her from service. Her mother, Lucy, had been a downstairs maid with a problem—in the shape of an unborn Daisy. Maude hadn’t considered it such. Keeping a good housemaid on in spite of her having a child out of wedlock hadn’t been a burden. Others might not have agreed, but Maude made her own rules and judged people by them. She’d judged right. Daisy’s father had eventually shown up. He’d made an excellent stable man, after he became a husband as well as father. Although Daisy was young, she was wonderful with Zoe.
Maude looked wistfully at Zoe. She wished she could have some hours alone now, watching her youngest child sleep; there was warm peace in that that she needed tonight. But even that sanctuary was breached.
“How’s our girl?” a voice from the door demanded. The squire’s whisper was like the whisper of a storm through the pines.
“Shh!” her mother hissed, louder than the question she was shushing.
“Mama?” Zoe murmured, swimming up from sleep.
“See, there? Now you’ve waked the child,” Maude’s mother said triumphantly. “Now, now, Zoe, my love. You’ll be alright.”
