by Edith Layton
“She is all right,” Maude said, but she might as well have spoken to herself.
“How’s Grandmother’s best girl?” her mother cooed as she sat on the bed and a sleepy Zoe scrambled into her arms.
“She’s hot as a furnace!” Maude’s mother said in alarm.
“Flushed with sleep, Mum. She was cool as could be moments ago,” Daisy protested.
“Nonsense, feel her forehead!” Maude’s mother demanded.
“Hot,” the squire agreed.
“Cool!” Maude insisted.
Zoe’s eyes, beneath a forehead covered by so many hands, grew wide.
“Oh, dear! Have I come at the wrong time?” a sweet voice asked.
They all grew still and looked at the vision in the doorway to the nursery. The firelight’s shadows flirted with Cressida, outlining her golden curls, making her gown radiant. Zoe’s eyes grew even wider. She was groggy and a little frightened by all the sudden attention, and the wonderful lady, who looked like a fairy out of one of her bedtime books, was smiling at her. Zoe automatically held out her arms, and Cressida floated across the room like thistledown to settle beside her.
“She might be coming down with something,” Maude’s mother warned, but in a smaller voice than she’d used with Maude. Maude wondered if that was because she wasn’t sure she wanted to save Cressida from whatever contagion Zoe had, or if she was as intimidated by Cressida as Maude herself was.
“Miles said she was fine,” Cressida said, as though that settled it. “He said he and her brothers had visited her earlier and stuffed her with sweetmeats. That could give anyone a difficult night. Isn’t that so, little chick?” she asked sweetly, taking Zoe’s two hands and smiling down into her transfixed face.
The worst of it, Maude thought, was that they looked so right together: blond and radiant Cressida, with the baby girl with a headful of fair curls in her arms, intent on each other.
Maude’s mother stared at them for a moment. “He did, did he?” was all she said, in an awful voice, before she took her husband’s arm and stalked from the room, intent on finding Miles.
“Sweet chick, poor babe, Zoe-Zoe dearest,” Cressida murmured, as Zoe stared at her, charmed by the lilting nonsense. “Are you sick? No, I don’t think so. Are you sleepy? Oh, I do think so. Let me sing you a little sleepyhead song. Yes?”
She began to sing a pretty little tune, light as the snow that fell outside the windows, drowsy as the cozy room they were in, all to do with little lambs. She sang sweetly, in a soft, breathy voice. As Zoe listened, her eyes were shuttered once by her long lashes, and then again, and then she dozed in Cressida’s arms. Cressida sang on. And Maude stood in the shadows and felt as though she might as well have not been there. So she left.
*
Maude lay stiff and cold in bed, though she was covered by eiderdown and wore a long flannel nightgown. She decided to pretend she was sleeping when he came to bed. If he touched her, she’d mutter and turn away as though she were too sleepy to do anything else. If he persisted, she’d pretend she was having an awful time waking up, so that he’d know that even if he woke her, it would be like making love to a statue. Not that it had ever happened. His lightest touch could always rouse her, his lips could bring her up from a coma, she thought; the feel of his hard body against hers could raise her from the dead, she believed. But tonight, she’d pretend she was sleeping like the dead.
Because she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t ask why he’d never said a word about a woman he’d loved and almost married. At least not yet. Not without sounding hurt, or petty, or catty. Nor could she fight something that wasn’t anything. Or at least might not be. She didn’t want to seem to be such a poor creature as to envy a woman who was only beautiful and kind, witty and sweet, and still wholly in love with him. And too, she thought nervously, sometimes an unjust accusation led to mischief—if it became inspiration.
He came in quietly, much later, and undressed by the fire. They slept in the same room, in the same bed. He didn’t have a valet. He often said one of the greatest joys of living in the countryside was that they didn’t have to worry about any fashion but their own. She watched through slitted eyes as he took off his clothes. It was unnatural, she knew, but the sight of his naked body still thrilled her—even after all these years. But it wasn’t the same body she was watching now, after all. Now he was no longer all supple masculine grace, like the statue of a youthful Mercury she’d seen in Florence on their honeymoon. Now he was the adult Achilles, his body all experience and tough male muscle. Even the terrible scars on his leg no longer pained her to see, they were as familiar to her as the bark on a sturdy tree.
His body had changed, but she thought it had gotten better. As had their lovemaking. It wasn’t the sweet shock of the new that so enticed her now. It was that he had learned every way to please her, as she had him. They always made love on cold winter nights like this, the snow without making it so much cozier within. And always found joy in each other at this joyous season. It was an old joke of theirs: the best Christmas present of all. It would be hard to refuse him tonight. But her heart ached with confused jealousy even as her traitor body roused at the sight of him. She saw his broad chest and narrow waist and that which the firelight caressed and showed to be growing as roused as she herself was. But no.
She’d pretend to sleep no matter what he did, try as he might, she thought. And turned away from him to lie on her side, before she could change her mind.
He came to the bed. She knew he was looking down at her. She heard him breathe a heavy sigh. Then he got into bed, turned on his side away from her, and within moments, he slept. Leaving her to lie awake until the fire died, thinking of why he’d not even tried to rouse her.
*
He was gone when Maude awoke. Staying up half the night fretting had made her oversleep. She rose and looked out the window. A thin snow was still falling. She scrambled into a heavy woolen gown. It was old and faded and had flannel petticoats instead of lace ones, but she doubted Saint Ethelinda would care how fashionably dressed she was. That was the only adult who might see her this morning, if she was quick about it.
Cousin George and his family slept until noon, and dressed until teatime. She was sure Cressida would sleep until noon, too, as elegant ladies did. Maude paused for a moment to fret about how many more days Cressida would be there. The thought of sharing Christmas with her was terrible. But if she could endure Cousin George and his family each year, she thought, she could endure one radiantly beautiful woman who… She was suddenly grateful for all the chores she had to do.
When she went into the nursery Zoe was sitting up in bed.
“How’s my little girl this shiny morning?” Maude asked brightly.
“I’m fine,” Zoe said in a sturdy little voice. She peered over Maude’s shoulder as Maude bent to feel her forehead. And angled away from her kiss, frowning. “Where’s the pretty lady?” she asked.
Maude’s smile slipped, even though Zoe seemed wholly well again.
“Now, Zoe-Zoe,” Daisy said, “remember? She said she’d see you later today. Must be patient. Come, get up and we’ll have a wash. Is that alright, Mum?” she asked Maude.
Zoe-Zoe? But no one had ever called Zoe Zoe-Zoe before, Maude thought, startled. “Oh. Yes,” she managed to answer absently. “Fine.”
Children were very impressionable, she told herself as she peeked in Philip’s room to see how he was. He was already gone. He had looked “right as rain this morning, ma’am,” the butler assured her. Even his grandparents had seen that. And so they’d promptly taken him out for a ride in their carriage, to keep him from “mucking about in the snow and getting sick again.”
Maude smiled, and skimmed down the stairs to meet Simon. She’d miss breakfast rather than make him wait to go harvest mistletoe with her. She hummed to herself as she thought of her other chores. Presents to wrap. Be sure the punch bowl is glittering clean, she cautioned herself, because the carolers woul
d be in for some after the wassailing tonight. And, yes, don’t forget baskets for old Terrence and the Reeds, their poorest and proudest tenants. The poor felt need and the shame of needing more keenly at this time of year. But they couldn’t be offended if their baskets were overfilled, because Christmas giving didn’t look like charity—if you were clever about it. So, a turkey for the Reeds and a ham, along with woolen goods. And two sweaters for old Terrence this year, and a stout new scarf to go with the usual treats, yes, and the bundles for the parish poor…but first, the greens—for the luck of the season.
But Simon and his friend were nowhere to be seen, although he’d known she’d be waiting for him. Then she remembered where he always liked to wait. She threw on an old, warm, hooded cloak, picked up her wicker basket, and hurried out to the stables.
But he wasn’t in the stable yard.
“Left an hour past,” Daisy’s father told her, “with the whole company, my lady.”
“Whole company?” Maude asked.
“Aye. The master and his friends. The lot of them: the viscount hisself, the lovely lady and the gents, and the boys—they all went off together, singing and laughing to wake the dead.”
But they hadn’t wakened her, Maude thought dazedly. Because she was worse than dead to them—she had been out of sight and mind as though she’d never been at all. She had dreamed of bells and laughter and light, airy voices singing, but had thought it was a dream of the fairy folk. But it had been another bright, cruel company she had overheard.
“And they went…?” she asked humbly.
“Don’t know, ma’am. They didn’t venture to say.”
To me, either, she thought. And swallowed. She picked up her chin and walked away calmly. She didn’t start to run until she was in the woods, where there was no one to see her, or her face.
When she reached the grove she went to the well, and braced both mittened hands against it, and stared down into the darkness at her distant reflection. It was like looking into a dark mirror. The water reflected her mood: black and still. She’d been running hard, and she bent her head, catching her ragged breath.
It was as if the worst of her nightmares were suddenly true. She was alone on Christmas Eve because no one wanted to be with her. She’d always known she wasn’t worth anything. And now they all knew it, too.
Even little Zoe hadn’t wanted her. Her parents hadn’t for years, poor things, they’d always only been making do. Their grandchildren were the prize they’d won for putting up with her when they’d lost their hearts’ desires—because of her. And Simon was no longer a baby who had no one to love but his mother. He’d grown up enough to choose his companions. She was not to be one of them. Philip was on fire to follow in his footsteps. He would. And Miles…?
Miles could have had anyone, but he’d chosen her. Even then she’d thought it might have been pity, or obligation to the memory of her brothers, or out of kindness for the squire’s daughter, whose heart was in her eyes every time she’d looked at him. Or maybe because of a sense of honor, once he’d realized he’d passed the whole summer with her, every idle hour. He’d only been whiling away the time until he was well again. But maybe he’d realized that by doing so he’d raised her expectations—and her father’s. Had Father spoken to him? She’d always wondered. Now she wondered if she knew at last.
Had Miles asked her to marry him because of a broken heart? Because when he’d seen he couldn’t have what he’d always wanted, he’d settled for her?
They’d discussed so much in those days. She’d chattered like a magpie to amuse him when the pain was bad. He’d come home from the glorious wars a shell of his old self: worn and weary, his fine-featured face drawn, his shapely lips thinned by constant pain. She’d been his jester, his newspaper, and then, his audience. She’d listened to him talk as they’d walked—as she’d walked, and he’d had to force each step to accompany her around his grounds. But he’d never mentioned Cressida.
He’d always been kind to her, gentle with her, loving to her. But he was a kind and loving, gentle man. Who had not touched his wife last night. Who had stood by the bed with a troubled gaze instead of taking her in his arms. Who had watched Cressida every minute last night, and then gone off with her today, without a word. As had his son. As his daughter would have, if she could have. Beautiful Cressida. And merely Maudie. It would be laughable if it weren’t so sad. He’d never mentioned Cressida, though his eyes said he’d never forgotten her.
It seemed to Maude, then, in that quiet glade alone, that it was all of a piece. That the only difference she’d ever made in anyone’s life was in taking up the space of someone else they’d really wanted. One daughter in place of two fine sons. One ordinary mother instead of a fascinating stranger. One plain young woman instead of the woman of his dreams. And now she was not only a substitute, but a positive barrier to happiness. But then, she had never been of any real use, except for harming those she loved, by simply being. She leaned her head against her clenched fists and wept wrenching, silent tears of shame.
“I wish I had never been born!” she whispered passionately as tears rolled down her face unchecked.
One fell a long way, splashing into the well without a sound. The surface of the dark water dimpled as it received it. She didn’t notice. But it grew colder.
Eventually, she stopped crying. The snow had stopped, too. But a biting wind blew round the glade, turning soft snow to ice, hanging the old oaks with crystal beards. She drew her cloak closer and wiped the last tears from her eyes. She looked up at the oaks, with their burdens of white-berried, green mistletoe. There was some on the lowest branches that she’d missed seeing, she noticed now. But now her basket weighed her down, empty as it was. Hang the mistletoe! she thought rebelliously. And didn’t even giggle at her inadvertent joke as she turned to go home—and saw the heavenly handsome young Mr. Clarence watching her.
Of course, she thought with weary embarrassment, her eyes and nose would be as red as her cheeks now. Not that it mattered. No other man, however handsome, mattered except for Miles. Even now.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Clarence,” she said. “Have you come for a wish?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling, “I have.”
“Then don’t let me stop you,” she said. “Wishing should be done in private, and I’m just leaving.”
“Oh, the wishing’s done,” he said pleasantly. “But you can’t be. Where’s the mistletoe? I see, you’ve forgot the ladder again. It doesn’t matter, I’ll get you some. I insist.”
“And I insist you do not,” she said with determination. “I don’t want any now. Good day.”
“I’ll just stroll along with you, then, if I may,” he said amiably, and fell into step beside her.
She looked at him out of the side of her eyes. He couldn’t be flirting. She was older than he, and he knew she was married, and besides, she didn’t have any illusions about herself. He might just be lonely, in a new place so near to Christmas. She didn’t feel very companionable, but supposed she had to say something pleasant.
“The well is very old, you know,” she said, and stopped. It was an inane thing to say. Of course he knew that; Mr. Potts must have given him chapter and verse on the old well. But he just smiled, and so she kept chattering nonsense to do with the well. She heaved an inward sigh of relief when they neared the vicarage. He was a nice young man, but she hadn’t the heart to be sociable now. She’d leave him with Mr. Potts, and hurry home the moment his back was turned.
She saw a figure leave the vicarage and go to the one-horse shay halted in the little drive. She didn’t want the vicar driving off before she could detach herself from Mr. Clarence. So she picked up her pace and waved, calling, “Ho! Mr. Potts!
“I didn’t want to miss him,” she told Mr. Clarence. “I’ve—I’ve a Christmas errand to ask of him. A visit to one of our tenants, you see.”
It sounded foolish, even to her ears, but she didn’t care. Nor did she care for the fact that Mr. C
larence only smiled wider, as though he knew just what she was thinking. It was unsettling. She hurried on.
“Mr. Po—,” she began as she approached the vicar. And then paused. It wasn’t Mr. Potts at all. At least not the Mr. Potts she knew. This man was much older: a bent, gaunt, gray-faced old fellow who stared at her without recognition. She imagined he might be a relative of the vicar’s, because there was some resemblance. But she couldn’t even imagine Mr. Potts’ ready smile on this narrow, bitter face. He wore unrelieved black, not the magpie, merry assortment of woolens Mr. Potts threw on against the cold.
“Oh. Terribly sorry,” Maude said. “I thought you were the vicar.”
“I am,” the man said abruptly. “What is it you want of me?”
“No. I mean our vicar: Mr. Potts,” she said.
“I don’t know who your vicar might be,” the man said impatiently, “but I am the vicar, Mr. Potts. What is it you want? I can guess,” he said with resignation, looking her up and down, noting her serviceable old cloak and windblown hair, “but charity is given on Christmas Day, and there’s little enough to go around. First choice goes to those who live around here, anyway. So you might as well be on your way, young woman.”
Maude gaped at him. Then she shook her head to clear it. She took in a deep breath, straightened her spine, and said in an awful voice copied from her mother at her worst, “I beg your pardon? I am the Viscountess Southwood. And who may you be, my good man?”
“I may be calling for someone to cart you back to Bedlam, where you belong,” he said in annoyance. “No more nonsense now. Get you gone, missy, and be quick about it.”
Now she was speechless.
“Well? Be off with you!”
“Where’s Mr. Potts?” she said fearfully. “What have you done with him?”
“Look, girl, no more of this! I’ve better things to do than stand here and listen to your foolishness.” His words were hard but his eyes were concerned—for a moment. “Tcha! Drunk, that’s it,” he exclaimed with sudden inspiration. “Well, if so young woman, then this cold wind will sober you up soon enough,” he told her irritably. “But I haven’t had a drop, and my bones are colder than charity. So good day to you.”
