by C F Dunn
An uncomfortable clawing sensation was having a go at my gut, the one that warned me that all was not well. “Do you think he’s damned? Is that what you’re saying?”
He flinched. “I’m saying I don’t know.”
I draped a string of tinsel on a broad bough, and abandoned the tree. “Whatever happened to make Matthew this way – and he was born like the rest of us, Harry – God allowed in His wisdom. We might never know what caused it, but we can’t second-guess God, we don’t have that right. And if Matthew is wrong, what does that make the rest of you, who have seemingly inherited some of his traits?”
Harry sat on the sofa and buried his head in his hands, and it was then that I realized the full extent of what he had been putting himself through in his own silent agony of faith. “Harry, if there is one thing I do know, that is that this is a question that is too big for any of us to tackle and, talking from my own point of view, whatever the answer is, I have to believe that Matthew is right, and that makes you right as well. In the end we all have a choice, don’t we? It’s what we have been given, the gift of free will – the yes or the no, the right or the wrong, to believe or not to believe – and that is more important than the whys and the wherefores. In your heart of hearts, do you feel that Matthew is wrong?” He took a big, shuddering breath and shook his head. “No, and neither do I. So I have to believe that whatever or why-ever Matthew is as he is, God has a purpose and a place for him.”
“I would like to believe that,” Harry whispered, leaning his elbows on his knees and putting his hands behind his neck. I rubbed my hand across the upper part of his back the way Nanna used to do when I was a tormented teenager. “The thing is, Harry, we are all that Matthew has in this world, and one day we will leave it – and him – behind, and he will have to face it alone again. So all he has is his faith, and it would be wrong of anyone to take that away from him with doubt.”
He sat upright, and took another deep breath. “Right – so you’re saying we should support him whether he’s damned or not?”
“How does it hurt our souls to love and support him in any way we can? And there is one other aspect we can’t overlook that is central to our faith…” he gave me a puzzled glance, “… that Matthew himself has the right to choose his soul’s path and that doesn’t depend on his death but what he chooses in this life, however long that might be. The question that torments him is how will he find peace on this earth, not how he will find God. He already has his faith, and God has always had him here…” I held out my hand, face up, forming a cup, “… in the palm of His hand. What happens next is between them both.”
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “I wish,” he said, “I just wish he would come to church…”
“Why?” I intercepted, remembering what had happened to Matthew at the little church in Martinsthorpe nearly four hundred years before that had led to him fleeing his home for fear of persecution.
“It would show he has faith, I suppose, and give him a spiritual community…” he trailed off.
“Then he wouldn’t be doing it for himself, or for God, but for you, and that isn’t the right reason. There are many ways of demonstrating your faith, and Matthew’s found his own way in the work he does and the family he protects. You are his community, Harry, you and your family. It’s the only community he can trust.” I had to remember that Harry hadn’t known about Matthew for very long, and that this sensitive, deep-thinking boy was still trying to work out his own faith as well as tackle someone else’s. “Do you think we had better finish this tree while we can? I’ll have nightmares if it’s not done by morning and, from what Pat told me, this evening is going to be taken up with food.”
Harry stood up, still a bit pale but happier than before. “Yeah, Grams’ roast pork. We wait all year for this – great.” He rubbed his stomach in token appreciation and I forced a smile. “Mmm, great,” I echoed.
I found Matthew alone in his study. I knocked tentatively on the door and he opened it almost instantly, and I wondered if he had been waiting for me. A familiar choral work flowed from a hidden sound system. It was the first time I had heard him listen to music.
“So this is where you are, I won…” He silenced me with his mouth, warm and insistent on mine, feeding me through his touch. But he had forgotten I needed to breathe occasionally.
“I missed you,” he murmured into my hair as I drew oxygen into my lungs and remembered what Harry and I had discussed only minutes before. I put my hand to his face and traced each contour, absorbing every little detail through my fingers as if it were my last chance. He took my hand and put it against his face. “So how did it go with Harry? Did you say what you wanted?”
I leaned against his chest and felt the human rise and fall as he breathed in and out – even and steady, neither too quick nor too slow, a never-changing rhythm. Human – so human – not a monster at all.
He caressed my hair. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” I shook my head, not trusting my voice, fighting the tears that stood behind my eyes, willing my heart to calm. “Emma – what is it?” He grasped my upper arms and tried to see into my face, his eyes at once concerned and kind.
“Nothing’s the matter. I love you, that’s all. Sometimes it becomes too much to bear. Don’t take any notice, I’m just being silly.”
“Did Harry say something to upset you?”
“No – no, not at all; he’s a lovely boy. We talked things through and he understands about you and me now, so everything’s fine. And the tree’s finished, more to the point. I love all the old decorations, they’re not at all gaudy.”
“You mean they’re shabby.”
“No, I don’t, I mean they are subtle and I much prefer them to all the tawdry tat you get nowadays. You should come and see what we’ve done between us.”
“I will, in a moment. When you came in and said, ‘This is where you are,’ what did you mean?”
“Oh,” I smiled. “I meant that this is the first room where I can feel your presence, your personality – the real you – not something put together for the rest of the world to see. I feel comfortable here, more at home.”
The smile faded from his eyes. “I had hoped you would feel comfortable in the rest of the house as well, not only in here.” He glanced at the room, densely lined with books, paintings in between the bookcases, photographs, a desk filled with papers, and the odds and ends of an existence that breathed life into the walls and surfaces.
It was my turn to be concerned. “I didn’t mean that I don’t like your home; I do, but I’m a stranger to it, whereas in here I feel I already know it, and it knows me – we’re old friends.”
“Then you come in here whenever you want to, whether I’m here or not, if this is where you feel most comfortable.”
“Are you planning on going away?” I hardly dared ask.
“No, of course not, I’m not planning on going anywhere, but I might be at work, or in town – who knows.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for dinner. We usually get changed for Christmas Eve – it makes it more of an occasion. Shall we go?”
I narrowed my eyes but didn’t say anything, because for once it wasn’t the thought of a table laden with food that worried me.
I showered quickly and changed into a slender black skirt that skimmed my ankles, and a classic Liberty print silk shirt in auburns and blues with long, tight-buttoned cuffs and a deep plunge neck made entirely decent by a blue silk camisole. For once I wore high heels in black patent leather, and I practised a few steps to make sure I wouldn’t trip over my skirt and make a total idiot of myself.
I donned my cross as usual, and then reached without thinking to my earlobes, only to remember with a pang that Nanna’s earrings had yet to be returned from the jewellers. I missed them. I missed the comforting association they brought, and I missed her with a sudden twist of longing for home and familiarity. I drew my brush resolutely through my hai
r and frowned at the mirror: pulled back off my face, my hair seemed too businesslike, but let loose, almost wayward and wanton. I settled on something inbetween and forgot about it.
Matthew surveyed me from the door. “Now, you look quite…” He shook his head, for once at a loss for words.
“Quite – what?” I demanded.
“Let’s just say, it shouldn’t be allowed. It places too great a burden of responsibility on the male of the species. You’re missing something though.” He wandered over to me, all long limbed and agile. He wore a suit and tie and I missed the little “v” of skin at the base of his neck that always beguiled.
“Am I?” I checked myself over but I seemed all in place. “Is this not suitable?” I asked anxiously.
His eyes drifted over my throat, the scallop of my collarbone, the plunge of my blouse. “Oh, absolutely; however, you have a little too much skin on display.”
“I don’t… I can’t have!” I spluttered in alarm, knowing that changing now would make me late.
His smile broadened into a grin. “It’s nothing that can’t be easily fixed.” He produced a little domed black leather box. It took me a second to cotton on to what it was, and another before I reached out and took the box from his outstretched palm. “I know they are not your grandmother’s, but I hope you’ll accept these as a token of my love.”
I released the tiny catch. A pair of earrings – rich blue sapphires shaped like polished tears suspended from simple diamond studs – lay on the bed of dark silk.
“Matthew, they’re beautiful,” I breathed, watching them catch the light. “Thank you.” I put them on and he turned me around so that I could see in the mirror on the wall above the fireplace. His expression softened. “They’re quite old – perhaps a hundred years or so – and they came from the estate of an émigré Russian countess.” He wavered for a split second. “Does that bother you, or would you have preferred something new?”
“Bother me? They’re lovely, and their history makes them all the more intriguing. Thank you so much.”
The stones were almost the exact colour of my eyes. As I looked at them, I saw him standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders, and I saw us – not him and me – but us. Our eyes met in the mirror, and we were one, except that we remained separated by law and loyalty and conscience.
“I never really noticed before,” I murmured, resting my head back against him, “but our eyes are almost the same colour.”
“They are,” he agreed; “but the sapphires suit you better.”
CHAPTER
4
Wassail
Awake, glad heart! get up and sing!
It is the birth-day of thy King.
HENRY VAUGHAN (1621–95)
The rest of the family were already gathered in Pat and Henry’s home when Matthew showed me through a door at the back of the drawing room behind the Christmas tree. It led into a narrow no-man’s land of passage between the two houses. “I’ll join you in a minute,” he said, squeezing my arm in encouragement when he saw the flash of nerves in my face.
“Welcome, honey.” Pat put her arm around me as I entered an open-plan kitchen, heady with the smells of roasting meat and cooking vegetables. “I have you to thank for this, I think.” The large Fortnum’s hamper sat on the kitchen surface, its lid thrown open and a portion of the contents already gathered by its side.
I smiled, shy. “I didn’t know what you would like so I had to go for a bit of everything.”
Pat squeezed me warmly. “That’s so thoughtful of you. I love it – it’s so very English.” She removed her glasses and wiped steam from the lenses. “Come on through and have some eggnog, if the boys have left any. I’m just finishing putting things together.” An assortment of dishes waited on the sides, but she declined my offer of help and instead showed me past the open framework of great wood beams that represented a partition, and into a dining area.
A gentle hubbub filled the beautifully converted space of the old barn, made bright with a homely ruggedness and comfy, chunky furniture sitting on hewn plank floors worn smooth by centuries of feet and polished to a wax shine. Candles scented the air and the long room glittered with lanterns and with strings of white lights on a tree. A log burner threw a shifting radiance against the plain, pale walls. Henry’s cabin in the mountains, where Matthew had revealed his life to me, had been a pared-down version of this home: all Scandinavian hues and Shaker simplicity.
“Matthew won’t be long,” I said in explanation as Henry looked up from laying serving spoons on a substantial table, and saw me alone.
He embraced me affably, and ladled a glass of a pale, creamy liquid from a large bowl. “I imagine you must find us all a bit overwhelming, but this might help. We always start the celebrations with a glass or two of Pat’s eggnog, and it seems to do the trick. While we are on the subject of drinks, I must say that I was particularly impressed with the whisky in the hamper – single malt; couldn’t be better. Thank you, Emma – it is much appreciated.”
I took the glass from him. “Matthew said you like Scotch. I had to take advice on which one though; I hope you enjoy it.”
“We sure will,” Joel’s voice drawled from where he slouched on the sofa at the other end of the room.
His grandfather shot him a look of pseudo severity. “I’ll be sure to lock it away while you’re at home, young man; it’s far too good for you.”
Lounging against the chimney breast with his hair in neat disarray, Harry called out, “He worked out how to pick the lock on your alcohol cupboard last year, Gramps.” He caught the cushion that had sailed perilously close to the glass in his hand and chucked it back at his brother.
Jeannie cut across the banter, her voice a little sharper than it needed to be. “Boys, I’m sure Dr D’Eresby doesn’t want to know about what you’ve been up to.”
Joel stretched. “Sure she does, Ma – don’t you, Emma?” He slid a look towards me accompanied by a lazy grin, and I recognized a wind-up when I saw it.
His mother bristled and I took a taste of the drink for something to do. It had a bite I couldn’t place. I took another couple of sips; it was really very good and a little wouldn’t hurt. “This is lovely, Pat,” I commented as she joined us.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said, pleased. “I’m sure you must be hungry – there’s not an ounce of flesh on you. Matthew’s bringing in the meat now.”
A murmur of appreciation ran around the table as Matthew brought in the pork, the glazed crackling bursting with boiling fat and spitting furiously in all directions.
My stomach constricted, but I put on the enthusiastic look I usually adopted at home when Dad or Beth produced something that required special recognition. An air of expectant tension reigned as Henry carved thick slices of meat onto each plate.
“Everybody go ahead and help yourselves before it gets cold,” Pat urged, giving me free rein to take as little as I could get away with without appearing rude. Then the room hushed expectantly and everyone looked at Pat. She bowed her head and said a less antique version of grace. Looking up, she paused, then broke into a smile. “What are you all waiting for?” she beamed, and the room immediately resounded to the sound of animated chatter and of food being consumed with relish.
She leaned towards me. “In my family, my momma ruled the roost and she always said grace. Papa wouldn’t have dared speak out of turn.”
“I heard that,” Henry called out from the other end.
Matthew grinned genially. “In your family, Pat, I could well believe it.”
She laughed, patting his arm, and then addressed me as a faint waft of cinnamon and cloves rose as she spooned fragrant apple sauce on to the side of her plate. “So, Emma, what do your family do at Christmas? Do you celebrate on the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth?”
I cut a tiny sliver of meat. “We get together as a family as you do, and the twenty-fifth is traditional in England. We don’t do much on Christmas Eve except panic and pre
pare for the next day. It’s pretty manic and there are always things that need to be finished at the last minute. We stop to hear Carols from King’s, though; it sets the right mood and reminds us what it’s all about.” In the warm room, I began to feel light-headed and took another sip of eggnog.
Her forehead creased with a question. “You have kings sing carols in the UK?”
Dan called out from across the table, breaking through the noise his sons were making. “Keep it down, boys. I think Emma means King’s College, Mom. It’s one of the Cambridge colleges, isn’t it, Emma?”
“Yes, it has a particularly fine choir and there’s a service of carols and readings from the chapel every Christmas. It’s very traditional and very beautiful.”
“So you’re missing it this year, huh?” Joel said, cramming his mouth full of food, his plate half-cleared already. Jeannie gave him a reproving glare, which he seemed not to notice but more likely chose to ignore.
I attempted to calculate the time difference without much success, and winged it instead. “Well and truly missed it, by about – ooh – I don’t know, quite a few hours.”
Ellie poured gravy over her vegetables. “Never mind, Emma, you’ll be able to catch it next year… ow!” She bent down to rub her ankle where one of her brothers must have kicked her, judging by the way she scowled at them. She glanced up at Matthew and then away again, her face colouring under his cool stare.
“Wine, Emma?” Henry held up the bottle.
“No, thank you.”
Joel leaned forward. “Teetotaller?”
“No, I just don’t really drink.” I smiled at the look on his face as he worked out the contradiction.
Dan leaned an elbow on the table. “Do you come from a large family?”
“Not really. Apart from my parents it’s just my sister, her husband, and their three children. My grandmother is ill, so she’s not at home.”
