by Mary Balogh
“Yes, Papa,” she said.
For the past few years Lilias had been the oldest of the carol singers.
But none of the others had been willing for her to retire.
“But, Miss Angove,” Christina Simmonds had protested when she had suggested it two years before, “what would we do without you? You are the only one who can really sing.”
“Besides,” Henry Hammett had added, with a wink for his friend, Leonard Small, “if one of the other girls were to start the carols, Miss Angove, the rest of us would have to either dig a trench to reach the low notes or carry a ladder around with us to hit the high ones.”
A deal of giggling from the girls and rib-digging from the young men had followed his words, and Lilias had agreed to stay.
She was not to be the oldest this year, though. Most of the young people were inclined to be intimidated when they first saw the Marquess of Bedford as one of their number. Most of them had only glimpsed him from a distance since his return home, and most of them were too young to remember that during his youth he had joined in all the village activities.
However, after singing at a few houses and consuming a few mince pies and a couple of mugs of wassail, they no longer found him such a forbidding and remote figure. And the usual jokes and laughter accompanied them around the village.
The younger children formed their own group, Dora firmly in the middle of them, clinging to Megan’s hand. The marquess carried one of the lanterns and held it each time they sang, as he had always used to do, above Lilias’s shoulder so that she could see her music.
She was very aware of him and wished she were not. Apart from the fact that the other faces around them had changed, there was a strange, disturbing feeling of having gone back in time. There was Stephen’s gloved hand holding the lantern above her, and Stephen’s voice singing the carols at her right ear, and Stephen’s hand at the small of her back once as they crossed the threshold into one home.
She had to make a conscious effort to remember that he was not Stephen, that he was the Marquess of Bedford. She had to look at him deliberately to note the broadness of his shoulders and chest beneath the capes of his coat, showing her that he was no longer the slender young man of her memories. And she had to look into his face to see the harsh lines and the cynical eyes-though not as cynical as they had been a week before, surely.
She brought her reactions under control and bent over a very elderly gentleman in a parlor they had been invited into who had grasped her wrist with one gnarled hand.
“Miss Lilias,” he said, beaming up at her with toothless gums, “and Lord Stephen.” He shook her arm up and down and was obviously so pleased with what he had said that he said it again. “Miss Lilias and Lord Stephen.”
Lilias smiled and kissed his cheek and wished him a happy Christmas. And the marquess, whom she had not realized was quite so close, took the old man’s free hand between both of his and spoke to him by name.
In the voice of Stephen, Lilias thought, straightening up.
The children were all very tired by the time they had finished their calls and the church bells had begun to ring. But not a single one of them was prepared to admit the fact and be taken home to the comfort of a bed.
Dora was yawning loudly and clutching Lilias’s cloak.
“I’ll take you home, poppet,” Bedford said, leaning down to pick her up.
“Enough for one day.”
But she whisked herself behind a fold of Lilias’s cloak and evaded her father’s arms. “But you promised, Papa,” she said. “And I slept all afternoon. I was good.”
“Yes, you were good,” he said, reaching out a hand to take one of hers.
“You may see the day out to its very end, then.”
And somehow, Lilias found, the child’s other hand made its way into hers and they climbed the steps to the church together, the three of them, just as if they were a family. People turned from their pews to look at the marquess, and nodded and smiled at them. Megan and Andrew were already sitting in their usual pew, two seats from the front.
Lilias smiled down at Dora when they reached the padded pew that had always belonged to the marquess’s family, and released her hand. She proceeded on her way to join her brother and sister.
“But, Papa,” she heard the child say aloud behind her, “I want to sit by Megan.”
A few moments after Lilias had knelt down on her kneeler, she felt a small figure push past her from behind and heard the sounds of shuffling as Megan and Andrew moved farther along the pew. And when she rose to sit on the pew herself, it was to find Dora sitting between her and Megan, and the Marquess of Bedford on her other side. She picked up her Psalter and thumbed through its pages.
There were candles and evergreen branches and the Nativity scene before the altar. And the church bells before the service, and the organ and the singing during it, and the Christmas readings. And the sermon. And the church packed with neighbors and friends and family. There were love and joy and peace.
It was Christmas.
Christmas as it had always been-and as it would never be again. She had to concentrate all her attention on her Psalter and swallow several times. And a hand moved toward her so that she almost lifted her own to meet it halfway. But it came to rest on his leg and the fingers drummed a few times before falling still.
She was saved by a loud and lengthy yawn and a small head burrowing itself between her arm and the back of the pew. She turned and smiled down at Dora and skipped one arm behind her and the other under her knees so that she could lift her onto her lap and pillow the tired head against her breast. The child was asleep almost instantly.
The marquess’s eyes, when Lilias turned her head to look into them, were very blue and wide open. And quite, quite inscrutable. When the organ began to play the closing hymn, and before the bells began to peal out again the good news of a child’s birth, he stood and took his child into his own arms so that Lilias could stand and sing.
His carriage was waiting outside the church, but Lilias refused a ride for herself and her brother and sister.
“It is such a short distance to walk,” she said.
He set the still-sleeping Dora down on the carriage seat and turned back to them. “I shall say good-night, then,” he said. He held out a hand for Megan’s. “Thank you for inviting Dora. I don’t think you know how happy you have made a small child.” He took Andrew’s hand. “You may come to the house the day after tomorrow, if your sister approves, and we will take that ride I have promised you.”
“Oh, ripping,” Andrew said excitedly.
Bedford turned to Lilias and took her hand in his. He searched her face with his eyes and seemed about to say something. But he merely clasped her hand more tightly.
“Happy Christmas, Lilias,” he said.
“Happy Christmas, Stephen.”
She had said the words and heard them a hundred times that evening, Lilias thought as she turned away and made her way along the street with the two tired children. But the last two times burned themselves on her mind, and she felt herself smiling and happy… and swallowing back tears.
Christmas Day.Chill and dry but heavy with gray clouds out-of-doors.
Warm with the glow and the smells and the goodwill of the season indoors. It did not matter that there was no soft white snow to trudge through, no snow to form into snowballs to hurl at shrieking relatives, no hills of snow to slide down and fall into, no ice to skate on. It did not matter. Christmas was indoors.
The goose was cooking, and the vegetables, saved from the summer’s garden, were simmering. The plum pudding, part of the contents of the basket that had come from the hall, was warming. The light from the fire and the window was glinting off the crystal balls on the tree and off the star suspended from the ceiling. The bells occasionally tinkled when someone walked by and created a draft. And the baby Jesus, wrapped warmly in swaddling clothes in his manger, was being adored by Mary and Joseph, the Three Kings, an angel with o
ne wing larger than the other, one shepherd, and one sheep, which might as easily have passed for a fox.
Megan was seated cross-legged on the floor close to the fire, rocking her new doll to sleep and gazing in wonder at the porcelain perfection of its face. Andrew was jerking his new watch from a pocket every five minutes to make sure that the goose was not being overcooked. And Lilias sat watching them, a smile on her face.
It was their last Christmas together, at least for a very long time. And their best for several years. She did not regret for a moment the humiliation she had had to suffer in going to the hall to beg for what she had needed to make it a memorable Christmas. And she did not regret that he had come to despise her and even hate her for that begging.
It did not matter. For now it was Christmas, and she had one week left in this cottage and with these children. And she had seen the wonder in their eyes when they had seen their presents that morning. They would have a day together that she would hug to herself in memory for many long months to come.
If there was a restlessness, an emptiness, a strange sense of something missing, then she would not think of it. For she could not bring back Papa or Philip, or Mama from even longer ago. She could not bring back the Christmases at the hall with their charades and blindman’s buff and forfeits and sometimes their dancing. She could not bring back those rare and magical white Christmases when they had all spilled outdoors and been reluctant to go back inside even for the foods of Christmas.
And she could not bring Stephen back. For though he had stood beside her last evening when they had gone caroling and sat beside her at church, and though he had taken her hand in his at the end of the evening and wished her a happy Christmas and called her by her name, he was not Stephen. He was the Marquess of Bedford, serious and aloof. And he disliked her, even hated her, perhaps.
She must count her blessings-so many of them-and keep all her attention and all her love and hope within these four walls for today. She would not think of either the past or the future today.
She glanced across the room to the small table where the evergreen stood, and beneath it the box with the ill-fitting lid that Andrew had carved for her, and the carefully hemmed cotton handkerchief with the embroidered forget-me-not that Megan had made for her during stolen private moments over the past few weeks. She smiled again.
“I wish Dora could see my doll,” Megan said. “Do you think she has had anything as grand, Lilias?”
“I can hardly wait for tomorrow,” Andrew said, consulting his watch once more. “Do you think his lordship will let me ride one of his prime goers, Lilias?”
Dora was playing quietly with her own new doll. Indeed, she looked almost like a doll herself, her father thought, glancing across the nursery at her. She was dressed all in her Christmas finery with quantities of satin and lace, and large pink satin bows in her hair, which her nurse had dressed painstakingly in masses of shining dark ringlets.
The child was singing one of her newly learned carols to the doll.
They had opened their own gifts and distributed gifts to the servants, but it was still barely midmorning. Bedford turned to stare out the window. A gray world met his eyes. Those were surely snow clouds overhead, but they were stubbornly retaining their load. If only it had snowed, he thought. He could have taken Dora outside. He could have played in the snow with her all day long and seen that flush of color in her cheeks and that light of pleasure in her eyes that he had not seen a great deal during her short life.
Perhaps he should, after all, have organized some sort of party at the house. There had always used to be a large gathering there for Christmas. But he had come late and without a great deal of warning.
Most of the neighbors had made their plans for the day already.
Perhaps he should have accepted one of the numerous invitations he had received since his arrival. But none of them had seemed to be for family gatherings. It would have meant packing Dora off upstairs to someone’s nursery with other children while he was entertained by the other adults. With cards, doubtless, or dancing. He had been greedy for a Christmas spent with his daughter. He loved her with an almost fierce ache, he had discovered when he had finally taken her from her grandparents’ home the previous spring.
But perhaps he should have accepted one of those invitations. Perhaps Dora would have enjoyed being with other children instead of with him or her nurse all day long. Perhaps he had been selfish.
Christmas Day suddenly seemed to stretch for many long hours ahead of him. What were they to do for the rest of the day? Their Christmas dinner was not to be served until the evening.
“Papa,” Dora said from beside him. She was still cradling her doll in her arms. “Will you tell me a story?”
“Yes, I will,” he said. “What will it be?” He leaned down and swung both child and doll up into his arms. “Shall we go for a walk or a drive afterward? Perhaps take your doll for some fresh air?”
“To Megan’s?” she asked eagerly.
“It is Christmas Day,” he said. “We must not disturb them today, poppet.
Tomorrow Andrew is coming to ride with me. We shall have Megan come over to play with you, shall we?”
“But I want to see her today,” she said. “I want to go now. I want to show Miss Angove my doll.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, hugging her. “You still have not told me which story you want.”
“I want to go now,” she said petulantly. “I want to see the holly and the tree and the baby Jesus and the star.”
“But we have our own decorations and our own evergreen,” he said, sitting down with her and settling her on his lap.
“But it’s not the same,” she said. “They are so much more cozy, Papa.
Please may we go. Please!”
One thing he had discovered about himself in the past year, Bedford thought ruefully: He was incapable of exercising the proper control over his child. He knew that it was not good always to give in to her whims; he knew that he must stand up against her, for her own good as much as for his. But he could not bear to see pleading in her eyes and dash it to pieces.
He had so much to atone for: almost four years when he had scarcely seen her but had left her to the not-so-tender care of her grandparents.
Lorraine had not wanted her; she had had no use for a daughter. Now he had to be both mother and father to her. There was no soft, motherly presence to bring her the love and security so necessary to a small child. He had to provide that care himself. But he knew that he was allowing her to rule him, that eventually she would suffer from having no one to take a firm stand with her.
He sighed as he looked down into the pleading eyes of his child. Perhaps it would be easier to say no if he did not wish so desperately to go himself. This house was altogether too large and cheerless for two people, especially at Christmas. The cottage in the village was like a magnet to him.
Lilias was like a magnet. But he put the thought ruthlessly from his mind.
“We will take the carriage, then,” he said, “and go immediately. Just for half an hour, to wish them a happy Christmas. No longer, poppet, because they will be busy preparing their dinner, and they will want to enjoy one another’s company.”
Dora’s face lit up and she slid from his knee. “May I take my new muff?” she said. “May I, Papa? And may we take them gifts? I am going to give Megan my little pearls and Miss Angove my diamond brooch. What shall we take for Andrew?”
The marquess laughed. “Slow down,” he said. “Gifts are a good idea, Dora, but nothing too valuable, or we will embarrass them.”
She looked crestfallen, but her brow puckered in thought. “May I give Megan the new blue ribbon you bought for my bonnet?” she asked.
“I think that is a splendid idea,” he said.
“And I could give Miss Angove the painting I did of you on your horse,” she said. “Is it good enough, Papa?”
“I am sure she will be pleased,” he said, hoping that his daughter wou
ld forget to identify the horseman when she presented the gift.
“But what can we give Andrew?” She was frowning.
“I’ll wager he would like that seashell we found at Brighton,” he said.
“The one you can hold to your ear to hear the tide. Can you bear to part with it?”
Dora’s face lit up again, and she darted off to find the three treasures. Bedford watched her go.
He really should not have given in on this occasion, should he? He must be the last person Lilias would want to see on this of all days. But just for half an hour. It would not quite ruin her day, surely. And it would make Dora’s day.
It was Christmas morning, too early for the carriages of those going visiting for the afternoon. The street had been silent all morning. But it was no longer silent. It was Andrew who first remarked on the sound of horses and who crossed to the window to look out. Megan joined him there when it became clear that there was also a carriage approaching.
“It is Lord Bedford’s carriage,” Andrew cried. “And it is stopping here, Lilias. Oh, ripping! He will see that I have a watch, just like a man.”
“Dora is with him,” Megan cried. “How pretty she looks. And she has a doll with her. Do come and look, Lilias.”
“I think one of us should think of opening the door,” Lilias said, getting to her feet with a smile. And she passed nervous hands over her apron, realized she was wearing it, and removed it hastily. She was pleased that she was wearing her blue silk. It was true that it was no longer fashionable, but it had been worn so sparingly in the last few years that it was barely faded and not patched at all. She was wearing the lace collar that had been Mama’s. And she had taken special care with her hair that morning because it was Christmas.
He was holding himself very straight. His expression was wooden. She would have said he was embarrassed if she had thought him capable of such feelings. But she had little time in which to stare.
“We have called for half an hour to wish you all a merry Christmas,” he said stiffly.
