Christmas Gifts

by Mary Balogh

  “She was bristling like a hedgehog when I suggested she might want to stay indoors, was she not?” he said. “Grown ladies have to be handled with kid gloves, you know.”

  His words threw the children into spasms of renewed hilarity.

  Viscount Morsey, deliberately avoiding looking at their nurse and her reaction, smirked and left the room.

  It was wonderful. It was the most wonderful time she had ever had in her life. There was no doubt about it in Caroline’s mind. There was nothing else to compare to it—even the picnic the Misses Hickman-Pugh had taken them on last summer when they had got to ride in a landau and when she had got to hold Miss Olga Hickman-Pugh’s parasol and even to twirl it above her head until Miss Iola Hickman-Pugh had remarked that she might break it and Miss Olga had taken it back and kissed her on the cheek and called her a dear child.

  Even that had not been nearly as wonderful as the morning playing in the snow turned out to be.

  It started disastrously. Or what seemed to be disastrously. Caroline ran out the back door after Rupert into the deep white snow, skidded before she had taken three steps, and landed flat on her back. She did not hurt herself—there was too much snow and she was wearing too many clothes. But there was the shock of falling so suddenly and the coldness of snow under her collar and up her cuffs and on her cheeks and in her mouth. And there was the humiliation. Everyone laughed.

  Caroline might have cried, though she rarely did so. But no sooner had she fallen and everyone had started laughing than Uncle Timothy skidded quite clumsily and bellowed quite deafeningly and landed with a great thud on his back and roared with fury when the laughter was suddenly turned on him. Until Rupert took a step closer to see if Uncle Timothy was really hurt and their uncle caught him by his ankle and tumbled him down too. And when Patricia ran to help him up, Uncle Timothy reached up with both hands to catch her by the waist and roll her in the snow.

  And then they were all laughing, Caroline too. Except for Aunt Ursula, who stood with her hands on her hips and told them that she had never in her life seen four people make such spectacles of themselves. But Caroline noticed that her eyes were twinkling as she said it, so she did not mean it. And then Uncle Timothy stretched out one long leg and hooked his boot around one of her ankles, and she toppled down too.

  And they all laughed again. Aunt Ursula too this time. Though she threatened to get Uncle Timothy back. And she did too. After they had all got up and brushed themselves off and were wading away into the garden to find a good spot for building snowmen, Aunt Ursula lagged behind with Caroline, stooped down to pick up a handful of snow, molded it into a ball, winked at Caroline, and hurled it at Uncle Timothy’s back. It hit him on the neck, where the snow was bound to drip down inside his collar.

  Caroline giggled. She giggled even harder when Uncle Timothy whirled around and, faster than anyone could blink, formed a ball of snow of his own and threw it right into Aunt Ursula’s face. Which meant, of course, that Aunt Ursula had to get him back again. Soon there were snowballs zooming through the air, even though Uncle Timothy was roaring out that it was unfair they were all throwing theirs at him.

  “Children know how to defend a lady’s honor,” Aunt Ursula yelled back at him. “And this lady knows how to defend her own, my dear lord.”

  But Caroline knew that it was all in fun. That was what made it so wonderful. And Uncle Timothy only threw the littlest snowballs at her. He hit her every time until she was so helpless with giggles that she could not throw back.

  They finally made the snowmen. Or rather, Rupert and Uncle Timothy made a snowman, fat and round and tall. Caroline preferred to make a dragon and Aunt Ursula and Patricia helped her, even though Aunt Ursula at first declared that she had no idea what a dragon looked like or how they were to build one. Rupert said the dragon they built looked like a tired cow, but Uncle Timothy disagreed and said that their dragon definitely looked the type to run off with a beautiful princess. And then he disappeared into the house and came back with carrots and a few pieces of coal. He had left Cook with her jaw hanging, he told them, but no self-respecting snowman or snow dragon was complete without a nose and eyes and a few buttons.

  “Does a dragon have a nose?” he asked Aunt Ursula after he had finished with Rupert’s fat man. He was holding the remaining carrot in his hand.

  “Without a doubt,” Aunt Ursula said. “But not buttons, I suppose. Does our dragon have buttons, Caroline?”

  “He has fangs,” Caroline said. And she was allowed to put on the carrot fangs before they all stood back and laughed at their creations. Caroline thought that her dragon looked too lovable to kidnap a princess, but she did not say so. She did not want to hurt Aunt Ursula’s feelings or Patricia’s. She loved her dragon.

  “And now Patricia’s snow angels,” Aunt Ursula said. “Unless everyone’s fingers and toes are ready to fall off and everyone would prefer to go inside by the fire to drink chocolate.”

  “Coward,” Uncle Timothy said, which was a rude thing to say, but Caroline could tell that he was only teasing. “Shall we let Aunt Ursula go inside for her chocolate, children? Ladies are such delicate creatures, you know.”

  Aunt Ursula was the first to make a snow angel.

  Uncle Timothy and Rupert did not make any at first. They merely watched.

  “What is the matter?” Aunt Ursula asked. “Is the snow too cold for you, my lord?”

  “Snow angels always look distinctly feminine,” Uncle Timothy said. “I do believe making them is beneath our dignity, is it not, Rupert? Of course, we could make Lucifer angels. What do you say, my lad?”

  Lucifer angels did not look very different from real snow angels to Caroline, except that they were made with a great deal less care so that snow went flying and blurred some of the outlines.

  “Now,” Uncle Timothy said at last, slapping snow off his greatcoat, “what was it someone said a while ago about chocolate and a nice warm fire?”

  Caroline realized suddenly how cold she was. And how tired she was. She yawned without putting a hand over her mouth or silencing the sound. Nurse would have reproved her if she had seen and heard. Aunt Ursula merely smiled and stooped down to pick her up.

  “Tired, sweetheart?” she asked. “We have played hard. We will have you warm and dry in no time at all.”

  But Uncle Timothy was there beside them before Caroline could snuggle her head against Aunt Ursula’s shoulder. “Here,” he said, “I will take her. She is too heavy for you.”

  He reached out his arms and set them about Caroline, but before he lifted her against him and right inside his greatcoat where she could feel his warmth and smell that pleasant snuffy smell again, he looked into Aunt Ursula’s face and she looked back. They must have been cross-eyed, they were so close, Caroline thought. She did not know why they stared at each other so quietly or why both their arms went stiff about her. They did not say anything or smile or laugh. Caroline yawned once more.

  And then she was up high once more with Uncle Timothy and feeling thoroughly safe again. And warmer. And they were going inside for cups of chocolate.

  It was wonderful. It was the most wonderful time in all her life.

  She was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. Because she was feeling altogether too cozy and comfortable. A bewildering paradox.

  It was time to dress for dinner, but she had not made a move yet. Neither had he. And she felt the treacherous desire to prolong the moment and either be late for dinner—something she was never ill-bred enough to be—or else go down without changing, something she had never done, even when dining alone in her own home.

  She was sitting in a deep chair in the nursery on one side of the fire, Caroline cuddled in her lap. He was sitting in a matching chair at the other side of the fire, his arm about the waist of Patricia, who was sitting on the arm beside him, and his free hand on Rupert’s head as the boy sat on the floor in front of him, leaning back against his legs.

  It was an unbearably domestic scene.


  They had started as two groups. She was to read Caroline a story. The other children were talking to Timothy—to Lord Morsey—about anything and everything. But she had discovered that the only available books contained moral and dull tales intended for the improvement of children’s minds. And so she had closed the books and told a story instead—a story she had not realized was in her, all about wizards and witches and enchanted, animated forests and the inevitable prince and princess.

  Before she was very far into it, she was aware of silence at the other side of the fireplace and realized that she had an audience of three children. Before she had finished, a few glances across to the other chair revealed that the man too was listening, his head back against the chair, his lazy eyes fixed on her.

  It might have been their own home, she thought treacherously, and their own nursery. These might have been their own children and this might have been a regular daily ritual. He might have been her husband. Her companion. Her lover. When he had touched her outdoors earlier, his one arm coming about Caroline pushing beneath her own, his other arm brushing across her breasts, and when he had turned his head to look at her, his face a mere few inches from her own . . . No!

  “And so,” she said, “they lived happily ever after.”

  Caroline sighed with contentment.

  “That was the most beautiful story I have ever heard,” Patricia said with a matching sigh.

  “I liked the part where the tree reached down its branches and caught the wizard and tangled him up forever,” Rupert said.

  Viscount Morsey looked sleepy. And hopelessly attractive. Damn him! She was glad he had used the word the evening before. Just thinking it was a great relief to the feelings. And then he yawned. Perhaps, she thought, he had some reason for being tired. When she had returned to the nursery after an afternoon rest—an unaccustomed thing with her, necessitated by the morning of vigorous outdoor play—he had been down on all fours, an imitation horse being ridden by his two nieces. He had even been whinnying.

  She felt frightened suddenly. She had come down here to make some rational decisions about the future of her brother’s children, to take them back to London with her until some more satisfactory arrangement could be made. She had not expected Lord Morsey to come, but when she had seen his carriage and then him, she had expected that they would coolly and sensibly arrange things between them. She had hoped that he could be persuaded to house the children in one of his country homes and that her own responsibility to them would be reduced to some monetary assistance and the occasional visit.

  She had certainly not expected this. Even when they had decided last evening to give the children a real Christmas despite the fact that they were all in mourning, she had not expected this sense of personal involvement, this sense of—of family. She was feeling almost maternal. She had thought such feelings long dead. She would not have expected that she could feel fond of children, at least not to the extent of doing things with them.

  What could be more tedious than having to spend time with children? Or so she would have thought yesterday. And would think tomorrow, she thought firmly. Was she forgetting the thoroughly satisfactory life she had made for herself in London?

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” Viscount Morsey said.

  “What is Christmas Eve?” Caroline asked.

  “It is the day before Christmas, silly,” Rupert said. “The day after tomorrow is Christmas. But there is to be no Christmas this year. Nurse said so. It would be disrespectful to Mama and Papa.”

  The lazy contentment of the moment had been shattered. Rupert leaned forward, away from the viscount’s legs and hand. Patricia sat more upright on the arm of the chair, her shoulders hunched. Caroline was silent and big-eyed.

  “There is always Christmas,” Lady Carlyle said quietly. “It is the birthday of Jesus. Do you know the story?”

  “He was born in a manger,” Patricia said.

  “In Bethlehem,” Rupert added. “Nurse told us.”

  “There was a star,” Caroline whispered.

  Her aunt hugged her more tightly. “I will tell you the story again, tomorrow,” she said.

  “And tomorrow,” Viscount Morsey said, “we will go out and gather what greenery we can find in the snow to decorate the house. And your Aunt Ursula will talk to the cook about cooking a goose and baking mince pies. We will sing carols and go to church in the evening if you can all stay awake long enough. It would be disrespectful not to celebrate the birthday of Jesus.”

  “And presents?” Patricia’s voice was almost a wail.

  “Presents?” Caroline echoed her sister on a mere breath of sound.

  “Of course there will be no presents,” Rupert said, using the elder brother voice he tended to use when he was not forgetting himself and being the child, he really was. “Nurse said so. Besides, presents come from Mama and Papa, and they have passed on.”

  “I think Mama and Papa would want you to be happy on Christmas Day,” their uncle said. “And since they can no longer give you presents themselves, I believe they would be happy if someone else did instead. Perhaps someone else will. Shall we enjoy Christmas Eve tomorrow and hope that there will be presents on Christmas Day?”

  None of the children said anything. They merely stared at him. Lady Carlyle found herself swallowing hard more than once. They were children—innocent, vulnerable children, totally at the mercy of people and circumstances beyond their own control. And yet she had resented their existence when word came of the death of her brother. She had resented her own responsibility for them. She had hoped that they would conveniently be sent far away from London, where she would not have to concern herself with them beyond a courtesy visit once or twice a year. She still wished it. She did not want anything to change her life. She liked her life the way it was.

  He must have brought presents too, she thought. Otherwise he would not be raising the children’s hopes like this. He had talked of setting up his nursery within the next few years. Was it just a duty thing with him, the desire to have an heir to succeed him? Did he still want children? But if so, why had he waited nine years since their betrothal ended? Was this what he was going to be like with his own children?

  She felt slightly sick at the thought. Who would share them with him? Who would lie with him and take his seed? Who would bear them for him? Them? Would there be four, two boys and two girls? Would he sit thus in the nursery with his own children and their mother?

  She swallowed again and heard a gurgle in her throat that drew Caroline’s eyes. She smiled. “It is time for your Aunt Ursula to change for dinner,” she said. “And it is almost your bedtime.”

  The child scrambled off her lap.

  “When Mama was home once,” Patricia said, “she came to our rooms and tucked us in and kissed us good night. I remember. I’ll always remember. Caroline was only a baby. She would not remember. Mama was pretty.”

  Yes, she had been. Marjorie had been exceedingly pretty. Adrian, who had probably never spared a single thought to marriage, took one look at Timothy’s young sister and decided to pay her serious court. Or he learned of her large dowry and laid siege to her person in order to acquire it for himself. Which had it been? Lady Carlyle had never been sure. She still was not. For years she had not given him the benefit of the doubt on even one count.

  “After dinner,” she said, “I shall come up and tuck you in and kiss you good night. May I?”

  Patricia smiled eagerly at her. Rupert looked slightly wistful. Caroline gazed up at her and clung to a fistful of her skirt.

  “And I shall come too,” Viscount Morsey said, “to make sure that no corner of the blankets has been left hanging. We must be tidy about such things.”

  Rupert chuckled and the girls turned their smiles on him. Caroline giggled in the totally gleeful way that had quite turned Lady Carlyle’s heart over the first time she heard it outside.

  Lord Morsey was on his feet too. “My lady?” he said, offering his arm. “Al
low me to escort you to your dressing room.”

  She wished it could have been avoided. She hated having to touch him. She had been wise to stay as far away from him as possible for so many years. Her heart had been at peace for many of those years. She wanted it to remain so.

  He bowed formally when they were outside her door, and released her arm. He moved on to his own room next door without a word.

  She wished his room did not have to be so close to her own. She had imagined the night before that she had heard his every movement in bed. And in her imagination she had pictured him there, warm, asleep, tousled. Male.

  She closed her eyes briefly and entered her dressing room. She was going to be very late for dinner if she did not hurry.

  They had scraped through dinner with the sort of conversation that was second nature to them both. They had both contrived to settle their eyes on the silver bowl of fruit in the center of the table when good manners dictated that they lift their eyes from their plates. Doubtless she had been as thankful as he that the table was rather long and that the butler had placed them at either end of it.

  She looked incredibly beautiful. Black was unbecoming on most women, sapping them of color and youth and character. With her red hair and the heightened color that several hours in the outdoors had brought, her black gown looked spectacular. She still had the figure and complexion of a girl, but age had added dignity and beauty.

  They had gone up to the children afterward. She had gone into the girls’ room while he had gone to bid Rupert good night. Rupert had been crying and had dived beneath the bedclothes when he saw his uncle coming. He did not know what was to become of them. He still thought they would be sent to an orphanage. He did not know how he was to make his fortune in order to provide for his sisters.

  Lord Morsey had had to resist the urge to take the child into his arms. It would have been the wrong thing to do. He had sat on the edge of his bed instead and agreed that they had a mutual problem, since they were the two men of the family. He could no longer provide for his sister, he had explained, but he could provide for her children and would do so for a time since he was a man already and already had a fortune. Perhaps Rupert could do his part by loving his sisters now, by learning his lessons well so that he could grow into an educated and informed gentleman, and by doing his part to settle his sisters well in life when they had all grown up.