by Mary Balogh
Dear Reader,
For ten years I contributed a novella to the popular annual Signet Regency Christmas anthology, each time with four other authors. All but four of my stories have been long out of print (those four appear in UNDER THE MISTLETOE), but I know readers still enjoy them. That annual writing assignment was my favorite of the year. Give me a couple of potential lovers, a child or two, and Christmas itself, I used to say, I could weave an endless number of stories to tug at the heart strings and exude all the warmth and hope and joy associated with the season.
Christmas becomes almost a character in my novellas. It is not the incidental backdrop for a story that might have taken place at any other time of year. Each story happens as it does because it is Christmas. A lonely gentleman, for example, listens with a pained ear to a group of carol singers until he is suddenly enthralled by the solo voice of a young boy soprano. The boy’s mother, a lonely widow, is standing there too. Or, for example, at a large house party a young child who has not spoken since the death of her mother makes a silent wish while all the other children around her are loudly expressing theirs when they are all asked what they want for Christmas. She wishes for a new mother and then sees the one she wants in one of the guests. The lady concerned and the child’s father, however, are feeling dismayed to find themselves at the same gathering, for they have met before but parted under unhappy circumstances.
Here again in CHRISTMAS MIRACLES are three novellas. I do hope you will enjoy them whether for the first or the twenty-first time and whether to set yourselves in the mood for Christmas or to accompany the festival itself--or at any other time of the year for that matter. December does not have a monopoly on happiness and love.
May all your Christmases be blessed, and may my novellas be a part of them!
Mary Balogh
“The Wassail Bowl” Copyright © 1996 by Mary Balogh
“The Bond Street Carolers” Copyright © 1997 by Mary Balogh
“Guarded by Angels” Copyright © 1995 by Mary Balogh
CHRISTMAS MIRACLES First Ebook Edition October 2015 ISBN: 978-0-9967560-0-6
All rights reserved. No part of the ebook may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both copyright owner and Class Ebook Editions Ltd., the publisher of the ebook. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Christmas Miracles
Mary Balogh
Table of Contents
The Wassail Bowl
The Bond Street Carolers
Guarded by Angels
The Wassail Bowl
Mary Balogh
The great hall of Wyndham Park, with its vast two-story height and its marble pillars, its tiled floors and massive double doors, was not by any means the warmest room in the house. The twin fireplaces, facing each other across the width of the hall, were both blazing with heaped logs, but there was a great deal of space for the fires to heat and they were woefully inadequate to the task. It was the evening before Christmas Eve, a cloudy, chilly night that threatened snow.
But the Earl of Wyndham and large numbers of his family and friends and house guests were gathered in the hall rather than in the cozier drawing room abovestairs. Maids had been sent scurrying for shawls for the ladies, and chairs close to the fires had been found for the elderly. Most of the people gathered there were imbibing warm, spicy punch from the large wassail bowl set on a table facing the doors. Indeed, the contents of the bowl were already severely depleted despite the fact that those for whom it had ostensibly been prepared had not yet arrived. But another bowl was being kept warm in the kitchen belowstairs.
The village carolers were expected at any moment.
WASSAIL
There were many recipes for the punch that was served from the wassail bowl. This is one authentic recipe. It certainly sounds both sticky enough and spicy enough to have been the very one with which the Earl of Wycherly had an unfortunate encounter.
2 lemons
6 cloves
1 bottle port wine
1 cup water
1 cinnamon stick
1 blade mace
6 allspice berries
3 slices ginger root
⅓ cup (2 oz.) sugar cubes
Roasted apples (optional)
Press the cloves into one lemon and bake at 375 degrees 20 minutes. Bring to a boil port, water, and the remaining spices. Cover and let stand for 20 minutes. Return to a boil with the baked lemon and let stand for 5 minutes. Rub the sugar cubes over the rind of the other lemon and put them at the bottom of a large wassail bowl. Squeeze about half the juice of the lemon over them. Pour in the spiced port and serve while still warm with hot roasted apples floating on it, if desired.
They were to come, as they came every year on this particular evening, to cheer the company with song, to remind the earl and his guests of the joy of the season, to partake of the wassail bowl and of the mince pies and fruitcake that would be carried up by footmen when the allotted half hour of singing had been completed.
Very few of those gathered in the hall resented the fact that they were chilly. There was tradition to be observed, after all, and when all was said and done, as Horace, Lord Petersford, the earl’s maternal uncle, remarked every year in his loud and jovial voice, it was in a good cause. No one had ever thought to ask the obvious question—what cause?
Except perhaps the Earl of Wyndham himself, though he did not do so aloud. If he had his way, he thought, hovering near the wassail bowl and smiling politely at the conversation that was flowing about him, he would listen to the carolers from the drawing room and merely send down his compliments while the servants fed them their cake and wassail. If he had his way, the carolers would not even come to Wyndham. Neither would his family and friends and guests. If he had his way, Christmas would be ignored.
He could not have his way, of course. Not that he had ever tried. Not that he had ever even voiced his preference. Christmas at Wyndham with family, friends, and assorted other guests in attendance was a tradition beyond the power of a mere earl, owner of the property, to break.
This year would be a little different from the last three, of course. The earl felt somewhat cheered at the thought. He had been disappointed today, restlessly watching the driveway all afternoon while pretending to be occupied with all sorts of other activities with his guests. He had watched until darkness fell. But only two carriages had arrived, both bringing late guests. Neither had been his own carriage, bringing his son and the boy’s governess. But then, he had not really been expecting them today. He had summoned the boy, stating in his letter that he expected him to arrive no later than Christmas Eve. It had been too much to hope that they would arrive early.
Tomorrow he would come. The earl took an empty glass from the timid young companion of his great-aunt and filled it again with punch. It was Aunt Edith’s fourth glass. Fortunately, as past experience had proved, Aunt Edith merely nodded quietly asleep whenever she became inebriated. And—as Uncle Horace was fond of saying with hearty good cheer—it was only once a year. .
The Earl of Wyndham had seen his son only three times in the last three and a half years. Each time he had had the boy brought to London during the late spring—for a mere week each time. But this year, he had decided months before, h
e was going to have his son with him at Wyndham for Christmas. He was going to indulge himself. He was going to be selfish—but then he had every right to be selfish. It was time the boy came home. It was time he came home to stay. He was after all heir to all this. He was the Viscount Hedley.
And then, above the hubbub of voices and laughter, his lordship heard quite distinctly the sound of the brass knocker banging against, one of the huge doors from the outside. The carolers had arrived! The slight swell of sound that followed the knock subsided into an expectant quietness and all eyes turned in the direction of the doors, both of which two footmen opened wide despite the fact that doing so admitted twice the amount of chill winter air into the already inadequately warmed hall.
But the expected crowd of singers with their lanterns and music books and flautist did not spill into the hall. Instead three people stepped inside—a young boy holding the hand of a plump and neatly dressed young woman, and behind them a slim young lady wearing a fur-trimmed green cloak and hood and carrying a blanket-bound bundle, which appeared to be another young child.
Quietness surged into delighted sound when the boy appeared, but the incipient greetings faltered again when the cloaked woman and her bundle appeared. The earl too, whose heart had leaped with sudden gladness, for whom Christmas suddenly and gloriously arrived, felt the sudden checking of his joy. It was replaced, all within a matter of seconds, by cold fury—if it was possible for fury also to be cold.
A pathway had cleared, as if by magic, from the doors to the wassail table, beside which the earl still stood. The plump young woman—the governess—released the hand of her young charge and urged him forward. He came a little uncertainly, looking very small and even younger than his six years, swathed as he was in coat and muffler and cap. Eyes as blue as his own regarded the earl warily.
The moment was ruined. His lordship had not expected his son’s arrival to be such a very public affair, although everyone knew that the boy was coming. He had pictured himself seeing the carriage arrive and running down the steps outside the house to open the carriage doors himself and to lift his son out and straight into his arms. He had pictured an unabashedly fond and sentimental greeting.
Even now, with all his family and guests looking on, he might have gone down on one knee to meet his son on his own level. He might have put his arms about him and hugged him. But the moment was totally ruined. He stood where he was, his hands clasped behind him.
“Jeffrey,” he said rather stiffly. “Welcome home, my son.”
“Happy Christmas, sir,” his son said, gazing at him with apprehensive eyes.
Belatedly, the earl thought to extend his hand to the boy, who put his small mittened hand into it. Such a small hand. His son! He looked up at the governess, who instantly bobbed him a curtsy.
“Miss Matthews?” he said.
“Yes, my lord.” She bobbed another curtsy.
“I must thank you for bringing Viscount Hedley safely to Wyndham Park,” he said. “I did not expect you today once darkness fell.”
She glanced over her shoulder. But he was looking directly at her. It was at her his words had been directed. “We were that close, my lord,” she said. “And it is not a dark night.”
“I am thankful that you kept coming, then,” he said. “Welcome to my home. If you step forward, my butler will be delighted to serve you with a glass from the wassail bowl.”
She curtsied once more and moved ahead somewhat hesitantly. The stillness and silence in the hall had become almost a palpable thing. It was the worst of all possible situations, the earl thought as his eyes finally focused on the green-cloaked lady, who still stood with her bundle just inside the door, her chin lifted proudly, her eyes on him.
“And you, my lady,” he said, his voice coldly formal. “May I offer you some wassail?” He indicated the bowl with one hand, though he did not pick up either a glass or one of the ladles.
She moved toward him then, her eyes on him the whole while, and he was half aware of a murmuring from those gathered in the hall, as if some crisis had been averted. He had been marginally polite, and she was about to accept a glass of wassail from his hands.
She stopped before the bowl. “Miss Matthews?” she said, and when the governess turned, she handed her sleeping bundle into her arms and turned back to look at the earl. He knew her well enough to recognize the tight look of anger in her face. She had been snubbed and she knew it—she could not fail to have noticed. He felt a cold triumph as he lifted the ladle from the bowl.
“Thank you,” she said, “but you may have it all yourself, my lord.”
It was a large and heavy bowl, difficult to lift even when empty. Two servants were required to carry it when it was full. Now it was not by any means full. Neither was it quite empty. She succeeded in lifting it. He found himself watching in foolish puzzlement and curiosity. He was facing her fully, his eyes wide open, when she dashed the contents of the bowl into his face.
Oh no, it had not by any means been empty. One of the bobbing apples caught him a smart blow on one eyebrow before bouncing off his shoulder and landing with a thud on the floor.
A gasp and a swell of sound was succeeded by renewed silence. No one wanted to miss the earl’s response to such an act of gross incivility.
His eyes had closed instinctively. But he opened them without raising his hands to clear them. He clasped those at his back. His eyes stung from the spices. His head felt suddenly cold as the warm punch cooled instantly and ran in rivulets down his face and dripped from his chin onto his already soaked neck-cloth and from his hair down his neck beneath his collar. He felt cold and wet and sticky. And murderous.
She had replaced the empty bowl on the table and was rubbing her gloved hands together. Obviously they had not escaped quite unscathed from the encounter.
“Watkins,” he said to his butler, not taking his stinging eyes from her—his voice was still calm and chilly, “you will have her ladyship and Miss Matthews conducted to guest rooms and Viscount Hedley to the nursery, if you please.”
One corner of her mouth lifted in the suggestion of a smile before she turned to take the infant from the governess’s arms into her own once more. She had not failed to notice, of course, that his instructions had made no provision for the child.
He watched them leave, a quiet little procession, before moving to take the towel one of his cousins was thrusting with a nervous flutter at his hand. He tried to wipe the sticky mess from his face. There had been a rush of sound again, but all eyes were on him, he saw when he glanced about him, and everyone fell silent again when it was obvious he was about to speak.
“The carolers will be here at any moment,” he said. “I shall withdraw for a few minutes to don dry clothes. The wassail bowl will be filled again within minutes. Do please replenish your glasses. I shall rejoin you within a short while. I seriously doubt that my wife will do likewise.”
With which speech, delivered while he dripped sweet and sticky wassail onto the tiled floor, he made his unhurried departure for his rooms. If she were but wise enough to keep her neck out of reach of his hands for the rest of the night, he thought grimly as he took the stairs two at a time, perhaps—just perhaps—she would survive this night’s insolence.
Jeffrey, ever timid, ever anxious, had eaten scarcely any supper though some had been sent up to the nursery and though he had complained of hunger during the last hour of the journey. The nursery was deserted, the other children having already been put to bed. Jane, quiet and self-contained as she usually was, had eaten all the food set on her plate. It was long past her bedtime, as it was past Jeffrey’s, but she had slept in the carriage and remained awake now, though her big eyes told of her tiredness.
They were put to bed in twin beds in the same room, at their mother’s insistence, despite a nurse’s obvious disapproval. They were not going to be separated when they were in a strange house and among strangers. And all the guests really were strangers to the children despite the f
act that their mother knew most of them and many of them were relatives.
“Mama.” Jeffrey was in tears. He asked the question he had asked a number of times already, though he added something else this time. “Why did you do it? Now he will hate me.”
“Oh no.” She sat on the edge of his bed and smoothed a hand over his straight dark hair—her hair texture, his dark coloring. “No, he will never hate you, dear. He loves you. He is your papa.”
“But he never comes to see me,” the child wailed.
“He would if he could,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “He loves you dearly. Has he not sent for you now to spend Christmas here with him and with your cousins? He does not hate you, Jeffrey.”
“He did not even look at Jane,” he said.
No, he had not looked at Jane. He had behaved as if she was not there, as if she did not exist. “Jane was sleeping,” she said gently. “Tomorrow he will look at her and talk to her. And to you. He loves you, dear. Both of you.”
She knew she lied. He loved Jeffrey. She had never doubted that and she had never given in to the temptation of withholding the fact from their son, of trying to turn the boy against the man she hated. But he had no love at all for Jane. She doubted he would ever acknowledge her existence—except in the one way.
“Promise?” Jeffrey said now, sniffing and sounding quite pathetic.
“I promise,” she said, bending to kiss him. “Sleep now. It is very late and tomorrow there will be a great deal to do. So many cousins to meet. So much fun to have.”
He was settled at last. She turned to Jane, who was still awake, still quietly looking up. She had her cheek against the rather battered porcelain head of her favorite doll, an old one of her mother’s she had steadfastly refused to abandon for the new doll that had been given her for her birthday.
“You will sleep, sweetheart?” She smiled at her and touched a hand to the child’s auburn curls.
