CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
‘Tis the Season to be Jolly’
George’s unwilling confession did nothing to improve everyone’s spirits on Christmas Eve, although, that being said, it in no way affected the quality of the dinner. Jack was unusually quiet, no raised voices or heated arguments were heard, and a combination of delicious food and meaningless conversation were all the ingredients necessary to make it a successful, but dull dinner. Following the meal, the party withdrew to the drawing room for an interminable evening of cards and music. ‘Whist’ was the first card game played, with George and Frances pitted against Michael and Louisa. Agnes had an aversion to card games of any description, and confined herself to the piano, where she played Schumann contentedly all evening. Thomas, too, was averse to cards, and preferred to sit in the background, reading a laborious book on theology.
‘Look at him,’ George said, directing Frances’s attention to his brother-in-law. ‘He likes pontificating about social behaviour, and yet he has absolutely no social skills.’ He broke off laughing.
‘Perhaps he just doesn’t like what he sees,’ an amused Frances suggested.
‘How can he be so critical of us?’ George resumed more soberly. ‘We’re fine specimens of humanity. Particularly in the get up we’re wearing tonight. Don’t we all look fetching this evening?’ he queried out loud.
‘Yes thank you, George,’ Michael said, placing a card tersely down on the card-table. ‘You’ve already made that observation once this evening.’
‘Did I? Well so I did. Still, it’s a fact worth repeating. Particularly Miss Norwood,’ he went on. ‘What do you think, Michael?’ he said, fixing a rapt eye on his card partner. ‘Don’t you think Miss Norwood outshines everyone tonight?’
Michael lowered his cards onto the table and rested his gaze on Frances, who was sitting directly across from him at the table. The look deepened in his eyes as he appraised her, but he said nothing. Frances reddened under his gentle scrutiny.
‘Humph!’ George said. ‘Don’t mind his silence. I still think you surpass everyone with your beauty.’
‘Oh do stop it, Mr Brearly,’ Frances replied. ‘Flattery does not suit you in the slightest.’ Her grin widened. ‘If you don’t stop it, I shall hit you over the head with one of my slippers.’
George laughed outright. ‘Well, well, isn’t that charming! You compliment a woman on her choice of frock, and she threatens violence! Ah, these modern Colonial women. What is the world coming to?’
‘Your world will be coming to an abrupt end, if you don’t hold your peace,’ Michael muttered.
‘Just stop talking, George, and concentrate,’ Louisa added. ‘You have just knocked your cards onto the floor, by the way.’
Louisa then exchanged a look of exasperation with Michael. While George retrieved his cards from the floor, Jack, accompanied by a rather lax servant, was roaming around the room, prodding things he shouldn’t, including clocks, ornaments, books, gilt framed photographs, and anything else that he could reach. On more than one occasion Louisa warned him to keep his hands to himself, but despite these remonstrances, he continued to explore, and much to her dismay, continued to touch.
‘Don’t you find card games rather tiresome?’ George remarked to Frances a few minutes later.
‘But Mr Brearly,’ Frances whispered, ‘we’ve only been playing for twenty minutes.’
‘Humph. Well I wish we could do something more amusing.’
‘What did you have in mind?’ Frances asked.
‘Pin the tail on the donkey, perhaps,’ he suggested. ‘Forfeits? I know! What about Musical Chairs?’
Frances beamed. ‘Musical Chairs? You can’t be serious!’
‘I’m completely serious, Miss Norwood. Anything would be better than this. This is a waste of a good evening.’
‘George!’ Louisa warned again. ‘Are you playing or talking?’
‘Talking,’ he answered.
‘I can see that,’ she replied tersely. ‘We, however, are trying to play. So if you don’t mind, we would prefer it if you kept quiet.’
George ignored Louisa and turned to Frances with a smile. ‘I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a rendition of a famous Shakespearean soliloquy. I’ll recite the line, and you have to name the play it came from.’
‘Go on then.’
Before George gave the beginnings of the famous speech, however, Louisa’s raised voice echoed around the room. ‘Jack!’ she chided, ‘please do not touch that!’
George snickered. When he had managed to compose himself, he looked in Louisa’s direction and declared in a deliberately affected voice: ‘Frailty thy name is woman...’
‘Right, that is it!’ Louisa pronounced with a flash of anger. ‘I have had enough of this.’ She rose to her feet and placed her hands on her hips.
Louisa’s sudden outburst had the desired effect, for Agnes’s nimble fingers instantly faltered at the piano, one of Jack’s little hands froze on Louisa’s favourite vase, and even Thomas Maycroft, who by this stage was in a transient doze, looked up to see what was going on. All eyes anxiously turned to the mistress of Wintersleigh.
‘Ever since we started this game,’ Louisa said coldly, ‘you two have done nothing but talk.’ She gave George and Frances a thorny look. ‘It is exceedingly discourteous, and I for one refuse to play another minute with people who seem so disinclined to play seriously. We therefore shall play no more.’
Michael too, rose to his feet, and after trying in vain to dissuade Louisa from her resolution, diplomatically suggested that it was time for some music, for, as he reasoned, who could have any serious objection to music? As it so happened, George did, but after the treatment he had just received from Louisa Wentworth, he thought it in his best interests to keep quiet.
After some purely instrumental pieces, singers were called upon. For the rest of the evening, solos and duets were sung much to Louisa’s delight, whose spirits had improved slowly throughout the night. Everyone except Jack and Frances sang. Jack, by this stage, was fast asleep in his father’s arms, and was spread out like a little star fish. Frances, on the other hand, was conscious of her own musical ignorance and lack of talent, and thought it best not to torment her aunt’s guests. Overall, Michael Brearly was by far the most competent singer, and despite George’s taunts that he sounded like a fog horn, was able to complete two songs and receive rapturous applause for his efforts.
Following his successful performance, Michael settled himself on an easy chair beside the Christmas tree. His musical exertions had wearied him more than he initially realised, and he closed his eyes, hoping to get at least ten minutes of respite. Not even one minute later the sounds of women’s screams woke him from his nap and forced him to get to his feet.
‘What is it?’ he cried. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘There’s a spider, Michael,’ Agnes said tremulously, from her position by the piano.
‘And a big furry one at that,’ George added. ‘Look at it,’ he said, pointing to the giant huntsman on the floral summer curtains, ‘you could get a fur coat out of that one.’
Michael simply stared. ‘Is that all? Good God, I thought someone was being murdered.’ He huffily returned to his seat.
‘Well don’t just sit there, Michael,’ Louisa said. ‘Something must be done about it, most assuredly.’
Michael groaned. ‘And what am I supposed to do, Louisa? It’s not doing anyone any harm.’
‘Not physical harm, perhaps,’ Agnes retorted, ‘but what about our peace of mind?’
Michael was growing more exasperated by the moment. ‘If it worries you so much, Agnes,’ he said tersely, ‘get a servant to take care of it.’
‘For pity’s sake,’ George interrupted, ‘let me sort it out. I’m not afraid of being outsmarted by a mere spider.’ He promptly removed one of his shoes, and holding it in his hands, approached the spider menacingly.
‘No!’ Louisa shrieked. ‘Not my curtains! They are probably worth more th
an your yearly salary.’
At that moment the spider jumped from the curtains onto the floor, and began scuttling towards Agnes near the piano. Her screams woke Jack from his sleep, and as he too was terrified of spiders, promptly burst into tears. Thomas meanwhile, watched the proceedings with stony faced bemusement.
‘Whoa, there he goes!’ George clamoured. ‘Right towards Miss Wentworth!’
Agnes screamed again. ‘Oh I hate you, George Brearly. I honestly do. You herded that thing in my direction.’ She then darted away from the piano, and stood beside her mother.
At last, Michael could take no more, and rising from his chair, walked over to the door. ‘I’m off,’ he declared to anyone who would listen to him. ‘I’ve got a house call to make.’
The party, however, was too engrossed with the spider’s movements to take heed of Michael’s words, and they certainly didn’t notice him when he withdrew from the room. He encountered no-one on his way out of the house, and as he made his escape out the front door he could hear the background sounds of the drawing room commotion echoing loudly down the hallway. Once he was outside, he sat wearily on one of Wintersleigh’s front steps and drew both hands to his head. His mind was fraught with Henry’s death, George’s confession, and the fact that both George and Agnes had failed to inform him of George’s change of occupation. Jack’s deteriorating behaviour was also a concern. Yesterday Michael had caught him smearing muddy handprints on the downstairs windows, and this morning Jack had placed dead worms in Michael’s favourite pair of shoes.
Michael heaved a sigh. If this was a sign of what was to come, he did not relish the future.
Breakfast at Midnight Page 21