A Christmas Promise

by Mary Balogh

  “You don’t quite understand, do you?” he said. “They are not parts we can choose or not choose to play. They are there. We are the Earl and Countess of Falloden. To these people we are great personages, to be treated with some awe.”

  Her smile faltered. “Are you warning me?” she asked. “That is it, is it not? You are reminding me who I have become so that I will not disgrace you by behaving with vulgar familiarity as I did at the school yesterday.”

  Perhaps after all she was ready to quarrel. He reached out a hand and rubbed his knuckles along her jaw. “Hedgehog,” he said. “Let’s go down, or there will be no one to greet. And I like you very well as you are, Eleanor. I liked the way you were at the school yesterday.”

  “You did?” She looked at him uncertainly, warily. “It was not vulgar?”

  “My grandmother might have called it so,” he said. “I am not my grandmother.”

  “Oh,” she said, and took his arm.

  People were going to be arriving at any moment, he thought, and felt foolishly apprehensive again. People he felt quite comfortable with out in the fields or in their cottages he dreaded meeting socially in his own ballroom. He would take refuge in his most stately manner, he supposed, and yet he did not want to behave that way. He wanted these people to be able to enjoy the concert and their children’s performances.

  Then he saw the Transomes. Though perhaps it was unfair to use that single name, he thought, when actually he saw Gullises and Weekeses as well as Jason and Charles and Tim. Yes, and Bertie too. There they all were, congregated close to the ballroom doors and all in their best party humor—which was just a little more exuberant than their usual humor. Uncle Sam was rubbing his hands together.

  “This is quite like old times,” he said, his voice booming even more loudly than it usually did. “Do you remember the Christmas pageants, Ellie? Your Aunt Irene was forever digging me in the ribs so that I would not laugh in the wrong places and wound you children’s feelings.”

  “This is Christmas,” Uncle Harry said, beaming around at everyone. “Children and concerts and parties. What else is Christmas all about? Bring on the next generation, I say. Tom is doing his part all right. It’s your turn now, Ellie. And everyone else’s duty to choose partners as soon as possible.”

  He chuckled as a chorus of “Oh, Uncle Harry!” came from the younger generation.

  “Well, I’ll be making an announcement along those lines later tonight—after midnight,” he said with a wink for Aunt Beryl.

  Mabel was blushing, the earl saw at a glance, and George was looking at her, thoroughly pleased with himself.

  “On with the concert, I say,” Uncle Ben exclaimed, “and bring on the party and the tea. This is Christmas and time to stuff stomachs to overflowing. What say you, Randy?”

  The earl could feel his wife looking up at him. Her arm on his was somewhat tense, and her eyes were anxious, he saw when he looked down at her. A few days before he would have been a little shocked and definitely taken aback. Now he was merely amused.

  “For myself, Uncle Ben,” he said, “I intend to eat until my clothes are one stitch short of bursting at the seams.”

  Everyone chuckled, himself included. Though he sobered quickly. There were several people coming up the stairs and approaching the ballroom. All of them looked rather as if they were on the way to their own executions. He mentally adjusted his manner and smiled.

  And then the Transomes—including all the extras who might as well have borne that name, judging from their behavior—greeted his guests. Oh, they were not so ill-mannered as to crowd him out and give him no chance to do so himself. He shook everyone by the hand and bade them welcome to his home. His wife at his side did the same, though she also assured several anxious mothers that yes, their children had arrived some time before and were in a salon with their teacher getting ready.

  But it was the Transomes who pumped the hand of every new arrival and boomed out greetings and laughed and chattered and reminisced about Christmases past and assured everyone that this was the very highlight of the season’s festivities and took everyone into the ballroom and seated them before the makeshift stage and sat among them to continue the conversations. And generally set all his guests so much at their ease that the noise level in the ballroom became almost deafening. As if there were a few hundred Transomes in there.

  “Well,” the earl said, looking down at his wife when it seemed that everyone had arrived and was seated, “so much for grandeur and awe.”

  “I am sorry,” she said, “if the occasion has been spoiled for you. But I will not apologize for my family. They have helped everyone to relax.”

  “Including me,” he said, and she looked up at him in some surprise. “How I envy your family, Eleanor. They have so much capacity for enjoying life. One loses so much when one thinks and behaves only as one ought. As one ought by the standards of some aristocratic killjoy, that is.”

  She smiled at him warmly, her eyes fully focused on his so that for a moment he forgot the roomful of noisy people just beyond the doors of the ballroom and smiled back at her.

  “I am going to see if I can help Miss Brooks with the children,” she said. “I would be willing to wager—if it were ladylike to wager, of course—that at least a dozen last-minute crises have arisen.”

  “It is on the tip of my tongue to advise you to stay away,” he said, “on the assumption that the sight of the countess will only intensify the crises and create a dozen new ones. But I am learning not to trust the tip of my tongue. Go, then.” He almost added the words “my love” but stopped himself just in time. There was amity between them as they had agreed, first in London and then during the journey down to Grenfell. Perhaps there was a little more than amity. But he must make no assumptions about her feelings. He must not rush his fences.

  He watched her hurry down the hallway to the small salon that was serving as a dressing room for the children. And he felt totally relaxed, he realized, and ready to enjoy the coming hour or two. All his dread and his fear of awkwardness had disappeared. Strange, he thought. He was learning a great deal from his countess about how to be an effective earl and landlord. When he had expected to have to be the teacher, he was in fact the pupil.

  A cit’s daughter. A coal merchant’s daughter. Eleanor. His wife. His love. He smiled after her disappearing figure and turned toward the ballroom. The level of conversation dropped a little as he entered, and a few of his laborers looked as if they thought they might be expected to scramble to their feet. But he smiled and nodded about him and took a seat at the back and remembered Uncle Harry’s words.

  Yes, this was Christmas. Children and excitement and anticipation. And warmth and fellowship. How fortunate that Christmas had found him at last. How fortunate that Mr. Joseph Transome, needing to settle his affairs in a great hurry before his death, had fixed his attention on him when choosing a husband for his daughter.

  He wished suddenly that Mr. Transome were still alive so that he could thank him.

  Everyone had come, Eleanor assured the children. All were eagerly anticipating the concert. And no, of course they would not forget their lines or their steps in the dance. One never did when the big moment came. And if by chance—by some very strange chance—they did, then Miss Brooks would be ready to prompt them and all their parents would love them and feel proud anyway. And she was so looking forward to seeing their performances, she assured them. She could scarcely be more excited if she tried.

  The children were still highly nervous when she left them and Miss Brooks looked taut enough to snap in two. But at least she seemed to have left them in a mood of nervous excitement rather than nervous dread. She smiled as she hurried back to the ballroom and remembered what Uncle Harry had said. It was her turn to produce children so that the next generation could perform Christmas pageants.

  She hoped—oh, she hoped it would be soon. Two nights of loving and it was the very middle of her month. Perhaps already … But she must
not expect anything too soon. If she did, she would only be doomed to disappointment if nothing happened. She must have patience. And she must hope that her husband had meant what he said when he had told her that she must expect him nightly from now on. If not this month, then, next month or the month after. She so wanted to be with child. With his child.

  She smiled brightly at everyone when she entered the ballroom, noted the lowered noise level, and responded to it.

  “They are all ready,” she said. “Now if they can just force their legs to obey their will, they will be here within a few minutes.”

  There was general laughter as she took the chair beside her husband’s, smiled at him, and set her hand in his. Too late she realized that the last gesture was probably quite inappropriate. But she could not withdraw her hand without being conspicuous. His own had closed about it warmly and rested it against his thigh.

  “Oh, my lord,” she said, “I am so glad you suggested having the concert here.”

  “Are you?” he said. “And so am I.”

  But before she could wonder at this new warmth between them—in him as well as in her—Miss Brooks appeared in the doorway, followed by the children in silent single file. There was a sudden hush, Uncle Sam began clapping and everyone followed suit, and the children filed up onto the stage to sing their first pair of Christmas carols. Three or four voices sang sweetly in tune. The rest growled along somewhere in the base octaves of the pianoforte. Eleanor smiled and leaned forward in her seat.

  There were choir renditions and solos and duets and recitations and dances. And finally the Christmas pageant itself, in which Miss Brooks had ingeniously devised speaking parts for every single child. Mary spoke in a whisper that probably even the baby Jesus could not hear; Joseph boomed out his lines in a voice that would have put even Uncle Sam to shame; the angel of the Lord forgot her lines, but the shepherds were so busy being sore afraid that Miss Brooks was able to prompt her quite unobtrusively; one shepherd brought his crook down on the bare toes of another shepherd and prompted lines that were not in the script, not to mention a little unrehearsed hopping on one foot; one king’s turban fell down about his face as he knelt to lay frankincense at the foot of the manger and Mary had to help him readjust it; the heavenly host inexplicably consisted of the growlers rather than the singers.

  But it was all wonderful. Not just because the performers were children and all their parents and grandparents were sitting and watching, fairly bursting with pride and amusement. Oh, not just because of that. But because however imperfectly reconstructed, it was the Christmas story. Jesus was born and all was wonder and awe and happiness. There was in the whole story not one whisper of the Easter that was to follow so soon after. Only the wonder of unconditional love come to earth in a newborn baby.

  “Oh,” Eleanor said, looking up at her husband after the children had all taken their bows and filed out of the ballroom, looking considerably more cheerful than they had when they came in. But she could think of no other words. Her hand, she saw, was still in his even though she must have released it several times in order to applaud.

  He raised her hand to his lips. “I must go up there and remind everyone that all are invited to the party,” he said. “Come with me, Eleanor.”

  She accompanied him onto the stage, their hands still clasped, and she smiled down at everyone as he spoke, praising their children and their teacher and inviting them all to stay for the children’s games and the tea. She felt the response of her husband’s people—the warmth and the affection. It was true, perhaps, that they would always be set somewhat apart, she and her husband. They could never make real friends of these people. Like it or not, she was a countess and he an earl. And maybe that was the way it should be. Her husband, after all, had a great deal of responsibility for their well-being. But warmth and affection were enough. They were far preferable to awe and distant respect.

  THE ORIGINAL IDEA HAD been to have games for the children and then tea for everyone. Of course, that idea did not take into account the fact that there would be Transomes present, all but two of them adults. But children to the very heart when it came to games.

  When “Marching to Jerusalem” was announced, Uncle Sam took charge, arranging the chairs in a long line down the center of the ballroom, booming out instructions for the children to sit down, and announcing that there were at least a dozen chairs to spare. And so Eleanor took one and Uncle Ben another. George and Mabel joined in the game. Then a few of the less shy parents came to occupy still-empty chairs, egged on by their excited children. And a merry romp it was, the last adult falling out only when there was no other adult to roust but only children. A child must, of course, win each game.

  And when it came to blindman’s buff, Aunt Ruth declared that she had not played it for years and agreed to play it this time, provided Muriel joined her. That drew Viscount Sotherby into the game. Then Jane and Harvey joined in and at least a dozen of the village parents. And Eleanor, of course, who was unanimously chosen by shrieking children to be the first to have her eyes bandaged.

  The party became truly that, with everyone either participating or smiling on from the sidelines and cheering relatives. Indeed, the Reverend Blodell declared to the earl, his lordship had shown great condescension this day and had earned the eternal gratitude of his people. The earl felt an unaccustomed itch to join in the games.

  Then, while Mrs. Blodell was repeating to him her husband’s speech but at far greater length, he found that he had no choice. Races had been organized and the third was to be a relay race, two adults and five children to each team.

  “And we will have his lordship, the Earl of Falloden, to lead team number one,” Uncle Sam was announcing in his customary roar, “and Sir Albert Hagley to lead number two, and …”

  A relay race. Good Lord! And yet as he crossed the ballroom to join his team—the other adult was Eleanor just as the other adult on team number two was Rachel—he found that his people had been given the perfect opportunity to let off some feelings about him. There were whistles, cheers, jeers, catcalls. He grinned.

  “How does one do this, anyway?” he asked his wife as all the other teams were forming up.

  “You have to step inside a sack,” she said, “and hold it up while you jump the length of the ballroom and back. Then you pass the sack on to me.”

  “Good Lord,” he said incautiously.

  She laughed merrily and was joined by the children on their team, who had been listening.

  “It is easy, m’lord,” one little boy said, “as long as you do not fall.”

  “As long as I do not …” The children shrieked with glee as he frowned. “And what do I do if I fall?”

  But Uncle Sam was giving the order for the first member of each team to get ready to scramble inside his sack. “When I say ‘Go!’ ” he said.

  The earl soon discovered what one did when one fell. One rolled and crawled and tried in vain to get back onto one’s feet without entangling them in the folds of the sack. And one inspired loud jeers from the onlookers and agonized groans from one’s team members. And one was invariably the last back for the changeover to the second person on the team. One also acquired a bruised elbow and an inability to stop laughing.

  His wife did much better—the result of a lifetime of practice, he guessed—and caught up ground on the other ladies, most of whom either fell or moved rather slowly. His team was third going into the third round, second going into the fifth, and second at the end.

  “Well,” he said, laughing around at his team, “that was fun. And who cares about coming in first, eh? Second sounds good enough to me.”

  A row of footmen appeared with trays of food and drink as their master was running a three-legged race with Aunt Catherine, and set them out on the tables that had been laid at one side of the ballroom. The race over, a somewhat disheveled and breathless earl announced that tea was ready and that his guests were invited to help themselves. He suggested that contrary to custo
m, the children be allowed to go first, and the tables were attacked by hot and cheering hordes. The lemonade and the cold fruit punch proved to be the most popular items at first.

  And then somehow, just when the party might have been expected to come to a natural end, the dancing began. Country dances, vigorously executed by people who were more used to performing the steps on the village green or about a maypole. It was hard to know who had suggested it—it was not Uncle Sam this time. When Uncle Sam suggested something, one was left in no doubt of the fact. Miss Brooks was playing the pianoforte and a little later the viscount. And almost everyone joined in. There were sets of children and sets of young people and sets of older people.

  Somewhere in the middle of all the country dances Lord Sotherby played a waltz, throwing most of the dancers into consternation until they watched the few couples who knew how to perform the steps and joined in after a few minutes, laughing and watching their feet. Even the children tried it.

  The earl waltzed with his wife and wondered if there could be more exhilaration dancing with her even at a fashionable ball to the accompaniment of a full orchestra. Sometime they would try it, he thought. Sometime when it would no longer matter that she did not wear mourning and he could take her back to London. Not that he craved London and its amusements. He rather thought that he could be content at Grenfell for a lifetime if this amity—and perhaps something more—with his wife could only continue. If only they did not discover in a few days’ time that it had all been Christmas and nothing else.

  Bertie was dancing with Rachel, he saw, their heads bent together, talking. They had eyes for no one but each other. So much for Bertie’s determination to stay away from the girl today. He wondered if Uncle Ben was expecting a declaration at any moment and if Bertie was still reluctant to be snared. But then, the two of them had known each other for only a few days. It could easily be construed as a Christmas flirtation and no more.