What Happens At Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  “Ah yes, of course. I was expecting this.” He tore open the envelope. “Not so quickly, but I knew I could count on Win.”

  “Grayson.” Camille stared at him in horror, a dreadful sense of apprehension twisting in her stomach. “What have you done?”

  “A brilliant job, I would say.” He pulled out a folded note, shook it open and read.

  “Children!” Beryl sputtered and grabbed her sister’s arm. “They’re everywhere, Camille. Everywhere, I tell you.”

  “Grayson.” Camille studied him closely. The damnable man didn’t look the least bit concerned, but then perhaps children didn’t affect him the way they did Beryl. “Why are there children in the house?”

  “Well, as you are trying to have a Christmas based on the works of Mr. Dickens, and most of his books have orphans in them . . .” He shrugged. “I thought a few orphans would only increase the authenticity.”

  “ ‘Orphans’?” Disbelief widened her eyes. “Orphans?”

  He grinned in an all too satisfied manner. “Orphans.”

  “Grayson.” Camille resisted the urge—no, the need—to scream. “Oliver Twist has orphans! Great Expectations has orphans! The Old Curiosity Shop has orphans! There are no orphans in A Christmas Carol!”

  “Are you sure?” he asked with obvious suspicion.

  “Yes,” she hissed the word.

  “My mistake.” He shrugged. “But as it happens . . .” He glanced back at the note. “These are not orphans. They were simply going to act the part of orphans.”

  “I don’t want orphans!”

  “Not that we aren’t concerned about orphans,” Beryl said quickly. “Camille and I both raise funds and donate and do what we can to help the plight of—”

  “Now is not the time,” Camille snapped.

  “I thought it was worth mentioning, as you’re not being the least bit charitable at the moment,” Beryl said, “toward orphans. At Christmas.”

  Camille clenched her teeth. “I do not want orphans for Christmas!”

  “Excellent, as you do not have orphans but merely children. Although”—he leaned closer and lowered his voice in a confidential manner—“I suspect if they can play the role of orphans, they can certainly play the role of whatever else you might wish of them. Christmas elves, perhaps?”

  “I don’t want Christmas elves either!” She clenched her fists, closed her eyes and counted to ten. Considering ways to murder Grayson was not productive at the moment. Time enough for that later. Remaining calm and serene was the best way to handle this. She inhaled a calming breath and opened her eyes. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? Where did these children come from?”

  “I, well . . .” He considered the question, although it seemed fairly straightforward to her. “You might say I leased them.”

  “You did what?”

  “In point of fact, I had Win lease them.” He shrugged in a modest manner. “But it was at my direction.”

  “You leased children?” she said. “How many children?”

  “Hundreds,” Beryl whispered in horror. “There are hundreds.”

  “Nonsense.” He cast Beryl a chastising look, as if she should know better than to think such a thing. “Where would Win find hundreds of children?” He glanced at the note. “There are only five.”

  “Five children?” Camille couldn’t stop staring at him.

  “Five boys,” Beryl said pointedly.

  He looked at the note again. “So it would appear.”

  “Send them back.”

  His brows drew together. “What?”

  “You heard me.” Camille waved in the direction of the road. “Send them back. All five of them. At once.”

  “If not sooner,” Beryl added.

  He frowned in confusion. “Why would we send them back?”

  He couldn’t possibly be this dull-witted not to see the problems a house full of children would cause. “First of all, Grayson, we have barely enough staff to provide for the people who are here now—let alone five children. Staff, I might point out, that while they were once servants, they are now actors acting as servants—”

  “And doing a fine job, really,” Beryl said. “Why, the cook is truly outstanding.”

  Grayson nodded. “Isn’t she, though?”

  “Have you tasted her—”

  “Stop it, both of you!” Camille glared. “Regardless of how well they are working out, as far as I know, the staff we do have does not include anyone with any experience with children. And, I daresay, neither Mrs. Montgomery-Wells nor Miss Murdock has any more familiarity with the needs of children than Beryl and I do. In addition, how am I expected to explain an influx of children in the house?”

  “Hmph.” Grayson’s brow furrowed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “No doubt.” She gritted her teeth. “Now, send them back.”

  “Oh, dear.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

  Beryl stared in stunned fascination.

  Camille braced herself. “And why can’t we?”

  “Well . . .” He shook the note at her. “It says right here that the family Win leased the children from—”

  Beryl made a strangling sound.

  “The butcher in the village,” he continued.

  Camille nodded. “Go on.”

  “It seems his wife hasn’t been to London since she was a girl, so Win sent them on a bit of a holiday. In the manner of a Christmas gift, apparently. It was very kind of him.” Gray smiled. Her hand itched to slap that smile away.

  “A Christmas gift?” Camille could barely choke out the words. “When will they return?”

  “Tomorrow. Unfortunately, we can only have them for one night.”

  “You leased the butcher’s children?” Beryl’s eyes widened. “The butcher—Mr. Carroll?”

  He glanced at the note. “That’s what it says here.”

  Beryl stared at him as if she wasn’t sure if he was brilliant or insane. “We have Carrolls for Christmas?”

  “Oh.” He paused. “My God, that is brilliant.”

  “ ‘Brilliant’ is not the word I would use,” Camille said sharply. Surely, he was not this thick? To think that orphans would make this . . . She narrowed her eyes and studied him. He smiled in an overly innocent manner, but the vaguest hint of unease shone in his eyes.

  Realization slammed into her. Of course he wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what he was doing. It hadn’t been said aloud, but he was as much as wagering she couldn’t create this perfect Christmas as he was that he could snatch Mrs. Fortesque from her. Well, two could play whatever game he was playing. And she would play it better.

  “There is nothing to be done about it then, I suppose.” Camille shrugged. “Save make the best of it.”

  “The best of it? How on earth do we make the best of it?” Beryl clutched her sister’s arm. “You haven’t seen them yet, Camille, but they’re fast.”

  “Then we must be even faster.” She gave her sister a firm look. “They are children and we are adults. And we outnumber them. However”—she turned her gaze on Grayson—“we shall all have to do our part.”

  “Oh?” Caution edged out innocence in his eyes.

  Obviously, Grayson hadn’t thought that far ahead. “As we can’t send them back, and we can’t turn them out in the cold, and as there is not enough staff to properly see to their needs, their care shall fall to all of us.” She smiled. “Including you.”

  “Oh, but I like children.” His smile matched hers. “I have always planned to have children of my own.”

  “As have I.” She turned to Beryl. “You need to keep in mind, dear, they are only children. They are not savages from the wilds of Africa. They are, no doubt, quite civilized and probably well trained. Think of them as nothing more than short people.”

  Beryl stared at her for a long moment; then set her shoulders bravely as if preparing for battle. “Yes, of course.” She patted a stray strand of hai
r back into place. “I don’t know what came over me. Sheer numbers, I suppose. They swarmed in like rats and scattered.” She cast an apprehensive look at the house behind her. “I don’t know where they are now.”

  “Then we shall have to locate them and gather them all together.” She hooked her elbow through her sister’s arm and started for the door. “There haven’t been children in this house at Christmas since Delilah was a child. It might be great fun to have them here. Why, we can play games and read stories, and they can help in the decorations. And, oh, Mrs. Fortesque does seem like the type that would enjoy nothing better than making Christmas sweets for little ones. Oh, my, yes. This will all work out beautifully.” She glanced back at Grayson. “Thank you, Grayson, this was indeed an excellent idea.”

  “Just trying to help.” His smile was less smug than it was a moment ago.

  “Oh yes, excellent,” Beryl muttered. “God bless us, everyone.”

  Fourteen

  Even without Beryl’s warning, Camille would have known there were children in the house the moment the door opened. The air was filled with the sound of children’s voices and peals of laughter. On the staircase leading to the foyer, five little boys of varying ages slid down the banisters with squeals of delight. A maid at the top of the stairs tried, with no success, to grab the children. A footman at the bottom stared as if he wasn’t sure if he should stop them, catch them or join them.

  “Lady Lydingham.” Fortesque appeared seemingly from nowhere. His clothes were disheveled; his few remaining strands of hair were out of order; there was a wild look in his eyes. “There has been a new development.”

  “I am well aware of that, Fortesque.” She handed him her muff and pulled off her hat. “But it is nothing we can’t handle.”

  “I don’t . . . We can’t . . .” The actor sputtered and couldn’t seem to get a complete sentence out.

  “Oh, he’s going to be a great deal of help,” Beryl said behind her.

  Grayson snorted back a laugh.

  “Come now, Fortesque, it is simply a change in the . . . in the script, nothing more than that.” Camille stepped toward the stairway. “You there, boys,” she said in a voice drawn from the governesses of her childhood. “Come down here this minute.”

  The children traded glances, then reluctantly came to line up at the foot of the stairway in a stair-step manner of their own, from tallest to shortest. Each and every head was topped with an unruly mass of curls in colors ranging from light brown to true blond, and each pair of eyes was very nearly the same shade of brown. The smallest two children looked exactly alike and held hands. The brothers would have looked like Christmas angels, had it not been for the mischievous glint in most of those eyes and an overall air of disarray.

  “Now then,” she said in a kind manner, “what are your names?”

  The tallest and, no doubt, the oldest, who looked to be about nine or ten, glanced at the others and then stepped forward. “I’m Thomas.” He nodded at the other boys. “These are my brothers. This is Simon.” The next in line nodded in a far more somber manner than she would have expected, given their unruly activity a minute ago. “And Walter.” Walter grinned a toothy grin. She bit back a smile of her own. “And George and Henry. They’re twins.” The two youngest boys, probably six years of age, smiled shyly.

  “Well, my goodness.” She adopted a look of surprise. “I have a twin as well.” She glanced at Beryl. “You see, we look almost exactly the same.”

  Thomas peered around her at Beryl. “She doesn’t look very friendly to me.” He lowered his voice as if to share a great secret. “She’s a bit skittish too, isn’t she?”

  Beryl’s eyes narrowed.

  Camille nodded. “Always has been, I’m afraid.” She considered them for a moment. “Tell me, Thomas, do you know why you’re here?”

  “Lord Stillwell told Father that you didn’t have any children,” Thomas said.

  “Of course he did.” She would have to murder Stillwell the moment after she dispatched his cousin.

  “And you wanted some for Christmas,” Walter added, glancing around. “It’s a big house if you don’t have children.”

  “It is, indeed. And as I have only ever had sisters, there have never been any boys here.”

  Walter shook his head as if that was a great shame.

  “And what did your parents tell you about your stay here?” she asked.

  “We are to be on our best behavior.” Simon glanced uneasily at the stairs.

  “Or Father will tan our bottoms,” Walter announced.

  “Therefore, there shall be no more sliding down the banisters.” She adopted a firm tone. “Agreed?”

  Thomas looked at his brothers, then nodded.

  “But”—Walter cast a longing look at the banisters—“they’re very good banisters.”

  “Perhaps . . . ,” Simon began, “if you were to try it, you would see why they are very good banisters.” He shook his head mournfully. “And why it would be a shame to waste them.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “I’ll tell you a secret.” She knelt down to be closer to eye level. “I did try it when I was a girl.” She met Simon’s gaze directly. “And I found myself in a great deal of trouble.”

  Simon nodded in a sympathetic manner.

  “Now, as you are to stay for the night, I think perhaps you would like to help with the decorating tomorrow. And, oh, I’m sure Mrs. Fortesque is already making gingerbread and . . .” An idea struck her and she paused. It would certainly serve Grayson right. She gestured for the boys to come closer and they gathered around her. “Tell me, boys, do you know what a masquerade is?”

  “Where people wear costumes and masks and the like?” Thomas asked.

  “That’s it exactly.” She beamed. “Well, we are having something of a masquerade here and you are all going to have a part to play.”

  “Can I be a pirate?” Walter’s eyes widened at the thought of piratical bliss. “With a cutlass and a patch over my eye?”

  “I want to be a pirate,” George, or maybe it was Henry, said.

  “Me too,” his twin echoed.

  “I’m afraid it’s not that kind of masquerade.” She shook her head. “But we shall all be pretending to be someone we aren’t.”

  “I don’t know.” Thomas shook his head slowly.

  “We’d get in trouble if we lied.” Concern creased Simon’s forehead.

  Walter elbowed him. “It’s not lying. It’s pretending. And if she tells us to do it, it would be disob . . . disbo . . .”

  “Disobedient?” she asked.

  Walter nodded. “That’s it. Mum said to do what Lady Lydingham said.”

  “To start with, you may all call me ‘Cousin Camille’ and my sister ‘Cousin Beryl.’ And you see the gentleman standing beside Cousin Beryl?” She looked over her shoulder at Grayson, and the boys followed her gaze. “You may call him ‘Uncle Grayson,’ and we shall pretend that you are all orphans who have come to live with him.”

  The boys traded glances.

  “Begging your pardon, Lady—Cousin Camille, but . . .” Thomas grimaced. “We’ve read stories about orphans and orphanages and workhouses and—”

  “Scary stories.” Walter’s eyes widened.

  “We really don’t want to be orphans, if it’s all the same to you,” Simon added quickly.

  The boys held their collective breaths. Her gaze slid from one worried face to the next and her heart melted. No, Camille could see why they didn’t wish to be orphans, given books like Oliver Twist. “Very well.” She thought for a moment. “You are not orphans but his nephews, come for a visit before Christmas.” Their expressions eased. “Will that do?”

  They nodded.

  “Now let me tell you a few things about your Uncle Grayson . . .” A few moments later, she sat back on her heels and studied the boys. “So you are clear on what you are to do?”

  Once again they exchanged glances and nodded.

  “And if you do it
very, very well, when you leave, I shall give each of you a shilling.”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “A whole shilling?” Simon asked, eyes wide at the thought of untold riches.

  She nodded. “A whole shilling.”

  Suspicion narrowed Thomas’s eyes. “For each of us?”

  “Each and every one. Do we have an agreement?” She held out her hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

  A wide grin spread across Thomas’s face. “Agreed.” He spit on his palm and held out his hand; his brothers followed suit.

  Camille cringed, forced a smile, shook five damp hands and stood up. Beryl rushed forward and handed her a handkerchief.

  “That was revolting.” Beryl cast a disgusted look at the children.

  “Initiations often are.” She grimaced, and addressed the children. “Now, do give a proper greeting to your Uncle Grayson.”

  “Their what?” Confusion flashed in Grayson’s eyes. At once, he was surrounded by little boys. The older boys made him the center of a barrage of suggestions and questions as to what kind of games he liked, and when should they play, and what should they do now; the twins simply clung to his pant legs.

  Beryl glanced at her sister. “Camille, what have you done?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘revenge.’ That would be beneath me. But ‘retribution’ has a nice ring to it. I believe I have solved the problem quite nicely,” Camille said quietly, then raised her voice to be heard over the children. “They are playing the parts of your beloved nephews who adore you almost as much as you adore them.”

  “They do?” The look on his face was not quite as horrified as Beryl’s had been but still apprehensive. Good! He tried gently to disengage himself. Her sister was right: It did seem as though there were hundreds or at least dozens of children. “I do?”

  “That’s why they have come to visit you.” Camille turned to the footman and maid still watching the unfolding scene. “Surely, they came with hats, scarves, coats, mittens, that sort of thing. Have them dressed for the out-of-doors immediately, please.” She caught Grayson’s gaze. “You and your nephews can put some of that boundless energy to use and gather greenery for decorating the house tomorrow.”