What Happens At Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Annoyance sounded in Beryl’s voice.

  “I didn’t know how to tell you.” Camille shrugged. “It wasn’t my secret to tell. And I thought it would be too difficult for you. I suppose I was protecting you.”

  “Me?” Beryl stared. “But I’ve always been the strong one.”

  Camille shook her head. “Not about this sort of thing. I knew you would never be able to forgive either of them.”

  “And you have?” Beryl said sharply. “Aren’t you angry?”

  “I was for a long time.” She looked at her mother. “At both of you. Until I realized you told us he was dead because you thought it was better to have a dead father than one who was too selfish to live up to his obligations. It was hard to fault you for wishing to protect us.” She turned to her father. “And I was angry at you for being selfish, until I understood that even the best of men can feel trapped in a life they didn’t choose.” She looked at her twin. “As for forgiveness, I can’t really say, because I don’t really know. I do know he did not leave us impoverished. I know he wrote to Mother every few months. I know he asked to come home. I know Mother refused to allow that. And I know he saw Uncle Basil fairly regularly.

  “Forgiveness has to be earned. I think Mother has earned ours through the years. As for Father, he may well have paid for his mistake.” She met her father’s gaze. “My forgiveness is not as important as hers. Hers is the heart you broke.”

  “I am sorry,” Mother said softly.

  “I know you are.”

  “I am sorry as well.” Father shook his head. “For leaving, of course, and for not coming home when I should have.”

  “I told you—” Mother began.

  “I should have ignored you,” he said in a hard tone. “I should have done what I knew was right. In that, I failed.”

  “This will not be easy, you know.” Beryl stared at her father. “For any of us.”

  “I do not expect it to be.” Father shrugged.

  “Still, it is Christmas,” Beryl said slowly. “Which does seem to me to be an appropriate place to start.”

  “What about Delilah?” Camille asked.

  “That’s why I sent her and the others on a walk. We thought we should speak to you first.”

  “Are you all right?” Camille said to her twin.

  “Well . . .” Beryl glanced up at her husband. He nodded slightly. “I’ve known for several years. I found some of Father’s letters.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  Beryl winced. “I was protecting you.”

  “It seems the only one in this family who was only thinking of himself was me,” Father said.

  “Not entirely.” Mother met his gaze. “Oh, don’t mistake my words, you were for a long time, far longer than I really expected. But all this”—she swept a wide gesture at her daughters—“took the kind of courage I never imagined you would find.” She hesitated. “When I told you never to return, I thought surely you would ignore me. I thought you’d be back. And every time I responded to your letters, I thought, ‘This time he’ll ignore me. He’ll finally come home.’ ” She met her husband’s gaze. “It only took you twenty years. I suppose it could have been longer.”

  “It should have been less,” he said.

  “It scarcely matters who should have done what at this point, does it?” Beryl looked from one parent to the next. “It seems to me we either wallow in recrimination and remorse, or we move on from here. I would much prefer to move on.”

  “This is not . . .” Mother paused and managed a wry smile. “Well, not exactly the Christmas I imagined.”

  “No, Mother,” Beryl said firmly. “In many ways, it’s better.”

  Camille stared at her twin. This was not how she’d ever expected Beryl would take the news of their father’s reappearance. She wasn’t entirely sure how she was taking it either, but then she’d known he was alive far longer than Beryl had. And her sister was right: This would not be easy for any of them. But then wasn’t anything truly worth having worth the effort?

  “Psst.”

  “Good Lord, not now.” Camille heaved a resigned sigh. “If you will excuse me.” She cast her sister an encouraging smile, stepped out of the dining room and came face to face with Delilah.

  “What on earth is going on?” Suspicion shone in Delilah’s eyes. “I was summoned the moment we entered the house.”

  “Mother and, um, Uncle Basil . . .” Camille wasn’t sure what to say or rather what not to say. Even now, this wasn’t her secret to tell. “Well, they wish to speak to you.”

  Delilah peered around her to look into the dining room. “I see Beryl and her husband are there as well.” She straightened and met Camille’s gaze. “This is significant then, isn’t it?”

  Camille nodded. “Very.”

  “I did wonder . . . The moment I saw Uncle Basil, I suspected . . .” The younger woman sighed. “It’s past time I suppose.”

  Camille stared at her sister. “What’s past time?”

  “Oh.” Delilah hesitated then shook her head. “Nothing, nothing at all.”

  Camille studied her closely. “You know, don’t you?” She glanced at the gathering in the dining room then looked back at her sister. “About Fat—”

  “I don’t know anything,” Delilah said quickly. “I have always thought there were things about Mother’s life she did not wish to share. Things that might be too painful or too personal. If at some point she wishes me to know those things then she will tell me. As she hasn’t, I know nothing.”

  “Then you do know.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She sidestepped her sister and moved toward the dining room, paused and glanced back. “But when one spends a great deal of time locked in the attic one does tend to read anything one finds.” She nodded and stepped into the dining room.

  Camille stared after her. Who would have imagined that all three sisters knew their parents’ secrets yet no one said a word for fear of upsetting someone else.

  Fortesque cleared his throat. “Lady Lydingham?”

  She’d almost forgotten he was there. “What is it now?”

  “You’re needed in the attic.”

  “The attic?” She drew her brows together. “Why?”

  “I couldn’t say, my lady,” he said in a lofty manner.

  She narrowed her gaze. “Couldn’t or won’t?”

  “I have my instructions, my lady,” he said in a no-nonsense manner. “I am to escort you.”

  “Are you?” What on earth was this about? The last time she was in the attic . . . She studied him for a long moment. His expression was as impassive as Clement’s would have been. The man really played the role of butler quite well. “Then we shall go to the attic.”

  Fortesque didn’t say a word on the way up the flights of stairs. When they reached the foot of the attic stairs, he picked up a small silver tray with a single piece of chocolate on it and presented it to her with a flourish. “Chocolate, my lady.”

  She raised a brow. “Swiss?”

  “Of course.” He sniffed. “You are to enjoy that, and I shall return in a moment.”

  “Very well.” She took the chocolate and popped it into her mouth. It was rich and sweet, but wasted on her at the moment. Anticipation sped up her heart.

  Fortesque fairly sprinted up the stairs, opened the door enough to poke his head in and then gestured for her to join him. As soon as she was a step behind him, he opened the door, stepped into the attic and swept a dramatic bow.

  “My lady, your prince awaits.”

  “My what?” She stepped into the attic and her breath caught.

  The room was aglow with the lights from dozens of chandeliers and candles. Swags of satins and silks and laces covered the boxes and the walls and the ceiling. Ferns and palms and potted plants had been brought up from the conservatory. Mistletoe hung everywhere she looked. The attic had vanished and in its place was a ballroom glittering with l
ight and magic.

  “My lady, it is my honor to present”—Fortesque stepped aside and gestured with a grand wave of his arm—“the Christmas ball.”

  Off to one side, the footman who had played the violin last night, now dressed in the court costume of another age, started playing her favorite waltz. The other footman stood nearby, holding a tray bearing two glasses of champagne.

  Grayson stepped forward, wearing some sort of antiquated uniform. It was white with gold trim, and sported glittering medals and a blue sash. She had never seen anyone so dashing, so perfect. Her prince. Her true love.

  “May I have this dance, my lady?” he said and swept an impressive bow.

  She swallowed hard. “I fear I am not dressed for a ball.”

  “And yet, you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.” He held out his arms. She stepped into his embrace and they began to waltz.

  “Grayson, this is . . .” She shook her head.

  “Christmas, Camille,” he said with a smile. “The first of every Christmas yet to come.”

  “How did you . . . Where did you . . .”

  “You were right about all sorts of things being stored in these trunks and boxes.” He chuckled. “Although it took most of yesterday to find what I needed and to arrange all this.”

  “Which is why you were so preoccupied yesterday.” She stared up at him. “You did this for me.”

  “I would do anything for you, and you did want a proposal from a prince for Christmas.”

  They whirled over the floor, in perfect step with each other. At last.

  “I did until I realized it was the wrong prince.” She drew a deep breath. “How much did you give him?”

  “A hundred pounds and ship’s passage to America.” He shrugged. “It seemed a small enough price to pay.”

  “Last night, you knew it was me?”

  “Not until the end.” He chuckled. “I’ve never had a conversation with your sister in which she hasn’t insulted me or said something sarcastic.”

  “You should know, I had already decided, before last night, not to marry him.” She paused. “It’s possible I decided the moment you stepped back into my life.”

  “Good, then you shall marry me.”

  She arched a brow. “Shouldn’t that be in the form of a question?”

  He laughed. “You’re absolutely right, and I would hate to make a mistake about this sort of thing. After all, it has taken me eleven years.” He pulled to a stop, gathered her closer against him and gazed into her eyes. “Will you dance with me on every Christmas Day from now until we breathe our last? Will you let me make amends for my past mistakes every day for the rest of our lives? Will you argue with me and wager with me and never let me forget what a lucky man I am? Will you marry me, Camille?”

  She stared at him for a long moment and smiled. “I always would have.”

  He bent to kiss her.

  “There is one thing, though,” she said quickly. “Not a condition exactly. More in the realm of a favor.”

  “Oh?”

  “We don’t need to mention what has happened here at Christmas ever again, do we?” A hopeful note sounded in her voice. “The actors, and, well, the prince, and this entire charade. It can stay here, can’t it?”

  He laughed. “I’m fairly certain no one in your family wants this farce of yours known beyond the walls of the manor, so what happens here will stay here. But, Camille”—he gazed into her eyes—“there isn’t a moment of this Christmas that I will ever forget, nor do I wish to. And it brought us together at last.”

  “It has not been my finest hour.”

  “On the contrary, you were brilliant.” He grinned. “And, Camille”—he lowered his lips to hers—“what happened here at Christmas is just the beginning.”

  as for the supporting actors . . .

  Mrs. Montgomery-Wells retired from the stage to a cozy cottage in the country, where her new friends could never quite figure out what her given name was as it seemed to change every time she was asked.

  Mr. Henderson became a beloved writer of children’s adventure stories.

  Miss Murdock gained notoriety in burlesque theater wearing very little of substance and was rumored for a time to be the mistress of a foreign dignitary.

  Mr. Dunstan vanished into obscurity.

  Mrs. Fortesque did indeed accept the position of cook in the London house of Mr. and Mrs. Elliott.

  Mr. Fortesque found a measure of theatrical success as the manager of a small London theater, where he often performed on stage.

  A play entitled The Christmas Pageant at Milton Manor was a hit on the London stage and became a staple of the holiday season for many years.

  It was written anonymously.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th St.

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2012 by Cheryl Griffin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012941701

  ISBN: 978-0-7582-7951-4