by Jo Beverley
“Don’t fuss. If anything I’m restless. If my hips didn’t ache, I’d go for a long walk.”
“Heaven help us, isn’t that typical of a Malloren?” Lord Walgrave addressed that humorously to Genova, making it hard for her to move away, and if she did, what could she do?
“They say my mother walked miles every day when she was carrying children,” Lady Elf protested, “and she bore them without trouble, even Cyn and I.” She put a hand to her back. “I must say I hoped to be sharing Christmas with my baby, rather than with a sore back and hips.”
“My mother said she felt the same about me,” Genova said, stealing glances at the mild kiss, “and it came true.”
“You were a Christmas baby?”
Genova realized what she’d done and tried to think of an evasion.
“When’s your birthday?”
She could hardly lie. “Today, just. A half hour before midnight, or so I am told.”
Lady Elf clapped her hands. “Diana! It’s Genova’s birthday. We must have a birthday ball!”
Genova tried to protest, but was ignored.
“But of course!” said Lady Arradale, coming over. “I intended an informal hop once the work is done, but this will make it special. To the ballroom, everybody!”
Genova could do nothing but allow herself to be swept by the company up the stairs and into a grand ballroom already transformed. She gaped at a miraculous illusion of a village in the mountains.
The open floor was dusted with chalk, which gave the look of snow, and surrounded by small, steep-roofed cottages. They would be big enough only for a couple to sit in, but in proportion to everything else, they looked full-size.
Miniature fir trees in pots created the effect of forest around the cottages, and that was continued by trees painted on cloths hung on the walls, cloths that ended in white peaks, like mountains. They sparkled in the light of three chandeliers, as if they truly were snowcapped.
“It’s amazing,” Genova said.
“It has worked out well, hasn’t it?” Lady Arradale was beside her. “The true ball will be tomorrow, Christmas Day, but everyone deserves some merriment now.”
Music started. Genova saw that six musicians had taken their places in a greenery-hung gallery. Lord Rothgar took Genova’s hand and led her into the center of the room. “This is Miss Smith’s birthday ball, so she must call the first dance and choose her partner.”
Pinned firmly at the very heart of this artificial, glittering world, Genova was struck by panic. Lady Arradale had talked of an informal hop, but this seemed very formal to her. She didn’t know what dances were suitable here. She was going to embarrass herself.
And she’d dreamed she could fit in!
“I will drink poison if you choose anyone but me, beloved,” Ash said, coming forward to take her hand. “Especially as you have stationed yourself beneath some mistletoe.”
Genova looked up and realized that she was exactly under a mistletoe bough that hung from the central chandelier—and that Lord Rothgar had placed her there. She shot him a glance before moving into Ash’s arms.
He drew her close, but just before his lips touched hers, he murmured, “Call for the ”Merry Dancers‘.“
She kissed him back, her love greater because of gratitude. He’d realized her predicament and solved it.
Her doubts fled. This had to be right.
She tried to read his expression, but it could mean anything or nothing. He reached up and plucked a berry, but then took something out of his pocket.
A guinea, here?
“A gift for a kiss,” he said, “and what better for you, my love, than a ring.”
Light flared on a diamond. A large diamond. He took her left hand but she pulled back. Diamonds had become popular for betrothal rings because the stone was so resistant to damage and would endure. A beautiful thought, but until she won Ash’s love it would be as false as the mountains on the wall.
He raised his brows and she surrendered. What else could she do but let him slide the ring onto her finger? It was a little loose, but only a little, and candlelight sparked rainbows from the magnificent stone.
Everyone applauded. Genova smiled, but she could only think how lovely this would be if real.
“You must call the dance, Miss Smith,” Lady Arradale reminded her.
Looking at Ash, Genova said, “The ”Merry Dancers‘.“ It was a simple one that she knew. If he’d suggested it, it would be appropriate. She could trust him that far. No, she could trust him much further than that. He had never promised more than he could fulfill and he had warned her not to get involved.
If this broke her heart, it would not be his fault.
The music started up, and Ash led her into place. She would at least have this, a dance with him. She knew she would count all these little things like pearls knotted one by one onto silk, and carry them with her if she lost this fight and lost him.
She was glad of the lively line dance that allowed little opportunity for conversation or thought. As always, it became impossible to be gloomy when in a dance.
She passed down the line and touched hands with all the ladies, including the older Miss Inchcliff, whose eyes were brilliant with excitement. The younger people were here, including small children in a line dance of their own, giggling as they bumped and hurtled up and down.
Genova turned with a girl—Miss Yardley?—who must almost be of age to be presented at court. She was flirting with all the men like a puppy testing its teeth on a thrown leather ball. Miss Yardley ignored a couple of young lads who, though old enough for the adult dance, looked uncertain as to whether this was a treat or penance.
They were all in training for their purpose, Genova realized, even here at an impromptu celebration. Training to be courtiers, to amuse, to flirt, to promote their family’s interests, to progress in a career or marry well.
She was trained, too. Her parents had not neglected manners and etiquette, but her practical experience had been somewhat more varied. Did knowledge of how to eat from a communal dish of spicy lamb stew that included eyeballs count?
It might, she thought. She knew well the lesson that a guest must adapt to the host, whether it be at a house or in a country.
The first set ended, and punch and other drinks were carried in. Ash led Genova over for refreshment, and she thought he hadn’t escaped the magic of the dance.
“Exercise becomes you,” he said.
“You mean that I’m flushed and hearty?”
“I mean that you are beautiful. Like a rich, spicy dish.”
“Complete with sheep’s eyes?” The joke escaped, but of course he couldn’t see the connection.
“What?”
So she told him, describing a feast in Morocco and how the British had been trying to slip the eyeballs into their pockets.
“That must have created an interesting discovery for your maid.”
“Oh, I ate mine.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“I had the distinct impression that our host knew the eyes would upset us and was enjoying the fuss.”
He laughed, his eyes admiring. Another pearl, but she was wincing inside. Why had she talked about sheep’s eyes? It might be interesting, even admirable, but it wasn’t a recommendation as a marchioness.
But then, as she danced with Captain Dalby, a naval officer, she knew nothing good could come of pretense. If she tricked Ash into marriage with an artificial Genova Smith, that would surely lead to disaster.
Captain Dalby turned out to know her father, which was delightful, and with some prompting she remembered a few encounters over the years. She came to see that he was an admirer, and could even be a suitor. Once she might have at least flirted, even though she didn’t want the navy life. Now she gently discouraged.
Lord Bryght claimed her next, then Dr. Egan. She never lacked a partner, and she danced with Ash twice more. More pearls on her string. Then, sooner than she could have imagined, clocks chimed
twelve.
“It’s Christmas Day!” people cried out, and, “Merry Christmas!”
Everyone mingled, kissing cheeks and offering good wishes, and then they were all swept out and down to the hall where the great Yule log awaited. Genova watched from Ash’s side. Another pearl.
Within moments, a dignified, gray-haired servant marched out from the back of the house with a burning tinder in his hand. “The Yule light, milord!”
It was the fragment of last year’s log, preserved until now to provide continuity of light and warmth. Rothgar took it and applied it to the tinder. The tinder caught, then flames began to lick at the dry bark. Soon the great fire roared. Christmas had arrived.
Genova saw Ash observing the flames with an unreadable expression and knew he was thinking of vigor, still torn between allegiances. She took his hand. After a moment, his fingers wove with hers.
That gave her courage to say, “Peace is always the best choice.”
“If it can be achieved with honor,” he said.
She swallowed an ache caused by his doubts, but said, “You’re right. That is essential. Some wars are justified.”
She didn’t add the obvious coda—Is yours? He was already struggling with that question.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Genova, dear.”
Thalia was by her side, bright-eyed. “Isn’t it time for presepe?”
How could she have forgotten? “Yes, of course. We must go up right now to do it.”
Genova hoped to slip away, but Thalia called out, “Beowulf, dear, Genova has a most charming Nativity in our room. We are off to give birth to the baby Jesus!”
Laughter rippled around the room.
Before Thalia could invite everyone along, Genova linked arms with her. “Come, then, Thalia. It won’t take a moment.”
“Miss Smith.”
Genova turned with foreboding to Lord Rothgar.
“Lady Thalia has described your presepe, and I remember seeing such collections in Italy. Alas, I lacked the foresight to bring one home with me, but I would be honored if you’d allow us to display yours here. It should, I think, be in pride of place.”
Panic churned inside. “It’s a simple thing, my lord, and… and has traveled.”
She would not use the word shabby.
“So have you, and so have I. So have we all in our various ways. None of us are the less for it.”
Genova realized that Hester’s words had etched deeper than she’d thought. She would not be ashamed of the presepe.
“Very well, my lord, and thank you. I’ll need some extra hands to carry down the parts.”
“I’ll go,” said Lady Arradale, and Portia came over with her.
Thalia agreed to remain below when promised that she would put the baby Jesus in the manger.
Genova and the two other women hurried upstairs and into the room where the empty stable sat waiting. Genova was wound tight with anxiety over her companions’ reaction. She still feared wrinkled noses.
“Oh, how lovely!” Portia exclaimed.
Lady Arradale touched the stable gently. “Isn’t it? We must obtain one of our own. Now, how best to move it?”
“I can carry the stable in one piece,” Genova said, smiling with relief, “but perhaps the rest should go back in the box.”
Portia raised her upper skirt to make a sling. “If we carry the figures like this, I think they’ll be safe. We’ll be careful.” She picked up the nearest animal and put it in the cloth.
Lady Arradale did the same. It was the sort of thing a countrywoman would do, gathering rosehips from a hedge, and their underpetticoats reached almost as low as their skirts. Even so, Genova was astonished that great ladies would do such a thing.
As she helped to collect the figures, she considered that her companions were countrywomen. Portia had described her home as a simple country manor. Lady Arradale’s Yorkshire home could hardly be simple, but various comments had made it clear that she involved herself in the affairs of her tenants and other local people.
Real people. In many ways like her.
The figures were all safely stowed, so she took the baby Jesus and the Mother Mary and put one in each pocket. Then she picked up the stable and cloth and led the way out of the room.
When they arrived back in the hall, Lord Rothgar gestured toward a table set not far from the fire. “I gather the mantle would be more traditional, but it should be low enough for the children to see. I’ll station a servant to make sure it isn’t harmed.”
Genova saw that some of the older children were still up, fidgety, but expectant. She went to the table and Ash stepped beside her. “Can I help?”
Another pearl.
“My hands are full, so could you spread the cloth?”
He took it and did so, smoothing it. Genova tried not to remember the fall that had broken her embroidery frame. It was hard, especially with her attention drawn to his beautiful hands, which made her think of his touch, his taste, his…
He stood back and she placed the stable on top, centering it carefully, blinking back tears. If only her mother were here.
She stepped back then, giving Thalia the pleasure of taking figures from the ladies’ skirts and placing them in their places. It didn’t matter if some were not quite where they normally went. It was time to let go of the past.
Someone took her hand. She knew without looking that it was Ash. Though her throat ached, she curled her fingers around his. Another pearl to be with him at this moment.
Thalia had half the figures in place when she said, “Each one has a story! Genova, what did you say this one was?”
Genova had to swallow to clear her throat. “A llama, from South America.”
“Ah, yes, and here’s the lovely dragon!” Then she paused and looked at Genova. “We must sing the song.”
“Oh, no…”
Ash squeezed her hand. “Teach us the song.”
She looked at him. “But my voice isn’t very good.”
“You clearly taught Thalia. Sing. I’ll help.”
Genova bit her lip, but she began to sing. She hated to raise her voice in this great chamber, but the acoustics helped and Thalia joined in with the second part.
Then Ash picked it up, but not to sing the third round. He added his voice to Genova’s, carrying her to places she’d never reached in song.
The third round wove in, and she realized that Damaris Myddleton was leading that with her strong, trained voice. Then everyone was singing, and the simple tune became a grand chorale.
In the stable, in the wild,
Came the mother, Mary mild.
Came the star as bright as day,
Came the angel, lutes to play.
Lutes to play, joy a-ringing,
At the sound of angels singing.
Joy, joy, joy, joy, Joy, joy, joy, joy, Joy, joy, joy, joy…
The cascade of “joy, joy, joy” rang as rich as the bells of Rome.
Genova claimed the angel Gabriel, wings gleaming freshly gold, and attached the figure to the peak of the stable—the last step before the miracle of Christmas. Without her having to guide, everyone ended their song until the last “joy” faded into silence.
She moved Mary-on-the-donkey behind the stable. Then she took out the baby Jesus and gave it to Thalia, who seemed as filled with wonder and excitement as Genova had always been.
The children were shifting closer, eyes wide. Heart swelling at their pleasure, Genova put the ass into the stable with Joseph and the Mother Mary in place. Then she stepped aside to let Thalia put the chubby baby on the straw.
“And now,” said Genova, as her father had always done, her voice choked, “it is Christmas. Peace to all.”
Everyone applauded and cried, “Peace to all!” and turned to greet and kiss those nearby.
Tears were pouring down Genova’s cheeks and she couldn’t seem to stop them. Ash pressed a handkerchief into her hand. Silk, finely embroidered, and edged with precious lace
.
When she’d dried her eyes, he dropped a kiss on her lips. “May all your Christmases be blessed with peace, Genova.”
Something in his eyes suggested more, but then Lady Walgrave spoke.
“I know that it’s quite disgustingly apropos, but I do think this baby is beginning to make its appearance.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Amid exclamations, the company split into action. Lord Walgrave insisted on carrying his wife upstairs, despite her laughing protests. Orders were given and the ladies of the family hurried off to varied preparations.
Children were swept off to bed, but Lord Rothgar encouraged the rest of the company to continue the festivities. Some returned to the ballroom for more dancing. Others went to the drawing room for cards and chatter.
Genova, who’d waited through some births, doubted the baby would arrive before morning, but she, too, was in no mood for sleep. She lingered by the presepe, journeying through its lifetime of memories.
“It means a great deal to you,” Ash said.
“It’s home. I hadn’t realized, but everything in my life was changeable except this one thing. The presepe changed only by being enriched every year.”
“Enriched?”
“My father always gave me a new animal on my birthday, a new worshiper at the manger.” She touched the Chinese dragon. “This was the last one before my mother died.”
“A dangerous guest at the feast.”
“Not really. In many cultures dragons are predators, but the Chinese dragon is a harbinger of good fortune. Ironic, isn’t it?”
He picked up the brilliantly colored figure, its scales picked out with gold. “So a dragon doesn’t have to breathe fire and eat people.”
She waited, hopefully, for him to develop the point, but he put the little figure down. “Even Chinese dragons must eat. What,” he asked her, “if not unwilling victims?”
She pulled a face at him. “What does anyone eat but unwilling victims?”
“Genova, you’re a cynic!” He took her hand. “Come back to the ballroom and dance your bile away.”
To dance the night away with him would be heaven, but she shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”