Christmas Miracles

by Mary Balogh

  This year they would spend Christmas alone. Just the three of them. She hoped she was not being dreadfully selfish. She could imagine nothing lovelier than being in John’s house without John and Mercy and their three children—just alone with her own two. Watching them open their gifts. Playing with them and reading to them. Spending the whole day with just them. It seemed like an unbelievable luxury. She still did not quite believe in it.

  Matthew was not totally without an audience. One gentleman had stopped to listen. She turned her head to look at him. She recognized him though there was no chance that he would know her. Although she had had a come-out season when she was eighteen and had attended ton balls and parties, she had never moved in quite such exalted circles as Baron Heath—for which fact she had been thankful. Tall, handsome, fashionable, arrogant, and fabulously wealthy, he had also had a reputation as something of a rake, as a man on whom matchmaking mamas need not waste their time.

  He still looked elegant and expensive. And supercilious, leaning on his cane as if he very well might own Bond Street. But he was listening—and watching Matthew.

  Fanny felt a sudden and wholly unexpected wave of loneliness. Boris had been dead for longer than three years and had not been much of a companion when he was alive. Amiable and good-looking and second son of a viscount, he had been a good match for her. But his amiability had concealed laziness, she had discovered after their marriage, and a lack of either strong feeling or principle. He had been frequently from home, spending his time with male companions as amiable and as shiftless as he, gaming, drinking, womanizing. He had not been a vicious man, merely one without character. She had not mourned him as deeply as conscience had suggested she ought.

  Since his death there had been other suitors, though it seemed that the only ones she found remotely interesting wanted her as a mistress rather than as a wife. Widows, she had learned, were almost expected to take lovers rather than new husbands. A few of her suitors had seemed genuinely surprised to be rejected.

  And sometimes she thought that perhaps she was foolish to have rejected them. Sometimes she longed for closeness with another adult. She had women friends, but they did not totally satisfy. Companionship with a man was important to her—she had discovered that when she had not found it with Boris. But she was not so dishonest with herself that she would not admit she wanted more than companionship. Sometimes she craved physical closeness—touching, kissing, caressing. And, oh yes, she would not deny it, the joining of bodies. She could remember that at the start of her marriage at least she had come to enjoy that. She had come to need it.

  But she shook off the loneliness in order to gaze with pride at her son, whose voice had drawn the attention of a few other people on the street. He really did sing like a nightingale. Or like an angel. She listened to the words of the Christmas story he told in song. Perhaps this year Christmas as it was meant to be would come alive again and be more than an orgy of eating and drinking and flirting.

  She longed for love and joy and peace and all the other feelings that were associated with Christmas yet were so rarely a real part of it.

  Katie Berlinton was a little bit cold. She imagined that the wind was a bad-tempered old man with puffed cheeks and angry eyes. He was a rude man, too. He blew right through a person without having the courtesy to go around. She pressed closer to her mother and set the side of her face against Mama’s cloak. She felt instantly warmer. She had realized before that feeling safe was a warm feeling.

  She liked listening to the carolers. She did not know the tunes well enough to sing them herself and she did not know all the words. But she did know that she had heard the same carols every year at Christmastime. There was a special feel about carols and about Christmas. A warm feeling. A dreamy feeling. She was glad Matthew had a chance to sing alone. He loved to sing. She had tried to sing like him, but she could not do it. Nurse had told her once that she sounded like a rusty saw, but Nurse had laughed and hugged her as she said it, so the words had not really hurt a great deal. Though the truth of them had made her a little sad. Sad, but not jealous. She loved Matt. He was her hero.

  She and Matt were to spend Christmas alone with Mama this year. Uncle John and Aunt Mercy and the cousins had gone into the country, where there would be all the children to play with there had been last year—she could remember the fun they had had. But she did not mind remaining behind as long as Matt and Mama were with her. She especially would not mind if she got what she wanted for Christmas. Numerous people had asked her what she wanted—Mama, Aunt Mercy, Miss Kemp among others—and she always gave the same answer because she knew it was the answer they all expected. She always dutifully said that she would like a doll.

  But that was not what she really wanted. She wanted a new papa. Papas were fun. They came to the nursery every day and praised their children even when there was nothing particular to praise them for and pretended to fight with their sons until the boys shrieked with laughter. And they tossed their daughters at the ceiling and caught them and laughed at them for screaming with fright—and enjoyment. And they gave their children gifts even when it was not Christmas or a birthday and took them to the Tower of London and Astley’s Amphitheater. They bought ices for them at Gunter’s.

  Uncles were nice too, of course. Sometimes they noticed that one felt left out and smiled and talked to one. Once they even took one along to Gunter’s, though they scolded if one dropped ice cream on one’s dress. Their own daughters never did any such bad thing.

  Uncles were nice, but they did not belong to one. Uncles had to force themselves to be nice. Papas were always patient and loving. Papas belonged to one’s very own self.

  Sometimes Mama went driving with a gentleman. Once she went to the theater with one. Katie had seen some of the gentlemen, either by peering downstairs through the banister when she was supposed to be in the nursery or by looking out through the window. But none of those gentlemen had looked like papas.

  Katie could not remember her own papa. She had had one. Mama had said so. But he had gone to heaven because God had wanted him. She thought it rather selfish of God, but Nurse had shrieked and looked quite frightened when she had once said so aloud. She had kept the thought to herself since then.

  There was a gentleman watching Matt. He was leaning on his cane, and Katie could tell that he was really listening. He was not just being polite. She thought she could probably walk up to him and pinch his leg and he would not notice. But she would not do so. He was an extremely large gentleman—larger than Uncle John. And he looked like the kind of gentleman who would not take kindly to having his leg pinched—even though she did not believe he would notice.

  Katie gazed at him. She thought she might be a little afraid if he looked at her as intently as he was looking at Matt. But she also thought that if he were her friend—not that he ever would be because she had never seen him before and obviously he and Mama had never seen each other before or they would be bowing and curtsying and he would be touching the brim of his hat. One never ever spoke to strangers, Mama always said. And so did Nurse. But if he were her friend, she thought, he would be utterly trustworthy. She imagined herself being lifted from the ground by him and held in the folds of all those capes. She would be wonderfully warm. And she would feel marvelously safe. She wondered if he was a papa. How she envied his children if he were. She wished she was one of them.

  Secretly and silently she had added a rider to her evening prayers for ages and ages past, even though she knew she was praying to the same God who had wanted her papa and had taken him from her. She had prayed for a new papa, preferably for Christmas. Gifts were always more special at Christmas. And it struck her that it was an eminently unselfish gift for which to pray since if she had a new papa then Matt would have one too—as well as the gift for which he hoped. And Mama would perhaps like one too, though he would not be her papa, of course. Aunt Mercy seemed to like Uncle John and they often went to concerts and balls and things like that together
while Mama as often as not stayed at home. Mama would like having someone to take her to concerts—perhaps she would like it. Not that Katie would love her one little bit the less just because there would be a papa to play with her as well.

  She wished that gentleman could be her papa. Perhaps she would add that detail to her prayers tonight. The gentleman with the silver-headed cane and the many capes and the big nose and the piercing eyes, she would tell God. The gentleman who had loved Matt’s singing so much that he looked as if he had forgotten where he was.

  But Matt finished singing even as she was composing the prayer she would recite to herself that evening after she had finished the official version in her mother’s hearing. And the gentleman jumped almost immediately into action.

  “You!” he said, pointing his cane to Miss Kemp as there was a smattering of applause from some of the bystanders and one of the other ladies stepped forward with an upside down hat to collect money. “You, ma’am. Who is this boy?”

  Miss Kemp, looking flustered, bobbed a curtsy. “He sings like an angel, does he not, sir?” she said. “We are proud this year—”

  “Who is he?” Nurse would have said he was rude to interrupt, but Katie doubted Nurse would have said so to his face. She doubted that anyone would say so to his face.

  “He is Master Matthew Berlinton, sir,” Miss Kemp said. “He is—”

  “Matthew Berlinton,” the gentleman said, turning to Matt, “you have an extraordinary talent. It should be displayed before a larger and more appreciative audience.”

  “If it had not rained this morning, sir—” Miss Kemp began.

  The gentleman was praising Matt just like a papa. Uncle John had once told Matt, though kindly enough, that he must stop singing all the time because he was giving Aunt Mercy headaches. Katie left the almost warm cocoon of her mother’s side, completely forgetting what she had been taught about strangers, and crossed the distance to the gentleman. She stood on the curb before him and tugged at his greatcoat.

  He looked down, astonishment on his face. He seemed even larger from close to and he did not smile. For a moment Katie felt frightened, but she remembered that he had told Matt that he had an extraordinary talent. Katie did not know quite what that meant, but she could guess from his tone that it was something good.

  “I am Katie Berlinton,” she said. And then she remembered to add, “Sir.”

  “Indeed?” he said, and Katie noticed that he did not sound like a papa now—and that from among the folds of his capes he had somehow produced a quizzing glass, through which he looked down at her. His enlarged eye looked somewhat colder than Uncle John’s had when she had dripped ice cream down herself.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Lord Heath had never particularly liked children. Perhaps it was that he had never had a great deal to do with them and that his numerous nieces and nephews appeared mortally afraid of him. In fact, of course, he had deliberately cultivated the fear by never smiling in their presence and by making free use of his quizzing glass. Only so could he preserve even a modicum of privacy at Christmas while his brothers and brothers-in-law and male cousins were constantly being climbed upon and pestered to come and play. Children, Lord Heath had concluded, shortened male tempers in a hurry. He avoided having his own shortened by the simple expedient of avoiding children.

  And now a little cherub of an infant had had the effrontery to pull at his greatcoat in the middle of the street and to present herself to him. After his hand, almost by its own volition, had found his quizzing glass and raised it to his eye, she still clung to his coat and still gazed steadily upward, her head tipped sharply back.

  The child’s mother, he decided, deserved a severe tongue-lashing for allowing such impertinence—and for keeping a less than careful eye on her offspring. What would she do if he tucked the child beneath his arm and made off with her? There would be nothing she could do except have a first-class fit of the vapors. She would never see the child again. And it would serve her right too.

  But the mother—the woman who had been standing watching the carolers when he arrived—was there before him, only a stride or two behind her daughter, and she was pulling the child away and scolding her and looking remarkably flustered—as well she might.

  “I do apologize,” she said, presumably to him even though she did not raise her eyes to his. She sounded suitably mortified.

  But he was distracted. His hearing had just caught up to his thoughts. Katie Berlinton, the child had said. The young soprano was Matthew Berlinton.

  “Mrs. Berlinton?” he said.

  She looked more mortified than before as she curtsied slightly. But of course, she was a lady. His manners had certainly gone begging. It was not at all the thing to accost a genteel stranger in the middle of the street without anyone to perform a formal introduction. But that boy was too precious to be lost on account of a few social niceties.

  “I must commend you, ma’am, on your son’s voice,” he said. “It is quite exquisite.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, curtsying again and gathering the infant’s hand firmly in her own before turning with the obvious intention of gathering her son beneath her other wing.

  Ah. So she knew him. He did not know her. She was clearly a lady and was well dressed. But she was not clad in the first stare of fashion. There was no sign of hovering servants or of a carriage waiting to convey her home. The other carolers were gathered about, gawking and beaming.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, desperation causing him to fling aside the vestiges of good manners, “may I be allowed to present myself?” He did not wait for an answer. “Roderick Ames, Baron Heath, at your service. You may have heard of me as something of a connoisseur of musical talent.”

  The leader of the carolers, the woman of the wobbly voice, curtsied just as if she were being presented at the queen’s drawing room. The other women of the group hastily followed suit, while two or three of the men bobbed their heads.

  “Eh?” the tone-deaf chorister said, cupping one hand about his left ear.

  “His lordship is Baron Heath, Mr. Fothergill,” the lady leader said in a voice that announced his identity to at least half of Bond Street.

  The tone-deaf man was also deaf, his lordship concluded.

  Mrs. Berlinton did not curtsy again, but she did raise her eyes to his for the first time. He had realized from the start that she was young and probably pleasing to look at. He was surprised to find that actually she was quite exquisitely beautiful, with large hazel eyes, a straight little nose, and a soft mouth that was neither too small nor too large—a mouth made for kissing, in fact. Mr. Berlinton was a fortunate man. Even reddened cheeks and nose could not quite disguise the delicacy of her complexion.

  “No, my lord,” she said, “I had not heard that. Please excuse us.” And she turned back to her children.

  “Your son has a talent that is wasted on such an audience,” he said, gesturing with his cane at the street around them.

  She turned back to him then, and he could see anger in her eyes. “My son is a child, my lord,” she said. “He does not need an audience.”

  Lord Heath was not a man to act from impulse. He was not sure quite what impelled him now, except that the boy’s voice was exceptionally beautiful and that it was such an ephemeral gift—it would disappear with puberty. It was not a voice to be wasted on Bond Street shoppers and to be drowned out by an unmusical adult group of carolers.

  “I will provide him with an audience, ma’am,” he said, “the most discriminating audience in London.” He always prepared the guest list for his concerts with care, choosing not necessarily the most fashionable guests, but those with a sincere appreciation for music. Consequently, he knew, his invitations were much sought after and were scarcely ever refused. “He will sing at a concert in my home the evening after tomorrow. I beg leave to call upon Mr. Berlinton to discuss the details.”

  He could not understand her anger—or perhaps he would in a mo
re rational moment when he would surely recall with some discomfort discussing such matters with a stranger in the middle of Bond Street during a busy afternoon. But angry she was—her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared and she would surely have flushed if her cheeks had not already been fiery red.

  “This is distasteful, my lord,” she said with all the disdain of a dowager duchess. “My son is not for hire and not for display before the ton. He seeks no remuneration. I assume you were offering to pay him?”

  He had not considered the matter. He always did pay the performers at his concerts, those who would accept payment, anyway. Some would not. He opened his mouth to reply. But she had turned from him once more.

  “Come, Matthew,” she said. “Make your bow to Miss Kemp and the other ladies and gentlemen. I regret, Miss Kemp, that we cannot stay for the rest of the carols. Katie is cold and tired.”

  Lord Heath shut his mouth with a clack of teeth and turned on his heel. He had been roundly snubbed and deservedly so. But he was not accustomed to being snubbed. He would not wait to see Mrs. Berlinton take her leave with her offspring. He could not imagine what had possessed him. He was not given to encouraging child performers—or to engaging performers at the last minute and on the spur of the moment. He had already selected with care, with consideration to both the talent of his chosen performers and the variety of their talents. He already had a soprano on his program, a much acclaimed opera singer, whose services he had felt honored and delighted to attain. She was a woman soprano, of course.