“Isn’t it?” Meg asked. “The smell of sugarplums reminds me of visiting my grandmother,” she said, looking toward a bowl of the delicacies on the inn’s counter.
“Mr. Whitaker told me there’s to be a nativity play this evening at the church in the next town,” Captain Stewart said. “Shall we attend? The event will be a nice addition to your book, Miss Breckenridge.”
Lucy’s excitement grew, and she gave a cheeky smile. “If you don’t mind, I have a different plan for tonight.”
***
That evening, Lucy came into the private dining room just as Mrs. Whitaker was putting the finishing touches on the decorations.
“Oh, it is simply splendid.” She clapped her hands together as she took in the trailing ivy over the tablecloth and the bouquets of holly. Mrs. Whitaker had even decorated the mantel of the small fireplace with ribbons and garlands and hung a pine wreath on the chimney stones. It had turned out better than Lucy had imagined.
“Just ring when you’re ready for dinner to be served.” Mrs. Whitaker wiped her hands on her apron, pointing to the bellpull in the corner with her chin. “And I do hope you have a lovely celebration, dear.”
Lucy thanked the woman as she left. She studied the table settings. Instead of the fine china or porcelain, Mrs. Whitaker had set the table with the inn’s sturdy pewter. The dishes had been polished to a shine, and there was even a sprig of holly and berries tucked into the napkin rings. It all looked perfect.
The others arrived a few moments later, and Lucy greeted them each at the door, inviting them to sit. She took her place at the head of the table, standing behind her chair, and motioned for the gentleman to remain seated.
“I am so glad to have you all here tonight.” Lucy moved her gaze over each of the four faces, smiling at her friends. “Every year, I’ve attended holiday celebrations as a guest, but this year, I am hosting the first of what I hope to be an annual Christmas party.”
The others clapped, and Lucy felt a warm glow inside at their encouragement. “I cannot imagine a finer group to celebrate with.” She swallowed. “Each of you has sacrificed to come on this journey. You’ve put aside your own holiday plans to give me a special Christmas with my father. And I must tell you all how grateful I am. You have all become dear to me over the past days . . .” Her voice grew raspy, and she cleared her throat against the emotion clogging it. She reminded herself this was a celebration. “Since I have never celebrated Christmas at home, I have no traditions of my own. And I would like to start one tonight.”
The others watched her expectantly, and she smiled, secretly thrilled with her idea, and prayed they all enjoyed it as much as she hoped they would.
“After our meal, I want each of you to share a holiday tradition with our company—whether it is a game you love to play or a story your aunt tells each year, whatever is important to you—and we will make it part of our celebration. The tradition I am sharing is a delicious Christmas Eve dinner with friends. I do hope you enjoy it.”
She stepped back, giving a tug on the bellpull. “Without further ado . . . let us eat.”
The company applauded the speech.
Lucy blushed. She returned to the table and sat in her seat, lifting her pewter goblet into the air. “Happy Christmas to you, my friends.”
The others raised their goblets, repeating the Christmas wish, and the door opened, letting in the servers with their meal.
Dinner was every bit as delicious as Mrs. Whitaker had led them to believe. The servers brought course after course of chestnut soup, roast partridge, meat pies, potatoes and vegetables in a rich butter sauce, pastries, and finally, they finished with an exquisite figgy pudding. The conversation was pleasant and her friends cheerful as they shared memories of Christmases past. Lucy paid particular attention to the stories, noting things she could incorporate into her future celebrations.
Once they’d eaten their fill and the last dish was taken away, the party dispersed to give everyone a chance to prepare for their contribution. Lucy sat back, her stomach full and her heart happy. She could not wait to see what her friends came up with.
The first to return was Mr. Owens. He carried a large bundle hidden beneath a towel, and when he entered the room, he stashed it away in a corner, then hung a tea kettle on a hook above the fire in the hearth.
Lucy’s brows rose, but he just gave an enigmatic smile and took his seat at the table.
The others brought items as well, each keeping them hidden away and looking excited at the prospect of the secrets that would be revealed.
Once they had all returned to their seats, Mr. Owens stood. “Suppose I might as well go first,” he said, “’fore my pot boils over.” He brought the bundle from the corner and removed the towel to reveal a large silver bowl.
“Rum punch has become a bit o’ a tradition during the holidays.” As he spoke, he took the items out of the bowl and set them on the table. A lemon, some kitchen implements and mugs, a jar of what appeared to be sugar, and two liquor bottles.
“Don’t have a story to go with it. Just like the stuff,” Mr. Owens said. He dumped sugar into the bowl and used the towel to remove the teakettle from the fire, pouring hot water over the sugar. He sliced the rind off the lemon with deft fingers, tossing it into the bowl, and strained the lemon juice from the pulp. “And I make a fine batch, if I do say so myself.” Popping the corks from the bottles, he poured brandy and rum, stirring it all together until he was satisfied. He dipped a mug into the punch and took a sip, letting out a sigh and smiling. “That’s the ticket.” He ladled punch into the other mugs and passed them around the table.
Lucy took a sip of the sweet drink. “It’s delicious.”
Captain Stewart drank deeply and raised his mug. “Hear! Hear!”
The others joined him, drinking and toasting Mr. Owens, his health, and his rum punch. Even Mr. Matthews made a toast. And nobody gave a second glance when Mr. Owens refilled his mug for a third time.
“A fine presentation,” Meg said. “And now who will go next?”
“Would you like to, Meg?” Lucy asked.
The red-haired young lady’s face lit up, her eyes bright with excitement. She brought out her bundle from beneath her chair.
“I come from a family with lots o’ children,” she said, setting a metal platter on the table. “Our tradition is to play games together on Christmas Eve.” She set a bag of flour beside the platter. “This is my favorite one.”
She poured the flour onto the platter slowly, making a high peak in the center.
“Bullet pudding,” Captain Stewart said. “I’ve not played since I was a child.”
Mr. Matthews smiled.
Lucy was delighted.
The men pulled the chairs away from the table to allow the group to stand in a cluster around the platter.
“Mrs. Whitaker didn’t have a bullet,” Meg said, taking a marble from the bag on her wrist and holding it up between two fingers. “But she found this.” She set the marble on the top of the flour mountain, then picked up a butter knife, offering it to the group. “Who will go first?”
“Oldest takes the first turn,” Mr. Owens said. He set his mug on the table and took the knife. “’Twas my family’s rule.” He sliced it through the flour, then handed it to Lucy.
Captain Stewart cut into the white mountain, making a small avalanche of flour slide down one side, but the marble did not move. He gave the knife to Matthews.
He cut closer to the center, but the marble stayed atop the flour peak.
Meg had a turn, then they passed the knife around again.
When Mr. Matthews slid the knife into the flour, the marble rolled, sinking down and disappearing into the white mound.
Meg clapped her hands, and Lucy giggled. They all watched expectantly. Would he do it?
Mr. Matthews did not hesitate. He plunged his face into the flour, using his mouth to search for the marble. Flour went everywhere, and the sight of the man rooting through the whi
te mess made Lucy laugh so hard that her sides hurt. Meg pressed her hands to her mouth, shaking with laughter.
“Don’t inhale, lad,” Mr. Owens said between guffaws.
Captain Stewart let out a hearty chuckle.
When Mr. Matthews finally raised his head and spit out the marble into his hand, they all laughed again. Flour covered his face and dusted his hair. He snorted, blasting a cloud of flour into the air, and Meg had to sit to contain her giggles.
Mr. Owens raised his mug. “Huzzah!”
Captain Stewart offered his handkerchief, and Mr. Matthews grinned as he brushed off his face and shook the white powder from his hair.
“That was excellent, Miss Riley,” Captain Stewart said in a breathless voice. “I’ve not laughed so hard since . . . Well, it has been a long time.” He patted Mr. Matthews’s chest, making another white cloud and causing Mr. Matthews to cough.
Meg wiped her eyes and brushed the flour from Mr. Matthews’s shoulders when he sat back into his chair. She smiled at him, her eyes shining. “That was very diverting,” she said.
He smiled back, flour creasing in the lines around his mouth.
“You were very sporting, Mr. Matthews,” Lucy said. “So you may choose who goes next.”
The man looked at Captain Stewart, then back at Lucy. “I’ll go next, if I may,” he spoke in a quiet voice.
The captain nodded.
“Of course,” Lucy said.
Mr. Matthews cleared his throat, looking nervous. He took the bundle from beneath his chair. “My mum always read to us the Christmas story.” When he unwrapped the towel, he held a Bible. “I hope none of you object?”
“That’s a lovely idea,” Meg said.
Captain Stewart nodded, his eyes looking thoughtful. “My ma did the same.”
Mr. Matthews turned the pages until he found what he was looking for. He took a breath, glanced at the others, and then began to read.
The words were familiar, but tonight the story felt particularly poignant to Lucy. Perhaps it was knowing the struggles of the man who read them. Or maybe it was the affection she felt toward her friends sharing this special night. Whatever the reason, hearing the story of Mary and Joseph and their baby born in a stable touched her heart, and she dabbed at her eyes.
When Mr. Matthews finished the account and closed the book, a reverent silence settled in the room.
Captain Stewart stood after a moment, moving quietly to the corner near the hearth and unwrapping the bundle he’d put there. He took out an old guitar, bringing it back to his chair and sitting with it on his lap. He plucked the strings and turned the knobs to tune it.
“Would ha’ taken you for a bagpipe player,” Mr. Owens said.
Captain Stewart gave a good-natured smile. “I dragged this instrument all over the continent over the past years,” he said. “Music’s the one thing that remained constant on Christmas.” He glanced at his friend, raising his brows and smirking. “Matthews may have hoped I’d left it in France.”
“The songs kept up morale, Captain,” Mr. Matthews said. “Don’t know what we’d have done on those cold nights otherwise.”
Captain Stewart strummed the strings, and the hushed room seemed to grow more still. He settled into a tune, playing the familiar melody of a Christmas carol, and started to sing.
Lucy leaned forward as the low tone of his voice filled the room. The captain sang beautifully, the melody sounding effortless and strong as his fingers moved over the strings. Meg clasped her hands together in front of her chest, and Mr. Owens nodded his head. Mr. Matthews watched with a contented smile.
Captain Stewart was an accomplished musician, his voice strong and deep. Seeing how surely he played and how confidently he sang, Lucy could imagine how his music had soothed worried and frightened men. She hoped her father had taken comfort from the captain’s music when he’d been lonely.
Captain Stewart’s eyes met hers, and she realized she was leaning forward, lips parted as she stared. She sat up, feeling foolish.
He winked, but the signal wasn’t impudent. Rather, she understood it as a friendly token. The silly gesture was the captain’s way of acknowledging her and sending a message that was only meant for Lucy to see. Her cheeks grew hot, a reaction she was coming to both expect and resent, as it revealed more than she wanted the others to know.
Captain Stewart finished his song and began a new one, “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” The tune was livelier, and he played with more joviality, bringing a cheerful feeling to the group. After a few lines, Mr. Matthews joined in, his voice blending nicely with Captain Stewart’s.
Seeing the captain’s encouraging nod, Lucy and Meg sang as well.
Mr. Owens seemed contented to listen with eyes closed, his finger waving as if conducting the music.
The company moved from song to song, some cheerful and others reverent. Meg and Mr. Matthews sang a duet to “I Saw Three Ships,” and even Mr. Owens joined in when Captain Stewart played “Here We Come A-Wassailing.”
The night grew late, and once the singing was over, the party came to an end. Lucy stood beside the dining room door, bidding each guest a warm farewell as they departed for their rooms.
Meg embraced Lucy. “Miss, tonight was wonderful. Thank you.”
Mr. Matthews held her hand and thanked her in his soft voice.
The pair left together, walking arm in arm.
Captain Stewart returned the chairs to the table, pushing them back into place.
Mr. Owens came to the door with the large punch bowl and a mug. “Best party I ever attended, Miss Breckenridge,” he said. “Happy Christmas to you.”
Lucy turned back toward the table, thinking she should clean up the flour instead of leaving the mess for Mrs. Whitaker.
Captain Stewart stood in front of her. His eyes had the same soft look they’d held at the dance in Quentlin Ferry, and seeing it made Lucy’s stomach flip over itself again, like it had forgotten how to stay still.
“Did you enjoy the party, Captain?” she asked, wanting to dispel the silence.
“More than I can say.”
“I did as well,” she said. “I am so pleased with how everything turned out. Your music was just the thing. Thank you.”
Captain Stewart pursed his lips, pulling them to the side and tapping his chin, looking thoughtful. “You know, there is one Christmas tradition we forgot—one I am particularly fond of.”
“Oh?” Lucy said, wishing he’d told her earlier. “What is that?”
He took her arms, pulling her to a spot beneath the doorway, and then he looked upward.
Lucy followed his gaze. A kissing bough made of mistletoe hung on a red ribbon from the doorframe. How had she not seen it earlier? Her skin flushed hot, and her heartbeat raced.
Captain Stewart watched her, studying her face as his hand slipped beneath her ear and behind her neck. His thumb brushed her jaw. The other hand moved around behind her waist, pulling her closer.
Lucy touched her fingers to his arms, hesitating to rest her hands fully against him. Her insides shook.
The captain’s chin tilted toward her, his eyes looking hopeful, and Lucy’s nervousness stilled. She wanted this, and that realization didn’t frighten her. It made her brave.
When she moved her hands to his shoulders, his arms tightened around her, pulling her against him. Lucy closed her eyes, rising up on her toes, and then his lips were on hers, warm and gentle, his curls brushing over her fingers.
He held her tightly, his lips tasting like punch and his whiskers scratching her cheek, and she let herself be swept away.
In just a moment, it was over. He stepped back, and her arms dropped. She felt the loss of his heat immediately.
Captain Stewart took both of her hands, studying her face. Although his smile held the slightest tease, his eyes were earnest. “I’m glad we did not neglect that tradition.”
“As am I.” Lucy tried to smile in return, but she did not recover as quickly as she pretende
d. Her knees were weak, her lips tingled, and she ached to be held again in his embrace.
Once the table was cleaned and the borrowed items returned to Mrs. Whitaker, Captain Stewart walked with her back to her bedchamber. He kissed her again before he bid her good night, and Lucy’s worries about waiting a few more hours before arriving in London flew from her head completely.
Chapter 8
James paced back and forth across the sitting room between his bedchamber and Matthews’s. Tonight had been the most pleasant in memory, and not only because he’d kissed a lovely young lady—though that did contribute enormously to his contentment. He smiled, allowing the memory of Miss Breckenridge’s warm lips to fill his mind. He’d enjoyed himself immensely at the Christmas celebration. The gathering of friends had felt more like a family than any he’d experienced in years.
And that only made what he had to do harder.
He rubbed his eyes. Why hadn’t he just told Miss Breckenridge the truth about her father? Over the past days, he’d had countless chances. And yet when the opportunities presented themselves, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He supposed his intentions were honorable at first. He’d made a promise to the colonel. And he’d intended to obey orders. But his reasoning had changed as he got to know Miss Breckenridge. He’d become protective of the young lady. He’d not wanted to see her hurt. And the truth was definitely going to hurt.
James could make all the excuses he wished, claim that he’d not wanted to upset her, not wanted to ruin her Christmas party, but he knew deep inside that his motivation was much more selfish. He’d wanted the time spent with Miss Breckenridge to be happy, wanted her to smile and to enjoy herself in his company, and he felt ashamed for it.
He took a candle and walked along the inn’s darkened hall toward the ladies’ rooms. He must do it. There was no getting around it. And he’d put it off long enough. Miss Breckenridge deserved to know. He couldn’t allow her to go into this blind. She needed to be prepared.
A Christmas Promise Page 24