An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  Miss Matilda Grove joined them along with a darker-skinned man she introduced as Mr. Basu.

  Justina played the pianoforte, and Arabella the beautiful old harp. It wasn’t perfect—the instrument or the performance—but the children were enthralled and clapped profusely when they finished. Arabella had never had such an appreciative audience. Next they performed another piece, one by Dussek.

  Afterward, they decided to play a few Christmas songs, and the children sang along.

  They ended their little concert with “Adeste Fideles.”

  “Beautiful!” Miss Matilda enthused. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  A maid brought out tea, warm milk, and shortbread for everyone to enjoy. Then the older children were allowed to pluck the harp under Arabella’s guidance.

  While Justina read the children a story, Arabella slipped back into the vestibule, where she’d left her pelisse and reticule, to retrieve Rachel’s small gift. But at the doorway, she drew up short. For there stood Mercy with her tall husband, apparently just returning home, tool bag in hand. His arm was wrapped around his wife, while she lifted both hands to his face and rose on tiptoes to meet his passionate kiss.

  Good heavens.

  “I missed you, my love,” he whispered, eyes for no one but his wife.

  “And I you.”

  Arabella quietly retreated. The handkerchief would wait. Rejoining the others, she thought, If I could have a loving marriage like that . . . I just might change my mind about avoiding it.

  Richard and Murray returned to Brockwell Court weary but content and went to their separate rooms to wash and change into evening dress. At the designated hour, all the scattered houseguests assembled for a dinner. Penelope and Horace were full of tales of their successful hunt. Nicholas and Justina smiled at one another almost constantly, while Mamma tsked and shook her head. And Arabella and Justina talked with enthusiasm of their time at the Fairmont School.

  At one point, Arabella leaned closer to Richard and asked, “You’re quiet tonight. Thinking of Jamie back in Wishford?”

  He nodded. “Yes, among other things.” But he did not elaborate.

  After the meal, most everyone gathered in the drawing room as usual. His mother and Lady Lillian, however, excused themselves and retired early.

  While they waited for tea and coffee to be served, Justina suggested a parlour game. “Unless you had something else planned, Rachel?”

  Rachel shook her head. “Not at all. Which game did you have in mind?”

  “Perhaps, move all?” Justina looked at the others. “Does everyone know that one?”

  Murray said sheepishly, “I don’t, I’m afraid. But I will happily watch.”

  “No, you must join in, Mr. Murray. I insist.”

  Timothy leaned back on the sofa. “I’ll sit this one out, if you don’t mind.”

  “Me too,” Rachel added, taking her place beside him.

  “Because you are old married people now?” Justina teased. “Oh, very well.”

  Justina directed the men to position six chairs in a circle, spaced as far apart as possible.

  When everyone except herself was seated, she began, “Now, when I say ‘Move all,’ everyone must get up and find a new seat, including me. Whoever is left without a chair must pay a forfeit and become the next caller.”

  Richard crossed a casual ankle over his leg. “And what will the forfeit be?”

  Justina waggled her eyebrows. “That is for the caller to decide.”

  Murray shifted uneasily, murmuring, “As long as I am not required to dance . . . or recite from Debrett’s Peerage.”

  “Or sew,” Penelope added with a shudder.

  Justina went on to say, “If you don’t change chairs, you will pay two forfeits. Any questions?”

  She glanced around the circle. Richard winked at her.

  Then Justina raised her hand. “Ready? Move all!”

  Everyone rose. Penelope darted to the seat to her left, and Arabella seized her vacated chair. Horace dashed across the room, nearly colliding with Nicholas. He veered toward Arabella’s chair, but Richard beat him to it.

  Looking around uncertainly, Justina hurried toward an empty chair across the circle, but Nicholas and David Murray were several steps ahead of her. Murray claimed the chair with a triumphant grin. Justina and Nicholas dashed for the last remaining chair. Spinning around to sit on it, they both landed on half a seat. Nicholas smiled at her, then stood and threw up his hands up in mock despair.

  Justina slid fully onto the chair with a laugh, beaming up at him.

  Nicholas grinned back. “And now I must pay a forfeit. What shall it be, Miss Brockwell?”

  Justina tapped a finger to her chin. “Why don’t you recite something?”

  Penelope made a face. “Or he could just hop on one leg and be done with it.”

  “What fun would that be?” Richard said. “Go on, man.”

  Nicholas’s brow furrowed as he looked up in thought, hands folded behind his back. Then he spoke with surprising, steady conviction, “‘This above all: to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.’”

  After a pause, Nicholas bowed. Everyone clapped.

  “Shakespeare,” said Richard. “Excellent choice.”

  “Yes, from Hamlet,” added Arabella. “Well done, Mr. Ashford.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then Nicholas acted as caller for the second round, announcing, “Move all.”

  Again everyone rose. Arabella scrambled into Justina’s vacated seat. With a squeal, Justina plopped down into her brother’s empty chair just before Penelope reached it. Penelope spun toward a chair on her left as Horace Bingley launched himself toward the same prize. Penelope landed first, and Horace all but landed on her lap, instantly reddening.

  “Forgive me!” He shot up, and started toward the remaining chair, but Richard reached it before him. That left Horace wheeling in the center of the room, until finally he chuckled. “A forfeit it is, then.”

  Nicholas considered, then said, “Tell us something about yourself, Mr. Bingley.”

  “Something unrelated to sport, please,” advised Justina. “You have already told us how many pheasants you shot last season.”

  “I personally found it rather interesting,” Penelope assured him.

  Horace seemed at a loss, but then his face brightened. “Very well. I don’t know how interesting it is, but as a lad, I once rescued an injured crow. It became quite tame. But after it healed, it escaped my room, flew downstairs, and landed on the head of one of our dinner guests.”

  The others chuckled appreciatively.

  “Mamma forbade me to keep it in the house after that. But it still came and perched on my window ledge almost every day for the rest of that summer.”

  Penelope studied his face, admiration in her eyes. “Impressive.”

  Horace shrugged and met her gaze with a smile.

  On the next round, David Murray was the odd man out.

  “For your forfeit,” Horace said. “Tell us about your favorite Christmas ever.”

  Murray nodded, perfectly serious, then looked from person to person. “This one.”

  “Come now, that’s going it a bit brown,” Horace protested.

  Rachel joined in, adding, “That is kind of you, but you needn’t say so.”

  “Not at all. It’s true. My childhood was not a happy one, and I have been on my own for years. I’d almost forgot what it’s like to be a part of a family, and a loving family no less.”

  A moment of thoughtful, even awkward, silence followed. Then Timothy spoke up, “Well said, Mr. Murray. We are blessed indeed to be together this Christmas, and we are thankful each and every one of you has joined us.”

  Richard said, “Hear, hear.”

  And he found he actually meant it.

  They began another round of the game. Near its end, Arabella hurried toward a chair at the same time Richard approached. With a g
allant wave and bow, he gestured for her to take it. Turning, he only then realized no other chairs remained.

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “That will teach me to be chivalrous.” He turned to Mr. Murray with a smirk. “What shall my forfeit be?”

  Arabella hoped his friend would require something challenging.

  Mr. Murray tilted his head up. “Let me think . . .”

  At that moment, the door opened and the pretty woman in a plain grey dress and white apron came in with little Frederick in arms.

  Rachel said, “Ah, our new nurserymaid. You are here late, Susanna. Everything all right?”

  “Master Frederick is struggling to fall asleep. I thought a good-night kiss from his mamma might help.”

  “Good idea.”

  Rachel and Timothy walked over to cuddle the child, but Arabella’s eyes remained on the woman. The same woman they had passed when out walking. And whom she had seen talking with Richard in clandestine fashion that very morning, the two whispering with their heads near like old friends . . . or lovers.

  Mr. Murray finally announced his forfeit. “You must answer this question: If you could go back in time and change one thing about your past, what would it be?”

  Mr. Brockwell’s eyes dimmed, and his confident smirk faded, but whether from Murray’s question or the woman’s entrance, Arabella did not know. Either way, Richard looked uncharacteristically nervous, clasping and unclasping his hands, a self-conscious smile flickering, then falling away. She began to feel sorry for him.

  “Change only one thing about my past?” he said. “But there are so many to choose from.”

  He gave a bleak little chuckle, his expression serious as he seemed to consider the question. Around him the others waited, his friend and sister with interest, Horace and Penelope clearly feeling ill at ease as the moment lengthened.

  Arabella was just about to suggest an alternate forfeit, when Richard quietly replied, “I would not disappoint someone I care about.”

  Was it her imagination or did he glance at Susanna as he said it?

  “What does that mean?” Justina asked, eyes sparking with interest. “How mysterious!”

  As if suddenly recalled to his surroundings, Richard straightened and waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing. Pure foolishness. Too much wine.” Though Arabella had not seen him sip one drop.

  Thanking the nurserymaid for staying late, Rachel urged her to go on home, saying she would take Frederick up to bed in a few minutes. The woman bobbed a curtsy and departed.

  They played one final round of the game, and this time Arabella was left without a chair.

  Richard rallied, standing and rubbing his hands together. “Ah, what an opportunity. What forfeit shall I require of the lovely Miss Arabella?” He tapped his lower lip in thought.

  “Careful, Richard,” Sir Timothy warned under his breath.

  Richard’s eyes glinted with mischief. “For your forfeit, you shall kiss the most handsome man in the room.”

  Justina gasped, though humor shone in her expression. “You are too bad, Richard.”

  “Let us keep things civilized, please,” Rachel said. “No one shall kiss anyone.”

  “Well now, let us not get carried away . . .” Timothy objected glibly, with a grin for his wife.

  Rachel amended, “That is, no one is required to kiss anyone they don’t wish to.” She winked at her husband. “Unless they are under the mistletoe.”

  Arabella squared her shoulders and announced, “I don’t mind. In fact, there is little I would enjoy more.”

  Around the room, stunned looks were exchanged.

  She strode toward Richard, and he stood straighter, posture tense, eyes alert, expression uncertain. But she walked right past him, crossing the room to where Rachel held Frederick, and kissed the little boy on the forehead.

  “There, I’ve kissed the most handsome male in the room.”

  Rachel nodded, “I quite agree.”

  The others chuckled. Everyone except Richard. He crossed his arms, feigning pique. “That’s not fair.”

  “Point and game to Arabella,” Mr. Murray said, giving Richard a good-natured slap on the back. “I’d say you’ve met your match, Brockwell.”

  Arabella took Frederick in her arms and pretended not to hear.

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  As Richard prepared for bed that night, Murray’s words echoed through his mind, “I’d say you’ve met your match, Brockwell.” Richard was beginning to agree. He could still see Arabella standing there, cuddling his nephew. The image of the beautiful woman displaying love and affection did strange things to his heart.

  They continued the repair work on Saturday, but the next day being Sunday, they rested from their labors. Richard had never been so tired or sore. He slept in, ignoring Pickering’s proddings that he attend church again. Instead, after eating eggs and toast, he took some willow bark tea for his aches and pains and went back to bed.

  Pickering muttered under his breath, “Two steps forward and one step back.”

  Richard retorted, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Pickering.”

  Later that afternoon, he took Wally outside for his begged-for walk. Of old habit, Richard’s feet took him to Honeycroft. The children were playing in the front garden when he arrived. He left Wally outside with them.

  At the door, Mrs. Reeves met him with a smile. “Oh, my boy. So good to see you again.”

  “You are not tired of seeing me yet?”

  “Not at all. You are always welcome.”

  He noticed she still wore a shawl indoors but this time no gloves. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Much better, thank you. The cottage is warmer already! Come in and sit down, and I’ll make us the last of the tea. I’ve been saving it for you.”

  Why was she so happy to see him? Why would she celebrate his return? The guilt of it sat heavy on his chest. Richard said, “You are too good to me, Mrs. Reeves. You should not be so kind. Not when I abandoned you all.”

  “Oh, Richard. That is all in the past. All forgiven.” She patted his hand. “And not because you are helping to fix up this old place. I forgave you long ago.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t know what I’ve done, or you would not say so.”

  Her expression sobered. “I do know. Susanna confided everything years ago. She may not have forgiven you, but I have.”

  “Don’t. I hurt and disappointed Susanna, and disappointed you afterward. I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

  Her eyes snapped. “You’re right. You don’t deserve it. Love and forgiveness are not something you earn. They are gifts. My, my, have I neglected your education so terribly? My dear boy, none of us deserves forgiveness. None of us can do enough good deeds to atone for our own failings. If we could, God would not have had to send the Son He loved into the world to die for us. But He did, because He loves us.”

  Richard thought once more of the words the vicar had spoken on Christmas. That the heavenly Father would willingly send His precious Son into a world He knew would crucify Him? Richard felt astounded all over again and not a little incredulous.

  “Do you really believe that?” he asked her.

  “I do, yes, utterly and completely. Surely you know me well enough not to be surprised by that! Why do you think we invited you in all those years ago? Because we are so good, or you are so charming?” She shook her head, a soft smile on her lined face. “No, it was because Mr. Reeves and I felt God nudge our hearts, whisper to us that we could be of some help to you. At first, we didn’t realize you were from the manor. We assumed you were some village boy. Only God would know the younger son of a baronet needed us.”

  Richard managed a bleak chuckle.

  She squeezed his hand. “And perhaps it is time to forgive Sir Justin. For your own sake. Forgive and be forgiven, as the Scriptures say. No, he was not a perfect man. He did wrong. But so have you.”

  Richard nodded. “I will try.”

  “
Try? What is ‘try’?” Her eyes snapped again. “Every day God gives us, we must do our best to trust and obey. We fail, but we do the same the next day, clinging to His promises and strength to help us. If that is your definition of try, then I am satisfied. But if it is lip service to something that’s difficult so you will give up after a few attempts, well then, I am not.”

  “Good night, you are being tough on me today.”

  She sighed. “I know. But life is short, and there is no sense in wasting words. I care for you too much to not tell you the truth.”

  Mrs. Reeves looked off into the distance. Into the past. “I wish I’d told Seth more of what was on my heart while I could. I hope when he died, it was with a prayer on his lips.”

  Tears shone in her weary eyes, and Richard felt tears prick his own eyes in reply.

  “I have no doubt of it. Seth even wrote to me once, urging me to seek God’s help and forgiveness as you taught us. So I am sure he was ready to meet his Maker, thanks to you.”

  She shook her head. “Not thanks to me. Thanks to our Savior.” She looked back at him, gaze resolute. “You remember that, my boy.”

  “I will tr—” He stopped, and started again. “I will.”

  They completed the repairs on Monday. Richard saw the project through to the last, even helping to load lumber scraps, broken slates, and tools back into the wagon.

  Mrs. Snyder, the laundress, had come and helped Mrs. Reeves take down the curtains that had been stained by the foul leaking water. Together the two women hung up the freshly laundered curtains, and the room looked brighter and more inviting than before. Mrs. Reeves did too.

  Finally all was finished. Mrs. Reeves thanked everyone profusely and kissed Richard’s cheek. “Thank you, lad. Mr. Reeves would have been so proud of you. Your own father as well.”

  He ducked his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Reeves.” He hoped it was true.

  As they walked home together, Timothy said, “She’s right, you know. Father was not perfect, but he would have been proud of you. I know I am.”

  Richard’s heart pounded, and his throat tightened. He wanted to thank his brother but could not speak for the lump in his throat.