CHAPTER EIGHT
Heap on more wood!—the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
“Old Christmastide” Sir Walter Scott
I wandered the Abbey for a little while, poking into various rooms, some I had not seen since a ghastly game of sardines two years before. Everything seemed chill and quiet, and in the long grey light of the afternoon, I felt a certain melancholy settling into the stones. It was a curious feeling. For as long as I had lived in the Abbey, I had thought it a happy place. It had always been colourful and loud, filled with music and laughter and the petty squabbles of too many children. I believed the monks had been happy there as well, toiling soberly at their carp ponds and fruit orchards, polishing the stones with prayerful knees. There were cycles in the life of a great house such as ours. When a lord is young, his family is boisterous and the house comes alive. But the wheel turns, as it must, and a quiet settles over the place as softly as a snowfall, muffling its gaiety as the lord ages and his family is flown. And then the wheel turns again and the house his handed over to the new lord and it stirs to life again, sheltering the family as it has so many before.
I toyed with the idea of sharing my thoughts with Father, but when I went to his study, his door was still locked. I heard a peculiar noise from within, so I bent swiftly and put my eye to the keyhole. Father sat at his desk, his handsome features maudlin and drawn. On top of the desk stood a modest bust of Shakespeare and on top of that perched Grim. He eyed Father and canted his head.
“Tragedy and woe,” he intoned.
“Indeed,” Father replied. “Rather a clever fellow, aren’t you?”
Grim bobbed his head.
With a tender hand, Father reached out and stroked the silken feathers. Grim suffered him to do so, not because he liked being touched. Grim was, in fact, somewhat aloof. But he was acutely sympathetic for a bird, and he had at one time saved my life. I was not surprised he offered father his feathery consolations.
I rose from my spying, wiped at my eyes and hurried up to my room to have a think. I fetched the ring box from the desk where Brisbane had left it and scrutinised it carefully. As I pondered, my eyes fell to a pair of Brisbane’s boots, so much larger than my own slender slippers, and an idea began to form. A quick trip to the lumber room to inspect the pattens strengthened my suspicions, and I returned to my room to compose a series of telegrams.
When I finished, I hunted down William IV in the great hall and bade him take the messages to the village telegraph office and wait for replies. He hurried off, and I turned just in time to find Nin twining herself sinuously about my legs. I bent and scooped her up.
“Where have you been, miss? I have not seen you for the better part of a day,” I scolded. She put out a velvety paw, touching my earring and I scratched her ears until she purred ecstatically. “Mind you tell your master that I have treated you with exceedingly good care,” I told her. I put her down and she scampered off again, disappearing into a narrow gap between the fireplace in the great hall and the carved walnut panelling of the wall beside it. It had once been used by the abbot as a sort of hidey-hole for caching his valuables. Since the Dissolution, it had been put to rather more prosaic use as a cats’ nursery. Christopher Sly in particular liked to give birth there as the stones held the warmth of the fireplace and she was never disturbed. I could only hope Nin was not about to follow suit. I should not like to explain to Sir Morgan Fielding that his extremely valuable and virginal Siamese had been willfully violated.
Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out behind me.
“Do not turn around, Julia,” my husband ordered. “And close your eyes.”
I did as I was told. “What on earth are you up to?”
“Do. Not. Ask.” His voice was strained and there was a series of strange sounds, scraping and straining, and under it all a fluent if subdued litany of modest swear words.
“There. Now turn around, wife.”
I did and nearly tripped over a felled tree lying in the middle of the great hall. Brisbane stood next to it, his usually pristine clothing deeply soiled and torn, his ebony hair tumbled wildly. Leaves clung to him, and he looked like an exceedingly handsome pagan god, the Green Man come gloriously to life.
“Brisbane, what—”
“It is a Yule log. For burning,” he explained helpfully.
“Yes, I know what a Yule log is for, but—”
I noticed then the cluster of men at the door—most of the male staff, my brothers Benedick and Plum, and even Aquinas.
“You wanted a traditional Christmas. And it is not a traditional Christmas without a Yule log.”
He opened his arms and I went into them, absurdly, wholly delighted with this enigmatic man that I had married.
“But you do not like tradition,” I murmured into his ear.
“I like you,” he replied. His arms tightened about me, and I went on tiptoe to thank him with a kiss. My brothers made appropriately appalled noises and Aquinas shepherded the staff out with promises of warm punch in the kitchen.
“If we are burning a Yule log, we really ought to hang the holly and the ivy,” I mused.
“Julia.” Brisbane’s voice held a warning edge.
“It is also tradition,” I protested.
“It is your father’s house and we are already trespassing upon his good-will by burning this monstrosity against his wishes.”
“I think Father will be inclined to holiday mirth by and by. And if we are putting up the decorations, we must have mistletoe,” I said, giving him my most innocent look.
He canted his head, very like Grim, I observed. “Mistletoe?”
“Mistletoe.”
“Lots of it?”
“Piles of it.”
“Where do you plan to hang it?” he asked, much more interested in the subject suddenly.
“Oh, everywhere.”
* * *
That evening, Father said nothing about the Yule log that had been pushed into the fireplace and prepared for kindling into a holiday fire. Aunt Hermia had merely shrugged when I told her I intended to hang the greenery, and the appearance of Jane the Younger after dinner lightened the mood a little. Father smiled once or twice at her shrieks before retiring to bed early, and Brisbane and I passed a thoroughly satisfactory and entirely private evening in the solitude of our room.
“Thank God for stout stone walls,” he said at one point, and I heartily agreed.
The next morning was Christmas Eve, and even the discovery that another pretty bauble had gone missing was not enough to dampen my rising spirits.
“But it is Jane the Younger’s favourite teething ring,” Portia protested. The thief had absconded with the pretty mother-of-pearl piece I had bought Jane the Younger, and the loss of it had not settled well with either mother or child. “I am afraid without it, she might get fretful.”
“Get?” Brisbane said under his breath.
“I heard that, brother,” she retorted. I hurried to smooth the moment.
“I’m sure it will turn up. After all, Christmas is full of surprises.”
“Julia,” she said narrowly, “you’re wearing an enigmatic face.”
“Don’t be feeble. This is the face I was born with.”
We fell to quarrelling gently then, and the day passed with agonizing slowness. I spoke to Aquinas, organising what was necessary, and starting each time I heard something in the entry hall. At length it was time for tea and we all gathered in the great hall, with the exception of Portia and Jane the Younger. The room had been hung with long boughs of evergreen and the spicy scent of it filled the air with wintry promise. Great bowls of Rose’s clove-studded oranges sat on each tables, and the footmen had carried in tall jars of the damp potpourri, p
lacing them carefully upon the hearth so the warmth of the kindled Yule log would send their scented vapours through the room. As a special treat, Aquinas served wassail with the tea. It had been ladled into the traditional bowl, an enormous affair of ancient wood mounted in silver. Roasted apples bobbed merrily on the surface, and I murmured a warning to Brisbane about the strength of the stuff. It was sweetly spiced and a single glass could fell an unwary soul.
“What is this?” Father grumbled. “It looks like some sort of celebration.”
“It is Christmas Eve,” I said hurriedly. “Reason enough to celebrate.”
He made a harrumphing noise and I went to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet that screened the darkness outside. “It is snowing!” I cried.
The others crowded around the window overlooking the garden. All was quiet and peaceful, with the brilliant long light of a winter moon rising over the slumbering garden. And in that silver peace, clouds drifted, shaking soft petals of snow upon the ground.
“Just like every Christmas,” Aunt Hermia said, her voice thick with awe.
“Like every Christmas,” I breathed. She lifted her hand to touch me on the shoulder, but pulled away at the last moment, giving me a sad smile instead. I pressed a quick kiss to her papery cheek and looked over her shoulder.
“Father,” I said. I motioned for him to turn around.
In the doorway, still as a marble angel and powdered with fresh snow, stood Hortense de Bellefleur.
“Hortense! But how—”
She came forward, dressed in dark green velvet, her hands tucked into the white fur of her muff. She was smiling.
“I came because Julia invited me.”
“Julia.” Every pair of eyes swung to me. Brisbane’s were amused, but Plum’s were wary and even Aunt Hermia seemed slightly taken aback.
But Father was immobile, seemingly gripped by a disbelief that stilled his muscles. I took his arm.
“Father, would you not like to welcome our guest properly? Perhaps a private chat in your study?”
He nodded, but did not move forward until I shoved him lightly. He walked slowly to where Hortense stood and as he approached, she put out her hands. “Hector,” she murmured, her eyes sparkling as brightly as her smile.
He took her hands in his and led her from the room as the rest of the family turned to me expectantly.
“It is very simple,” I said, my voice unnaturally loud. “I had the box from which the ring disappeared. I instructed Monk to make enquiries in London and it seems Father did have a jewel stolen from his study—an emerald ring of considerable value. It had been ordered as a betrothal ring for Hortense.”
Aunt Hermia’s hand was at her throat. “Hector said nothing.”
“He wouldn’t, would he? Not unless she accepted him. Father must have known there would be difficulties in a marriage with Hortense. And until the lady herself agreed to the betrothal, there was no point in upsetting everyone, particularly you.”
“Me?” Aunt Hermia’s eyes were wide. “Why particularly me?
“Perhaps because you have been mistress of the Abbey since Mother died,” I offered gently. “If Father marries again, your position must be altered.”
“I would not care,” she said slowly. “Not if he were truly happy.”
“But Father would not know that. He is only a man.”
We exchanged fond glances as Brisbane stared quietly into the fire and held himself out of our family discussion.
“But why lie when the ring went missing and claim it was never there?” Plum demanded.
I shrugged. “She refused him. He was shattered. He certainly did not wish to discuss it with us. So he did the only thing he could think to do in the moment. He pretended the ring had never existed.”
Aunt Hermia fell silent, her complexion ashen. I knew she was thinking of the ring and what had become of it, but Plum shook his head. “So he decided to keep the whole thing a bloody great secret and tell no one.”
“Language, Plum,” said Aunt Hermia automatically.
“But he had told someone. He took one person into his confidence and swore him to secrecy,” I corrected, levelling my gaze at Brisbane. “Isn’t that right, my dearest?”
He stirred, looking up from the fire to meet my eyes. “It is.”
Plum goggled at him. “You knew Father meant to do this and told no one?”
“It was not mine to tell. He asked for my word I would keep silent.”
“I think you might have broken it upon this occasion,” Plum returned hotly.
“Then I think you know me not at all,” Brisbane countered, his tone deceptively bland. He would put up with Plum’s barbs only so long before he took the quarrel further, and that was not an eventuality I cared to see.
“Calm yourself, Plum. If I am not upset, you have no call to be.” I turned to Brisbane. “I understand why you did not tell me. You are a man of your word. And you know precisely when it is necessary to break it. This was not that time.”
The look he gave me was mingled gratitude and promise of a significant dose of his attentions later. I shivered a little as Portia entered.
“If that child doesn’t cut those teeth soon, I may go deaf. Sorry I am late, everyone. What did I miss?”
CHAPTER NINE
So stick up Ivie and the Bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
“The True Christmas” Henry Vaughan
After we had caught Portia up with the recent developments, we five sat up until the fire fell to ash. Still Father did not emerge from his study, and there were no noises from within. Eventually we made our way up to bed with no forthcoming announcement, wishing each other a happy Christmas as we went. Much later, when Brisbane had exhausted himself admirably in his marital attentions, I lay wakeful in the silent, snowy night.
“Brisbane?” I whispered into the darkness. I do not know why I whispered. We had proven quite thoroughly that our room was thoroughly incapable of communicating noise to the rest of the household.
He made no answer and I poked him firmly.
“For God’s sake, Julia, give me another hour at least. I am only human.”
“Where is the betrothal ring?”
“Hmm?”
I poked him again. “Where is the betrothal ring? It disappeared from Father’s desk. What became of it? I think Aunt Hermia is worried it might have been Rose. I believe Mary when she said she did not take it.”
He shrugged one heavy shoulder. “We can make a search for it tomorrow. I shall make enquiries in London as well. Whoever has it will want to dispose of it quickly enough. Monk can ask at the usual places and perhaps it will turn up.”
“It is Christmas Day tomorrow,” I observed. “We always play games. You and I can make a search for the ring and Aunt Hermia’s little jewel while we pretend to play sardines. Now, we shall need a plan—”
Brisbane rolled over swiftly, stopping my mouth with his own. I pulled my head back and gave him an appreciative look. “I thought you said an hour.”
* * *
The next morning dawned like something from a Christmas wish. The snow had stopped, piling itself gently in drifts about the Abbey, christening everything in newborn white. William IV arrived with a tray and threw back the curtains to let in the brilliance of the morning. Brisbane and I fortified ourselves with tea and toast and plans before bathing and dressing for the day. First breakfast, then church in the village where Brisbane held a few quiet conversations with local folk, betraying nothing of what was said except a single brisk nod to me as we slid into our box. Confirmation, then, of what we had theorised in bed. I gave a deep sigh of thankfulness and turned my face up to Uncle Fly, the vicar of Blessingstoke, restored to robust enough health to deliver the Christmas homily but not so much that it l
asted above quarter of an hour. The vegetarian curate led the singing, and over it all, Jane the Younger kept up a dull roar of protest at being forced to wear a bonnet bedecked with silken holly leaves.
We returned to the Abbey, those of us come from London, the residents of the Abbey, and those who lived at the Home Farm. It was a modest Christmas by March standards, but a happy one. Father was jolly as I had seldom seen him, jesting loudly with Hortense at his side—as honoured guest and no more, for no announcement had been made, but clearly some understanding had been reached. After luncheon, presents were opened, and the children ran wild, trailing ribbons and wrappings after them as they capered about the Abbey. Then they withdrew, claiming they had a Christmas surprise for us all and informing us strictly that we must not enter the dining room until they were ready.
Father waved them off merrily and the staff entered for the presentation of their gifts. Hampers of food and coal had been sent to all the cottages in the village, but these gifts were chosen particularly for the servants who lived in. They filed by in order of rank, Hoots thrusting himself firmly ahead of Aquinas in a Bath chair so old it might have carried the Regent himself. Father and Aunt Hermia handed the gifts to the staff, but when Rose came forward, I gave her the parcel bearing her name.
“Happy Christmas, Rose.”
She opened the box, staring into it for a long minute. She put out a tentative hand, then all pretence of hauteur was gone. She was a child again, fairly dancing as she tore away the last of the glittery tinsel I had affixed to the parcel. Inside was a hat, the grandest, gaudiest hat I could find, festooned with enormous velvet roses of luscious pink. She put it on and twirled.
“It is lovely on you, Rose. I hope you will wear it on your next day out.”
“I will, my lady, and all the village will be agog, they will.”
“So you mean to stay in Blessingstoke?”
She flicked a quick glance to where William IV, stood in his livery, his powdered wig striking a rather elegant note. “I think there’s something to be said for the local scenery, my lady. Although you are mighty kind to offer me a place and I don’t forget it.”
A Mysterious Season Page 5