“But we have only a little longer than twenty-four hours, Gerard,” Jeannette complained.
“Ample time,” he said unsympathetically, taking Rachel by the hand.
Christina was looking at him in surprise and some alarm. She got to her feet. But he held up a staying hand.
“This does not concern you, my lady,” he said. “It concerns Rachel, Margaret, Aunt Hannah, and me. No one else.”
She opened her mouth to protest.
“It, is a secret, Mama,” Rachel said solemnly.
She had a sweet singing voice. Meg and Aunt Hannah knew that. They were probably going to have her sing at the concert. The children were to take part too, then? Christina would not object to the secret, she decided, though she knew very well she would have done so just a few days before. There could be nothing wrong in it if Aunt Hannah approved.
But any chance that the afternoon would be a time of relaxation was gone. Everyone looked inward, many with severe misgivings, to discover what talent, if any, they might display for the general entertainment the following evening. And then almost everyone looked outward to protest to one another that theyhadno talent. Lady Hannah went quietly about among them, making lists of items for the program and of rehearsal times and places—and even a few suggestions. If Mr. Campbell had a good singing voice but was too bashful to sing a solo, why did he not sing a duet with some lady who was too shy to sing alone? Might she suggest Miss Milchip? The ballroom and the drawing room were declared out of bounds to everyone except the person or persons whose rehearsal time it was.
The children, Christina decided, would put on a Nativity play. But there were only six of them, and they would need a Mary and Joseph, an innkeeper and his wife, shepherds, kings, and angels. There were a few adults without any individual talent at all—or so they claimed—who would be only too glad to appear in the play, Laura Cannadine suggested. And she was right, of course. Lord and Lady Langan leaped at the chance to be the innkeeper and his wife. They would quarrel quite convincingly, they promised; she would box his ears; he would bluster and threaten all sorts of retaliation; they would offer the stable to the Holy Family with the most grudging reluctance.
And Viscount Luttrell with the Milchip brothers, after looking somewhat taken aback when Christina suggested it to them, agreed to be the shepherds, and disappeared in the direction of the conservatory to whip into shape a scene on the hillside in which they would feed one another comic lines appropriate for the ears of ladies and children.
Laura agreed to form a heavenly host with Alice, singing offstage while her daughter stood in the stable and on the hillside looking angelic. Rachel and Paul Langan would be Mary and Joseph, and Tess, Matthew, and young Jonathan— if he could be persuaded not to exit stage right or stage left in the middle of his scene with his thumb in his mouth—-would be the Wise Men. After all, Laura said briskly, the play would not be ruined if hedidwander off. Nowhere did the Bible specifically state that there had beenthreeWise Men— though it would be a shame if the casket of myrrh did not find its way to the foot of the manger.
Rehearsals proceeded all over the house during the very time when everyone had hoped to relax. Christina was forced to admit, though, that despite the fact that many of them had done their share of grumbling, they had all thrown themselves into the preparations with a cheerful will.
She went down to the conservatory while the younger children were having their afternoon nap to see how the shepherds’ part was progressing. It was funny, she was forced to admit. Jeremy Milchip was a shepherd who could not remain awake for longer than a minute at a stretch but nodded off and snored convincingly and believed nothing he was told when he was roused. His brother was a loud, superstitious complainer, who was quite convinced that the heavenly host was an army of extraterrestrials come to carry him off to the moon, and Viscount Luttrell was a gentle idiot who gazed vacantly about him and giggled whenever directly addressed.
The children would love it, Christina concluded. And Gilbert would surely turn over in his grave at this attempt to inject humor into the Christmas story.
“But you must, of course,” she reminded the shepherds, “realize the truth when you finally go down to Bethlehem, and be transformed by it.”
“We plan to work on that after tea, ma’am,” Jeremy told her. He yawned hugely and noisily. “IfI can stay awake long enough to go to Bethlehem, that is.”
“Bethlehem, ha!” Ralph roared. He wagged one finger close to the side of his head and half closed one eye. “I were not born yesterday, I weren’t, fellers. I don’t trust no coves wot sings instead of talking like sensible folks and wot has wings sprouting from their shoulders and rings of light about their noggins. Stealing sheep they will be while we toddles off to see a babe wot ain’t there.”
The viscount giggled.
Christina laughed. “It is time for tea,” she said. “I am sure you must be ready to rest from your hard labors.”
They did not need any further persuasion. The brothers went on ahead while Viscount Luttrell laid a staying hand on Christina’s arm. “I wonder if you could identify this plant for me, Lady Wanstead,” he said while there was still a chance that he might be overheard. But he grinned when they were alone together and drew a pathetically droopy sprig of mistletoe from his pocket. “This one. I was despairing of ever finding a private moment in which to ask you.”
“It is mistletoe, I believe, my lord,” she said. “Shall we go up for tea?”
“Let me see.” He reached up and rested it on the branch of an orange tree above their heads. “Yes, that will do nicely.” And he reached for her, drew her close with circling arms, and kissed her.
She was a little more ready for his expertise today. She did not allow him to part her lips though he licked invitingly at them and murmured softly to her.
“Christmas aside,” he said after he had lifted his head until his mouth was perhaps an inch from hers, “I suppose you must know you are the most beautiful, most alluring woman it has ever been my privilege to know.” His voice was low, seductive, not at all teasing.
“And the most stupid or naive if I believe you,” she said, smiling at him.
“I scarce know if I believe it myself,” he assured her. “It is, I confess, a line I have used before. But never have I used it with so little forethought. I want you, my dear. I do believe I have fallen in love with you. What a nasty ailment that may prove to be! I have not suffered from it before. Is it deadly, do you suppose? Is it a terminal illness?”
She liked him, she realized. He was a rogue and a rake, but there was such a mingling of practiced gallantry and blatant teasing in his approach that it was impossible to be deceived and therefore hurt by him. He was not in love with her—he did not expect her to believe that he was. He wanted an affair with her, one in which he would make it clearly understood that there was to be no deep sentiment and no commitment. Only a shared enjoyment. And she would enjoy it, she thought. Or she would have if...
She wondered, and was not at all sure of the answer, if she would have been tempted had the situation been different.
“I like your silences,” he said. “I like that enigmatic smile. It would look even lovelier framed by a pillow behind your head. You would not remain silent for long, though. I do not permit my women to love in silence.” He grinned wickedly at her and kissed her again.
After which, she decided, she must firmly declare that they had paid enough homage to one small sprig of mistletoe for this occasion.
