He would be gone.
But there was the rest of Christmas to enjoy.
“It has struck me,” the earl continued, “that this is what Christmas was always meant to be like—family and friends together, simply enjoying one another’s company. But even so I have been aware all day that the peculiar wonder of the church service last night has formed the very basis of today’s happiness. It seems to me that it would be a good idea to recapture some of that wonder now before we proceed to the ballroom for the concert. The candles, if you please, Billings.”
Soon the only candles still burning were those in the candelabra that stood on the table. Their light cast shifting patterns of brightness and shadow over their faces. There was an immediate feeling of intimacy and coziness.
“We are going to listen to the Christmas story again,” his lordship said. “Mr. Colin Stewart has agreed to read it from the Bible. He was the only one of us, you see, who protested that he has no talent to share with us at our concert. But I can recall meetings chaired by him, and I can remember my attention being held by the deep, rich tones of his voice as much as by what he said. Colin?”
The story of the Birth had a beauty and a simplicity that could never be spoiled—even when it had been read in Gilbert’s toneless voice while his family had sat in stiff-backed silence and his servants had stood like stone statues. Its power could never be dimmed—even when it had been read from the lectern of the Norman church with all its rich evocation of history. Repetition and familiarity could never trivialize it.
But this evening there was something about the story that held them all more than usually spellbound. There was the focus on the gathering of friends that the dimming of the candles around them had created. There was the memory of a happy day and the culinary satisfaction of a superb meal just consumed. There was Colin Stewart’s melodious speaking voice with its attractive Scottish burr. There was ...
No, there was no real explanation, Christina thought when the reading came to an end and no one moved or said anything. Christmas was just this—peace, joy, love. But none of those words was quite adequate. Nor were all of them combined. No words could quite describe what it was. She only knew that whatever it was, she would never forget it.
“Thank you, Mr. Stewart,” Winifred Milchip said, the first to break the silence, and doubtless taking herself as much by surprise as everyone else.
Christina met the earl’s eyes along the length of the table, and they both smiled. She got to her feet.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Stewart. Shall we all gather in the ballroom within the next half hour?”
In one way, she thought as she led the way from the dining room with Lady Gaynor, living in a cocoon was preferable to stepping out into a larger, brighter, freer world. There were light and joy in this world—she seemed to have lived more intensely in the past week than she had done in all her life before. But there was the anticipation of pain too. The house was going to feel quite unbearably empty.. ..
Her life was going to be unbearably empty.
But then cocoons were not necessarily warm, comforting places either.
“How kind of his lordship,” Lady Gaynor was saying, “to insist upon carrying my poor Lizzie down from her room to the dining room and now into the ballroom when he might as easily have summoned a servant for the purpose. Of course, I do believe he is quite devoted to her. Not that I ought to say so aloud, ought I?” She tittered. “Not yet at least.”
“Excuse me.” Christina smiled at her. “I must go up and prepare the children for their play. I do not doubt they are all almost sick with excitement.”
Lady Hannah had scheduled the Nativity Play early in the program. It would have made an excellent finale, she had explained to the earl, but she was afraid that the children would grow tired and restless if they had to wait too long.
It was a great success. The Langans, usually very quiet and refined, were quite convincing as a vulgar, quarrelsome, bad-tempered couple; the three shepherds drew almost constant laughter. Laura Cannadine sang like an angel. But none of the adult performances could outshine those of the children, who had been well coached but whose individuality shone through nonetheless. The angel, decoratively placed behind Mary and Joseph at the manger, moved to one corner of the stable until she had a clear view of her papa in the audience. One of the kings grew tired of her beard and lifted it to her forehead. Another king walked off the stage with his thumb in his mouth before he had deposited his gift at the manger. The Virgin Mary ran after him and took it gently from him. Joseph picked up the baby to show to the shepherds and was seen to be holding it feet uppermost. The third king tripped over his robe and made a grand entrance.
But they played their parts with an earnestness that was endearing and as touching in its way as the reading of the Christmas story in the dining room earlier had been.
The Earl of Wanstead watched attentively. But he was equally aware of two other things—or rather, of two other persons. Lizzie Gaynor sat beside him, her injured foot propped on a stool. She leaned slightly toward him and turned to him every few moments to share some observation on the play. He wondered uneasily if he had said or done anything to compromise his honor with regard to her. Did he owe her a marriage offer? But then she was not the only single lady he had invited to the house party. Yet none of the others appeared to believe that he had invited them with the sole intention of proposing to them.
And he was aware too of Christina, who was frequently visible off at one side of the stage, directing her players and prompting them. He wondered if she realized how dazzlingly beautiful she looked tonight in her bright red gown. It had the elegant simplicity of design that he was beginning to recognize as characteristic of her. What an idiot he had been, he thought, imagining just two days ago that it would be possible once and for all to work her out of his system if he but completed what they had started at Vauxhall.
He knew that he would be bonded to her forever, more so now than ever before. There was a physical connection now. He wondered if she was with child and how soon she would know. He tried to remember why he hated her, why he would never again be able to trust her. And he wondered again what it was about the events of ten and a half years ago that he had not understood at the time.
But the concert moved onward, and it was certainly his duty to give it his whole attention. There were numerous musical items though none quite the same as the ones that had gone before. The magic act had been placed halfway through the program, not too late to be appreciated by the children. The earl and Christina had not had a great deal of opportunity to rehearse together, but they contrived well enough. She succeeded in looking lovely and charming and suitably startled as he drew colored silk scarves from her ears and—a little risque, perhaps—a gold sovereign from the bosom of her gown. She held his hat while he dropped into it the silk scarves and drew out a silver-topped cane. He bowed over her hand and kissed it at the end of the act while she curtsied to the audience.
She looked, he thought, as if she was enjoying herself. She looked as if she might have put on weight, though that was doubtless an illusion. But somehow the tight-lipped, stiff-spined, too thin look had vanished, and her body appeared more supple, more curvaceous, more alluring. Her complexion appeared to glow with the flush of returned youth.
But he was nervous. Jeannette was to sing a few Scottish folk songs next to her own accompaniment. After that it was Rachel’s turn. He hoped she would acquit herself well. It was hard to know with that child how easily she would hold up under the onset of nerves. She was almost always quietly grave except in flashing moments when one became aware of her as a child with deeply passionate feelings. And he hoped Christina would not disapprove. He did not know why she should. Aunt Hannah and Margaret both had approved. But one never knew with Christina. He well remembered that first afternoon in the ballroom.
Lady Hannah got to her feet after Jeannette’s performance had been properly applauded. But the earl had already moved out of sight beyond the screen that hid future performers from the eyes of the audience. Rachel was there with Margaret, dressed in the flowing white-and-gold gauze dress her nurse, Margeret, and Aunt Hannah had made between them in secret haste, her loose hair entwined from crown to tips with finely cut gold ribbons. She looked terrified. He went down on his haunches and took both her hands in his.
“Remember,” he said, “that you are the most graceful lady of my acquaintance.” She and her mother.
Lady Hannah was speaking beyond the screen. “The Star of Bethlehem plays such an important role in the Christmas story,” she said, “that sometimes it seems almost like an animate character in the drama. It is beautiful and serene and embodies brightness and hope and peace. Tonight we bring the star alive in the person of Lady Rachel Percy.”
She had taken her place at the pianoforte, the earl saw when he looked beyond the screen. He squeezed Rachel’s shoulder and released it. He set himself to watch both her and Christina, who was seated in the second row of chairs, a rather sleepy-looking Tess on her lap. She was looking, he thought, somewhat apprehensive.
But he could not keep a great deal of his attention on her during the next few minutes. He had seen the performance a number of times. Indeed, he had helped choreograph it with his cousin and his aunt. He had thought it sweet and musical and graceful. But tonight Rachel made it her own.
