Chapter Sixteen
Happy Christmas, Dorian! This is a cake from our own kitchen. Rose told us that you do not like cherries so I made sure there was a batch without them…
As Dorian sat at the window seat with his sketch pad against one raised knee, and his eye on the full moon over the trees, his mind strayed back to Rose’s family at Westvale Park that day. Whatever they imagined of him at the start was evidently forgiven now, and the Duchess of Westvale had even kissed him on the cheek as she gave him that cake.
Happy Christmas! I never know what to buy for people, but a man can never have too many plain cufflinks…
Magnus too had been in good humor as he handed over his own small gift. Dorian himself had somehow not even considered the matter of presents before agreeing to visit Rose’s family on Christmas Day. Luckily, his wife was better prepared, with abasket full of jams, preserves and sweetmeats from the Ravenhill kitchens. There was no embarrassment of empty hands.
Edwin’s smile and wish of seasonal greetings had seemed as sincere as the rest. Dorian almost liked the man now that he saw Edwin’s care for Rose shine through, undimmed by previous reaction to outraged social conventions.
Merry Christmas indeed! Here is a bottle of our best plum brandy. I know Rose likes it and perhaps you may raise a glass together to warm yourselves when you get home.
The duke supposed he had assumed that Christmas presents were only for children, and not always even then… Pondering the matter further, Dorian looked up at the moon once more and sketched in another long shadow with the charcoal he held. How different Rose’s childhood must have been to his own!
With the Duke of Westvale so ill, the atmosphere at Westvale Park was muted and there was no real celebration on Christmas Day. Still the family had come together quietly to exchange greetings and presents, apparently out of simple affection for one another. It was new to Dorian, a fact he had impulsively confessed to the old man when summoned to the sickroom after Rose had left it.
Never had a family Christmas? Why, you and your wife must put that right in time for next year, young man. You and Rose must give your children a family Christmas!
Dorian had laughed at himself and then found himself promising that he would heed the Duke of Westvale’s advice when the time came. All the Christmas frippery and social obligations did seem to make Rose happy and Dorian liked to see her smile. As did her father.
My Rose is thriving in her new soil and it does me good to see her so content. You mustn’t stay here too long today. Houses with invalids are miserable places, Dorian. Go home and start your own family Christmas. That is my advice to you…
They had not stayed long at Westvale Park after that, knowing that Eugenia did not really like to disrupt her husband’s routine and having already planned to be back at Ravenhill House before evening. They did, however, call briefly on Lady Madeline Bennet’s family at Hollington house on their way home.
In contrast to Westvale Park, Hollington House on Christmas Day had been over-merry and somewhat giddy. A first dose of chaos was provided by Madeline’s energetic youngest sister and her new puppy, both chasing a hoop about the house. The second came from Madeline’s cousin Francesca, only recently out of short skirts but already making eyes at both Dorian and a handsome young footman, much to Madeline’s distress.
Meanwhile, Lord Hollington wandered the rooms of his house in a genial but bewildered daze, a glass of mulled wine in his hand. He seemed genuinely sorry that the Duke and Duchess of Ravenhill could not stay longer to share in their planned fun and games.
Family gatherings of any kind were equally alien to Dorian, whether low-key and thoughtful, or loud and high-spirited. His mind had been constantly working to make sense of what he saw in the families of both houses.
The atmosphere at Westvale Park might not have been merry today but its inhabitants worked together, considered one another, and acted always for family benefit. Despite the running about, shouting and questionable manners at Hollington House, he sensed the same affection there as in Rose’s family. No one in either home hated anyone else or wished themselves elsewhere rather than with their families.
What had Dorian done at Christmas time in recent years? He could barely remember. Likely he had gone about in town with other bachelors, or spent the festive period in bed with a skilled lover, or two. Sometimes he had traveled overseas. He recalled at least one Christmas in Italy with a bewitching dark-eyed courtesan who spoke no English but communicated more than adequately with her eyes and touch.
Yet he had enjoyed none of that as much as coming back here with Rose and eating Christmas dinner together, just the two of them, before exchanging and unwrapping their own presents to one another. Dorian was not fool enough to forget a gift for a current lover, after all.
After that, of course, he had the pleasure of unwrapping Rose herself in his bed and surrendering to the simple joys of satisfying their most primal appetites. He had left his wife fastasleep there a few hours earlier, damp and utterly physically satisfied.
While an equal partner in pleasure, such slumber had eluded Dorian afterwards. Without disturbing Rose, he had risen and turned to art, as was always his habit on sleepless nights.
“I thought I’d find you in here,” said Rose’s sleepy voice, breaking in on his thoughts. “Is it still Christmas? I think the clock needs winding in your bedroom.”
Looking up from his sketching, Dorian watched her walk barefoot across the room he used as a studio, dressed only in one of his shirts, her long blonde hair flowing around her shoulders. Instinctively, he smiled at the sight and equally instinctively, Rose returned his smile and came towards him.
“Doesn’t Christmas last for twelve days?” he laughed. “So I’ve often heard, anyway. I have a great deal to learn.”
“I’m still astonished that you never had Christmas presents as a child,” said Rose with a frown.
Dorian shrugged and grinned. Giving and receiving presents at a blazing hearth festooned with holly, ivy and festive candles had been a novelty for him and all the doing of Rose and Mrs. Jennings.
“I often had presents at other odd times, whenever someone remembered me,” he added. “Sometimes they would beveryhandsome presents, especially if my mother wished to outcompete my father or vice versa. You must not feel sorry for me. I was hardly a deprived child.”
“Still,” Rose said, her frown not dispelled, as though she took far more seriously than Dorian what he had just told her. “Still, it seems so strange to me…”
“Do not worry about it,” the duke said lightly, applying a little more charcoal to his page. “I don’t.”
“What are you drawing?” Rose asked now, as artless and appealing as ever. “May I see?”
