Father’s earnest prayer echoed in the townhouse dining room on Christmas Day. Only the snap and pop of the fire and the press of wind against the windowpanes intruded on the stillness.
“God, which makest us glad with the yearly remembrance of the birth of Thy only Son Jesus Christ, grant that as we joyfully receive Him for our Redeemer, so we may with sure confidence behold Him, when He shall come to be our judge, who liveth and reigneth. Bless this food to our bodies, and be with those who are apart from this table and go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters. Bringeth them unto their desired haven, we pray. Amen.”
Esmée’s family echoed, “Amen.”
Esmée felt a new tenderness toward her father for including the 107th Psalm. She’d read the Scripture over and over again, imprinting the holy words on her mind and heart. Doing so seemed to keep Henri close as she prayed those verses to the Almighty.
“A bountiful feast,” Quinn was saying, presiding over the Christmas goose and roast beef with a look of satisfaction. “I’ve promisedthe kitchen servants a holiday after Epiphany, as they’ve worked so diligently of late.”
The entire household had gone to bed and then awoken to the traditional “shooting in the Christmas” as boys about town fired their guns in celebration of the holiday. A few random pops could still be heard, reminding Esmée of the time she and Henri had begun to find their way back to each other the night of the illuminations on Palace Green.
“I’m hungry as a horse,” Eliza said as dishes were passed. “This babe must be a boy, as he tumbles like an acrobat and swells my appetite.”
“You’ll be well fortified for our guests later today, then,” Quinn replied, the dark half-moons beneath his eyes telling that he was getting as little sleep as his wife. “Not much company, just a few of our closest friends. I don’t want to overtire you.”
“Esmée is going to play the harpsichord on my behalf.” Eliza seemed more her vibrant self. “I shall do my best lying on the sofa and conversing. But how I wish I were up for a little dancing!”
“Next season you will be.” Father took both beef and goose, heavily layering them with gravy. “Think of what a year will bring. A wedding. A grandchild—perhaps two.” He winked at Esmée. “I want this table bursting with them. Your mother would have been so delighted.”
“Dear Mama. How she loved the Christmas season.” Eliza raised her fork. “I take care to hang mistletoe in the hall for her every season. Did you notice, Father?”
“I did indeed. A thoughtful gesture. Perhaps your mother is even now looking down from heaven.” His eyes misted in a rare display of emotion. “I miss her presence especially during the holidays. As I’m sure Esmée is missing Henri.”
“God bless theIntrepid’s captain and crew,” Quinn said between forkfuls. “Howdoesone spend Christmas aboard ship?”
“With as much respect to the vessel as possible,” Father replied. “An extra ration of rum, perhaps, for midshipmen, and the best Bordeaux claret for the officers.”
Eliza eyed Esmée as she plied her fork with gusto. Was Eliza remembering the Christmases spent without Father?
“You were home for Mama’s last Christmases, thankfully.” Esméesmiled at him, wondering if Henri would miss the sea as Father did. “And you shall be present for those of your grandchildren.”
“A toast to Christmases past and present.” Quinn raised his glass, the crystal winking in the candlelight. “And our child, to be born in the new year.”
They toasted, Eliza resting a hand on her waist and giving a slight wince. Was she still feeling early pangs?
“Tell me again the names you’ve chosen,” Father said as a maid refilled his Madeira.
“In the unfortunate event it’s a she,” Eliza said, “we’ll call her Ruenna after Quinn’s mother, who is regrettably still in England on account of this fracas with the French.”
Quinn nodded. “My parents are extremely pleased. As for a boy, ’twill be Philip after Grandfather Shaw.”
“Not Barnabas?” Esmée teased. “After our very own papa?”
Eliza grimaced. “I care for that forename as little as I do Mama’s.”
“Well, my parents liked Barnabas, at least.” Father studied his youngest daughter, merriment lightening his usually stern features. “So ’tis Ruenna and Philip. Splendid, both of them.”
Eliza looked contrite. “I don’t mean to offend you, Father.”
He winked. “Is it too much to hope for twins?”
“Pish!” Eliza all but threw her napkin at him. “I’m thankful the Almighty gives most of us one infant at a time.”
A wail erupted from the upper floors, drawing every eye to the high ceiling. “Good practice for what’s to come,” Esmée said of little Alden. “Though I must say he’s a remarkably docile baby. And Alice can be a great help to you should you have questions.”
“Any news of Alice’s husband?” Father inquired.
“A letter of late has him at Fort Edward. But with the equipping of many frontier forts, that may soon change.” Esmée didn’t know if the missive brought more relief or concern. “He’s been ill of late, as have many of the men, under winter camp conditions.”
