With her servants to help her, she had unpacked the many trunks that Christopher had had sent from Ryding, filled with Christmas heirlooms that had been in his family for generations, and they had spread them throughout the house together. He hung mistletoe in every room, and made the silliest excuses, to lure her under it every chance he got.
She made or bought gifts for all the servants. They delivered them on Christmas Eve, where she got to experience her first sleigh ride, since it had begun snowing earlier in the week, and a thick coat of snow now covered the fields and roads. It was quite fun, despite the cold, and they weren't gone long, since many of the servants lived in the mansion, but the warm parlor was a welcome respite when they returned home.
They spent the rest of the evening there, sitting on the sofa near the fire where a large Yule log burned, watching the small candles flickering on the tree Christopher had gone out and cut down himself.
Anastasia was feeling such peace, such contentment, despite the feeling that had come to her a few days ago that she must try and explain to her husband. It was different from her normal "gift," her insight, and yet it wasn't.
She was four months into her pregnancy. She wasn't actually showing it yet, nor feeling it, other than the brief bouts of sickness she'd had in the mornings for a while. Yet she felt a closeness to her unborn child that was akin to holding him in her arms already. And the feeling that had come to her had to do with him, yet not exactly with him.
It would be best if she could get it into words that made sense, and she tried to do that now, telling Christopher, "There will be one more gift for us to make, though it won't be for us to deliver."
He had one arm around her. His other hand had been idly caressing her arm. He turned to her now to say, not unexpected, "I don't understand."
"Neither do I, really," she was forced to admit. "It is just a feeling that has come to me about our son.”
"Son?" he interrupted in surprise. "We're having a son? You actually know this?"
"Well, yes, I had a dream about him, My dreams are usually quite accurate. But that has nothing to do with the gift we must make."
"What gift?"
He was starting to sound frustrated. She couldn't blame him. She often questioned herself, the feelings she got.
"We must put down on paper, how we met, how we came to love each other, how we defied our respective people to choose love rather than what was expected of us. We must write our story, Christoph."
"Write it?" He sounded uncomfortable. "I'm not very good with the written word, Anna."
She smiled at him. "You will do fine. I already know this."
He rolled his eyes at her. "I've a better suggestion. Why don't you do this writing that must be done—and by the by, why must it be done?"
"We must do this, not for our son, but for his children, and their children. What I have 'felt' is that our story will benefit one or more of these children. I don't know when it will be of benefit, or why, I just know that it will. Perhaps I will know more about it at some future time, have other feelings about it, but just now, this is all I know."
"Very well, I can accept that—I suppose. Yet I still don't see why we both must do this. It only takes one person to tell a story."
"True, except I can't write about your feelings, Christoph. I can't write about your thoughts. Only you can add these, to make our story complete. But if your style of writing bothers you this much, or if you've had thoughts you think I might question or tease you about, I will promise not to read what you write. This story is not for us, nor for our son, it's for those who will come after, that we will likely never meet. We can lock it away, so no one that we know will ever see it."
He sighed, then kissed her gently on the cheek to make his reluctant acquiescence a tad more graceful. "When do you want to begin?"
She hesitated for only a moment. "Tonight, on Christmas Eve. I have a feeling—"
"No more 'feelings' tonight," he cut in with a moan.
She chuckled. "I didn't say we have to write a lot tonight, just a beginning. Besides, I have another gift to deliver tonight that will take quite some time—in the delivering of it."
It was the sensual look she was giving him that had him raising his brow with interest. "You do? Quite some time, eh? You, ah, wouldn't consider delivering that present first, would you?"
"I could be persuaded to."
His lips came to her cheek again, and then moved down her neck, sending shivers over her shoulders. "I'm very good at persuading," he said in a husky whisper.
"I had a feeling you would say that."
Amy closed the journal for the last time with a satisfied sigh. It had been more than she could have hoped for. She was now fully at peace with her "gift." It could just be incredible coincidence, how lucky she was with her wagering, but she preferred to think she had inherited her luck from her great-grandmother.
Not everyone had stayed for the full reading, which had taken three days. Roslynn and Kelsey took turns seeing to the children, so they only heard every other chapter or so, though they would catch up, now that they could have the journal to themselves.
Amy's older sisters had decided to wait and read it at their leisure. Though they did pop in every so often to find out how the story was progressing, they mostly kept Georgina company, who was entertaining her visiting brothers elsewhere in the house. The rest of the Andersons didn't come to England frequently enough to suit her, so when they did, she liked to spend as much time as possible with them.
