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“Oh dear,” she said. “She actually said those things? But I wonder why. You are not conceited. I wonder why she said you are. Her real reason, that is. Is she in love with someone else? But why be so vicious about a simple invitation to dance? Why call you arrogant?”

“Perhaps I am,” he said. “Perhaps you are too partial.”

“Nonsense,” she said firmly. “You are the absolute antithesis of arrogant, Bert. There has to be another reason. And I cannot just stick my nose in the air and give her the cut direct. I like her. I also hate her for breaking your heart.”

“She has not—” he said in hot denial. He did not add that he actually hated her. That would unleash another few dozen questions upon him.

“We had better practice if we are not to make utter cakes of ourselves tonight,” she said. “We have only…twenty-two minutes left.”

Bertrand wished he had sunk all the way into hermithood during the autumn and remained home alone for Christmas. It was just another day of the year, after all. He could have been quiet and lazy there to his heart’s content.

Except that he wanted to be here. He even wanted to play with Estelle again.

“Right,” he said. “For starters, I suppose it would be a good idea if we both play the same Mozart piece. Which shall it be?”

—

Between them, Stephanie and Winifred got the Nativity play more or less organized before Christmas dinner, though they both agreed it could hardly be called a play since there was no time to learn parts, and there were no parts to be learned anyway. It was to be a pageant, they had decided, coming up with the brilliant idea almost at the same moment, with no speaking parts but a narrator instead, reading the story from the Bible. They gathered together all the children who wished to participate—they almost all did—and sorted them into kings, shepherds, and angels. They made the tricky choice of Mary and Joseph by drawing lots. A few of the older children opted not to appear in the pageant but to help a couple of the nurses who volunteered to organize props and costumes. Matthew Taylor, who was both a carpenter and a wood carver, would make the manger, Bethan Ware suggested before dashing downstairs to ask him. Emma and Susan Cunningham, twins who never did anything separately from each other, offered their favorite doll as the baby Jesus, though not one of the new ones their grandparents had given them for Christmas.

The angels would sing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” which they all more or less knew. They could sing the first verse and then repeat it, Winifred suggested. It would not need any accompaniment, Stephanie decided. If necessary, she could sing quietly along with them, to keep them in tune.

The narrator would be the key to the whole thing. The one chosen for the role needed to be someone who would declaim the Christmas story authoritatively and clearly enough for all to hear, and with pauses long enough to allow the actors to do their parts. Stephanie’s mind roamed over all the older children.

“Possibly Joy Ellis or Gareth on my side of the family,” she said. “What about your side? Who would do a good job of it? Katy Bennington, perhaps? Or Josephine Archer? Your sister Sarah?”

Winifred thought about it. “Robbie,” she said. “My brother.”

Robbie Cunningham was the boy who was withdrawn and often frowning, even sullen, and rarely spoke a word. He seemed like a mad choice, except that Stephanie remembered him back in the summer watching patiently, almost tenderly, over his deaf brother one day out in the stables while Andrew chiseled away at a stone sculpture. And she thought of how he had become attached to the sunny-natured Owen and learned from him how to use a bow and arrow, though Owen was the last person anyone ought to want as his mentor at archery. The pupil had far outshone the teacher within a matter of days. Maybe not even as long.

But he was still a boy who rarely spoke. And one who rarely if ever looked happy. Winifred knew him better than she did, however. Perhaps he would be a reasonable choice. Maybe the perfect choice?

“Will he do it?” she asked.

“I’ll go down and speak to him now,” Winifred said.

Stephanie went with her, though she stood back when they reached the drawing room. She did not want to intimidate the boy. Viscount Watley and his sister were missing from the room. They must have gone to the music room to practice the pianoforte duet they would play later. Soon after the Christmas dinner, he would be back there with her, Stephanie, to practice the song she still had not chosen. She felt almost sick to the stomach at the thought. How was she expected to eat what was always the most eagerly anticipated feast of the year? How was she going to enjoy it?

Winifred was talking earnestly to Robbie, one hand rubbing lightly over his back while he frowned at his large dog, one hand on its head. His expression had not changed even when Winifred got to her feet after a few minutes.

Oh dear. He must have said no. Joy Ellis, then? Or Josephine Archer?

But as soon as Winifred’s back was turned, Robbie wrapped both arms about his dog’s neck and buried his face against it.

“He will do it,” Winifred said, beaming. “And he will do a good job of it, Stephanie. I promise. Not many people seem to understand that he is a bit of a perfectionist. If he decides to do something, he feels compelled to do it to the very best of his ability. I told him we will practice in the salon across from the music room after the little ones have awoken from their naps.”

“Wonderful,” Stephanie said.

Now all they had to do was put it all together so they would be able to present a fitting finale to the concert this evening. Lady Dirkson had chosen to put it last on the program, though Stephanie was not sure it was a wise idea when there were hordes of young children involved, and by that stage of the evening they might have grown tired and restless and even a bit unruly.

Now…if only she had Nicholas or Jennifer or Gwyneth or even Owen as her accompanist, she would be quite looking forward to her own solo. She had done it before. When people lived far from city theaters and concert halls, they learned to make their own entertainment and share their talents even if their performances would not bear close scrutiny from any discerning critic.

Alas, she did not have any of those four persons to play for her.

It was Lady Dirkson, aided and abetted by Lord Molenor, who had forced her into kissing Lord Watley under the kissing bough last evening. And it was Lady Dirkson this morning who had forced him upon her as an accompanist for tonight. Stephanie had been amused by the story Winifred had told her last summer of the three scheming, well-meaning aunts, never dreaming that one day she would become one of their victims.

She was not amused now. Please God they had not seriously picked upon her and Viscount Watley as their Christmas project. Why not Peter Wayne or Ivan Wayne, the Molenors’ own sons? They were both close to her in age, and both were personable young men. Not that she was looking for a romantic connection with either one. But…

Well, but Christmas dinner was being announced, and Stephanie was hungry despite her nerves. Breakfast at the hotel seemed an age ago.