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“More refreshments will be set out again after the concert is over,” Camille said as she poured tea from the tray that had been set before her, and Joel poured drinks at the sideboard for anyone who preferred something stronger. “Be warned, Uncle Michael. There will be nothing between now and then. And nothing formal even then. Too many of us, it seems, would prefer to dance than sit down to a proper supper.”

Sarah Cunningham and Josephine Archer clapped their hands. Bertrand put two fingers to his lips and whistled.

“An excellent decision,” Owen said.

Although not a single one of them was even remotely hungry, all the plates were almost empty by the time they were taken back to the kitchens. But that was the nature of Christmas. Everyone slightly overindulged even though none of them were gluttons in their everyday lives.

No one changed for the evening as they normally would. All those staying in Bath would have had to bring their evening finery with them and, in some cases, maids and valets to help them change and curl their hair and tie their neckcloths. They would each have needed a room in which to be private. So, by prearrangement, they all remained dressed as they were and went in a body from the drawing room into the music room soon after tea. The children, most of whom had been content all day to play with one another and their new toys in the nursery, except when they were practicing for the pageant, were brought down, all of them with hands and faces freshly washed and hair neatly combed. They were in the mood to be entertained, and their parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles were prepared to indulge them, within limits.

The music room looked very welcoming indeed and far cozier and more festive than it had earlier in the day during the practice sessions. More greenery had been draped everywhere by a few of the adults who had disappeared from the drawing room without any explanation. There was more holly, with its shiny green leaves and generous clusters of red berries, and there were more pine boughs decorated with red bows and other ornaments from the attic. The heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to shut out the night, and candles burned in strategic places, singly and in branched candlesticks, though not in the candelabrum overhead. A fire, piled with both logs and coal, crackled in the hearth. Chairs upholstered in dark green velvet had been set out in a neat semicircle before the grand pianoforte, which gleamed almost like a mirror from a fresh polishing. The room felt warm and intimate.

Ah, but Christmas went by so fast, Bertrand thought.

Alexander, Earl of Riverdale, armed with the program drawn up by Aunt Matilda, stood to face them as master of ceremonies, though he was interrupted even before he had spoken a word by the sudden eruption through a side door of three crooked-backed witches, swathed from head to toe in black cloaks with pointed black hats on their heads, the brims pulled low over their eyes, dragging a black cauldron with them. A few children screamed while others shrieked with laughter. The witches hovered over the cauldron, their fingers tipped with pointed talons, and cackled before delivering one very short scene from Macbeth.

“Double, double, toil and trouble,” they chanted in hoarse, broken voices. They disappeared whence they had come after warning the audience that “something wicked this way comes.”

They were the three aunts—Matilda, Louise, and Mildred.

Laughter and applause followed them out, and the mood was set for the evening.

“I suppose,” Alexander said, “that means the something wicked is me.”

The children found that hilarious. There were particularly gleeful squeals from his own children.

It was a varied program, mostly musical items, but not entirely so. Some of the Cunningham children and their cousins, mostly girls, plus Bethan Ware, danced an impressively intricate routine with colored chiffon scarves to join them in pairs. To Abigail Bennington’s lively accompaniment, they danced on light feet, weaving and twirling about one another without getting the scarves tangled more than two or three times, and charmed the totally uncritical audience into enthusiastic applause. The dance reminded Bertrand a little of maypole dancing.

Owen demonstrated a skill that had always fascinated young children as well as everyone else who watched. He could take a large white handkerchief and, with a few deft moves, change it into a bird with flapping wings or a snake that slithered along his arm or a horse’s head, which neighed with a nasal sound that sounded remarkably like Owen’s voice delivered past immobile lips, or a sailing ship bobbing on the waters of his sleeve before sinking beneath his armpit. The children clamored for more even after he had gone through his whole repertoire and repeated the one with the bird.

Andrew Cunningham picked up each of the objects displayed on a small table his father had pulled forward for everyone to see. A few of them were stone sculptures. Bertrand had seen him carve the sheep at Ravenswood during the summer. It had won a prize at the fete, though the contest had always been just for wood carvings. There was also a bird standing on the rim of a round feeder, apparently singing its heart out. Everyone moved closer to see more clearly and marveled over the skill of the boy, who had received no formal training but apparently, according to his father, saw objects trapped inside the most ordinary-looking stones and could not rest until he had released them. In addition, there was a mat of various bright-colored wools woven into an intricate geometric design. Winifred, standing to one side, explained with some added hand signals for Andrew’s benefit how her brother had recently discovered a fascination with weaving, creating his own designs as soon as he had learned the basic skills.

Colin, Lord Hodges, delivered a comic monologue, which had the children screeching with laughter and the adults laughing as much at their delight as at the wit of the monologue itself.

The witches reappeared at intervals to hover over their cauldron and ask one another when they three should meet again.

And there were the musical items—solos, duets, and trios on various instruments played by children—violin, flute, cello, and trumpet. There were pianoforte solos and the one duet, which by some miracle Bertrand and Estelle performed without noticeable mishap though they were unable to resist a few improvisations. There was Gwyneth Ware’s harp solo for which a few of the children stood on their chairs so they could see where all the cascading sounds were coming from. There were vocal solos and duets, some from children, a few from adults.

Stephanie’s rendition of “Es Ist ein Ros Entsprungen,” which was preceded by her brief explanation of its meaning, was particularly well received and surpassed anything Bertrand had heard during their practice. She sang with feeling, caressing certain words, singing some phrases with soft purity and soaring into others, still with perfect clarity, taking a few liberties with the tempo, but always for a purpose. Bertrand felt almost mesmerized even as he concentrated upon his playing and upon adjusting his accompaniment so he never either lost her or overpowered her.

She was, he found himself thinking, pure beauty.

What had happened to his hatred? Had he forgiven so easily? Well, yes, he had. He had recognized how difficult it was for her to offer that apology and refuse to take the easy way out when he told her he had forgotten the offense. It was clear she had not forgotten, and it had bothered her.

Dash it all, but he wished this afternoon had ended a bit differently. They had been behaving like a normal young couple, caught up in the enjoyment of the chase up the hill, surely a little bit taken with each other. Then…Well, never mind.

It was the story of their dealings together, was it not?

She disappeared immediately after acknowledging him as her accompanist and smiling at the applause. She had gone to organize the children for their pageant in the salon across from the music room. Half the children had disappeared too.

The grand finale.

Bertrand hoped the children were neither too overstimulated nor too overtired to perform their parts. It had been an ambitious undertaking on Stephanie’s and Winnie’s part. A bit of a risk. But no one was likely to boo and hiss, no matter how bad it turned out to be.

All the chairs were moved to the left or right to allow a wide aisle down the middle. Ben Ellis and Gil Bennington pushed the pianoforte out of the way and then wheeled in what looked like an outsize easel, upon which a large board, painted dark blue, was firmly propped. To it was pinned a yellow star with one beam, longer than the others, pointing downward, and a number of smaller stars dotted below it. Well below it. Bertrand suspected they were the result of an art project given to the little ones who had wanted to help. And they had been allowed to pin the stars wherever they wished on the board—as high as they could reach, in other words.

Matthew Taylor and Avery, Duke of Netherby, were spreading a large square of brown canvas on the floor. Avery strewed it with straw from a large canvas bag while Matthew carried in a rudely carved manger and positioned it in the middle of the makeshift stable. Avery filled it with straw while Ben placed a high stool to one side of the floor cover.

The excited voices of children burst suddenly upon the audience from the salon opposite as the door opened, but someone shushed them from within. Robbie Cunningham, dressed from head to toe in black, made his solemn way across the room and down the aisle before seating himself on the stool. He opened the book he carried—a Bible—and set it upon one spread hand. He looked at it and then raised his head unhurriedly.