Chapter 14
Something about Christmas Eve transformed the simplest moments from mundane to magical.
The flicker of candlelight inspired visions of sprites and cast a sense of whimsy on everything it touched.
The smell of sugary confections wafting from the kitchens was sweeter, the scarlet ribbons dangling from flouncing garlands more brilliant.
And for the first time in eight years—a lifetime, as far as Philip was concerned—he was surrounded by family.
Love, and the myriad miracles that accompanied it.
Lily’s shy smile as they iced gingerbread with the boys.
The touch of her hand as they sang hymns during the service at St. Aldate’s.
Her head resting against his shoulder on the ride home, peace settling like a warm blanket around them in spite of the winds buffeting the carriage as it returned to Boar’s Hill.
The magic also warped time into something ephemeral, and despite his best efforts, Philip couldn’t slow down the moments nor create more of them.
After their encounter on the stairs, he had carried his wife to their room, and they’d talked until weak morning light broke through the gaps in the curtains and painted the bedding in streaks of gold.
She told him about her stables, the challenges of being a woman in a man’s field, and he kissed her lips and cheeks, praising her cleverness and tenacity.
Reluctantly, he’d shared the darkest hours of his quest for sobriety, of the chills that raked over his skin, how paranoia clouded every thought until all he wanted was the drug.
“Who took care of you?” Her question had been tremulous, and he knew she hadn’t wanted to ask but needed the answer.
“No one,” he’d managed.
“You were alone?” Tears had spilled over her cheeks, glimmering in the lamplight. “I wish I’d been there for you. I would have helped you.”
He’d wrapped his hands around hers and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’m not alone anymore, love.”
Eventually, she’d fallen into a deep slumber tucked against his side, her hand clutched on his chest as though she feared he’d disappear again in the middle of the night.
He fought—an ultimately futile battle—to keep himself awake, to savor every second of being with his wife, holding her and cherishing her.
He knew all too well how precious those moments were.
How many he’d wasted.
But something remained between them, a veil nearly palpable in the last vestiges of her defenses, clouding the woman he’d married from his vision. He deserved that distance after the pain he’d caused her, but he knew he hadn’t earned her trust entirely, not yet.
And his time was running out.
Now, seated next to each other at the table for supper, Philip curled his fingers around Lily’s and his chest swelled when she squeezed back.
This was the magic of Christmas, the miracle he’d prayed for.
His wife, his family, welcoming him into their embrace.
The future he’d been too frightened to dream of suddenly sliding into crystalline view.
Lady Redbourne had instructed the kitchen to create a feast worthy of their reunited family, and the table groaned beneath the weight of trays of roast goose and potatoes, candied parsnips and carrots, chestnut stuffing and oyster stew.
Already full to bursting, he picked at his plum pudding while watching Lily eat, grinning as her lashes fluttered and she hummed with every bite.
After several moments, she caught his eye, and a blush climbed up her throat. “You’re watching me.”
“I’m enjoying the view.”
She blushed, and he once again appreciated how beautiful she looked in her red silk gown. He took advantage of their proximity and dragged his fingertip along the delicate white lace on her sleeve. She followed the movement, but her expression soured.
“I wanted to tell you…” She shifted in her seat before exhaling in a rush. “I didn’t get you a gift. I hadn’t expected—”
“Of course,” he interrupted, and the furrow between her brow softened. “But you listened to me. You forgave me.”
The tension returned, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly at the word forgive. “I still can’t believe this is real,” she whispered. “That you’re here.”
He caught her hand beneath the tablecloth, and the ache in his chest eased when she didn’t pull away. “I’ve never stopped loving you, Lily.” Her brows pleated again, and he pressed on. “I wanted to show you—”
An explosion shattered the air from across the table, and Lily—along with everyone else—shrieked.
Marigold had her palms clamped over her ears, and Archie stared wide-eyed at Matthew.
The lad stood between them with the remnants of a cracker in his hands.
Tendrils of smoke curled from the shredded paper tube, and the boy stared at it in wonder.
After a long moment of preternatural silence, he shook his head and grinned. “That was smashing!” he shouted.
“You were supposed to wait for everyone else,” Archie said, pressing his palm to his forehead, but Matthew paid him no mind, instead donning his paper crown and unfolding the slip of parchment that had fallen from the cracker.
He cleared his throat. “Why is a Christmas pudding like the ocean?”
“Why?” the family chorused. Reading the riddles aloud must be a tradition, one Philip had not been a part of. The knowledge settled like a weight behind his sternum. He’d missed all this—his family, the love they offered. But now it could be his, with his wife by his side.
Matthew started giggling before he could finish his sentence. “They’re both full of… currants!”
His aunts and uncles howled in put-on laughter, but Reggie scowled. “That isn’t funny. It requires a spelling error, so once it’s in writing the homonym isn’t amusing.”
Fern raised her wineglass in a mock toast. “I agree, Reggie.”
Archie exhaled audibly. “Am I forgiven for unleashing the chaos early?”
“It’s your first Waverly Christmas,” Violet chided playfully, “and you’ve handed the children explosives.”
“You’ll fit right in,” Aunt Margaret said with a grin, sending up a raucous cheer followed by several pops as the remaining crackers were pulled apart.
Lily grabbed the end of Philip’s cracker and raised a brow. “Do you remember how to do this?”
He nodded. “But I could use your help.”
Despite knowing what was coming, he still startled with the pop, and his wife released a sparkling laugh, like champagne bubbles spilling over the rim of a glass.
She unfolded the tissue paper and lifted it, balancing the fragile crown on his head.
It immediately slipped over one eye, and she snorted.
He loved how she snorted when she laughed.
“It suits you,” she teased, and he tapped his fingertip on the end of her nose.
He was ready to tease her in return when Salisbury caught his eye from across the table, the butler giving him a significant look before his mouth curled into an uncharacteristic smirk. Philip’s lungs tightened, anticipation twisting in his gut.
He cleared his throat and tapped his knife against his empty wineglass. The family quieted with the soft chime. “Is it time to open presents?” he asked.
“Yes!” Matthew’s affirmative shriek sent Cricket into a barking tizzy—he’d been hiding under the sideboard while the crackers were being deployed—and the boys darted from their seats to dart into the parlor.
Philip was out of his seat nearly as quickly, but he caught Lily’s arm and held her back.
Her brows gathered. “What’s wrong?”
“You gave me three days. That time is almost gone, and… I don’t know if I’ve earned your forgiveness.”
Her lips parted, but her response was lost as a chorus of gasps and cries sounded from the parlor.
The apprehension on her face evaporated, and she grabbed his hand, tugging him towards the commotion.
Even though he knew what awaited them, he wanted to make the discovery with her, his breath coming in short bursts as gratitude overwhelmed him.
She trusted him enough to want him nearby, to have his company as they rounded the corner and took in the sight that had brought her family to stunned silence.
He hadn’t entirely known what to expect; he’d asked a contact in London had been to turn Lady Redbourne’s parlor into a Christmas garden, one to rival the gardens she cultivated outside the house.
But her gardens were more than simply pretty; they represented the love of her daughters, and judging by the reaction of the Waverly family, his request had been not only fulfilled, but exceeded.
Lily’s grip on his hand tightened. “Good heavens,” she breathed.
Brilliant scarlet and pink variegated poinsettias covered the marble mantel above the blazing fireplace.
Delicate hellebores and roses spilled from copper pots studded with ferns and greenery.
Boxwood garlands woven with orange marigolds and purple violets draped over the door and window frames.
“A garden,” the viscountess gushed. “It’s a Christmas garden.” She spun to face her dumbstruck husband. “Did you do this?”
He shook his head. “I’d like to claim credit, but this was here when I arrived.”
“Then who’s responsible?”
Philip attempted to back away, but Lily caught the movement and swung her attention to him, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Did you do this?”
There was no accusation in her tone, but his heart thundered as he considered his reply and chose honesty. “I did,” he murmured.
“Why?”
He glanced over her shoulder to where his mother-in-law flitted like a butterfly between the blossoms, stroking their petals and grinning.
“To make her happy.” He lowered his voice further. “To make you happy.”
He was so lost in the wonder in his wife’s eyes that he missed Callum’s approach until the Scot chuckled. “I suspected this was yer doing. First the horses and the debt, now this. Leave something for the rest of us, aye?”
Philip’s insides turned to stone and dropped, taking whatever happiness he held along in their descent.
Lily went stiff, her jaw flexing before she spoke. “What do you mean, the horses and the debt?” Before Callum could respond, she spun to Philip, her eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. “What is he talking about?”
“James told me,” Callum stammered. “I didnae realize she—”
“Excuse me, Callum,” she snapped. “But I need to speak to my husband.”