Chapter 14
Emma shrank back from the entrance to the red parlor, overhearing more than she bargained for.
Eavesdropping never did anyone good. She’d learned that as a little girl.
Mama had taught her it was beneath a lady to be caught listening to someone else’s conversation.
But she wasn’t a lady and upon reaching the doorway—which had been left ajar—she was stopped in her tracks by these words.
“We haven’t dressed this room since Lady Astley-Milne’s death. ”
She froze.
“It was her favorite room. The place where Christmas resides.”
She laid her hand on the door frame, a longing to change the past flooding her mind.
“It was how my son got his name.”
Unable to overhear any more, she rushed down the hall, a plan forming in her mind.
She’d never disobeyed Lord Astley-Milne before, but this Christmas Eve would have to be an exception.
Plans had been in place for months to procure enough ribbon and greenery, the colors and amount chosen to match Milne Manor’s style.
Every year she’d included the red parlor in her estimations because of the possibility that the viscount would change his mind, or Sir Christmas had come home.
This year, however, she meant to take matters into her own hands.
The viscount thought of her as a daughter, an admission that warmed her heart because he was as dear, if not dearer, to her in the absence of her parents.
They’d weathered one tragedy after another—war, sorrow, sickness, and bad harvests—fearing all the while they were one letter away from hearing about Sir Christmas’s death.
Such a bond could not be broken. It should not.
Euna approached, a worrisome expression lining her face. “Is something amiss?”
“No,” she said. “Everything is just as it should be. And tonight, we dress the red parlor.”
“Excuse me, miss? Did you say you intend to dress the red parlor?”
“I did.” She smiled broadly, every inch of her alive with expectation.
The moment she had been waiting for had come and with it the joy of putting a smile on Sir Christmas and the lieutenant’s faces.
She offered Euna a conspiratorial wink. “This is the year we have been waiting for. Sir Christmas has returned to us, and I want to make this the happiest and most festive of occasions. We should all celebrate. This is a day many doubted would ever come, including the viscount, as much as he desired it.”
Euna curtsied. “Tell me where to start and I’ll gather the others. Everything you ask for will be done. Oh, miss! Joyful days are surely ahead.” She scooped up Emma’s hand and held it in hers. “You were right to never give up hope.”
“Without hope,” she said, gazing into Euna’s kind eyes, “all desire to live is gone.”
They embraced each other.
Pulling back, Emma said, “Milne Manor will once more glimmer and shine. Music will fill these halls.”
“I cannot wait to spread the news.” Though she could be counted on to keep a secret, Euna did enjoy a bit of gossip. “Everyone will be as elated as I.”
Hours later, more holly, ivy, and mistletoe having been collected, Emma could not contain her excitement.
She had looked forward to this day for too long and felt a bit naughty for going against the viscount’s wishes.
Thankfully, the tide had turned, and no longer threatened to undermine the foundations of Milne Manor.
Sir Christmas was home, and therefore, orders not to touch the red parlor did not apply.
Chris wandered through the house, trying to make sense of all that he’d missed, and lost. His mother.
Noel. Years that had robbed his father of health and happiness.
For all that had been forced on him, he couldn’t imagine how his father had endured such heartbreak, and he was indebted to Emma for stepping in to care for the viscount in his absence.
The sun was setting when he found himself meandering down each hall of the house once more, this time pausing to touch familiar objects, and the holly and ivy dressing the mantels, doorways, and tabletops.
Balsam and lemon mingled in the air. Each pristine room filled him with nostalgia, hinting at his childhood when time had had no meaning and innocence ruled the day.
A cool waft of air made him shiver.
All around him the past came alive—two boys running down the back stairs to the kitchen to sample Cook’s famous apple tarts; his father’s hearty voice carrying through the East wing, alerting them that it was time to hunt for the next yule log.
More powerful, he thought, as he walked the grounds, were images of his mother happily decorating Milne Manor with her staff, her bright eyes lively and her lovely voice filling the air as she hummed Christians Awake, Salute the Happy Morn.
Christians, awake, salute the happy morn,
whereon the Savior of the world was born;
rise to adore the mystery of love,
which hosts of angels chanted from above:
with them the joyful tidings first begun
of God incarnate and the Virgin's Son.
A door slammed somewhere in the East wing, overpowering his mother’s ethereal voice and destroying the tincture of restorative memories, tainting the halls with the truth of what he’d become.
He was no longer a boy eagerly influenced by scent and taste, hope and faith.
Right or wrong, he’d locked his emotions away in order to survive, to protect what little was left of his soul.
He'd survived. Not because he was impervious to pain or courageous and brave. No. Baser instincts controlled the mind, body, and soul of desperate men. One did not live through the horrors he’d faced and remain sane. Which made him a threat to everyone he loved, especially Emma.
Aye. His eyes were clear, but he’d given half of his heart to his fellows who hadn’t outlasted him.
Their tragic sacrifices of starvation and deprivation would never be forgotten as the sounds of suffering men calling out to loved ones in the darkness, the rattling of chains and shuffling of feet as, one by one, men were carried off never to be seen again, taunted him, his ears filling with the guards’ insensitive laughter.
He raised his hands to his ears, desperate to end the agonizing chaos. War had done its worst and the machinations of men could not be undone. How did a man forget five years of imprisonment? What, if anything, could save a disoriented man’s humanity?
He yanked at his hair, yearning to pull it out, the walls and light around him shrinking, darkness swallowing him whole.
Though he was safe, free to go on with his life, he feared he would he never find serenity.
How could he when this was the season of peace and goodwill towards men and war still raged on the Continent?
Men languished in filth, denied rights they were born to enjoy, wondering, like him, if they would ever see loved ones or be happy again.
Less than half would not.
He released his hair, smoothing it back into place, listening more closely to his surroundings, hearing another voice he hadn’t heard since he’d last been in this house. A woman singing. But not just any song. The Christmas song.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the tune, recalling the joy his mother had exhibited and the laughter of his youth. Yes, he’d heard the lyrics hundreds of times. It had been his mother’s favorite, and hugely popular for decades.
Curiously, he followed the voices, drawn like a rat to scraps.
O may we keep and ponder in our mind
God's wondrous love in saving lost mankind;
trace we the babe, who hath retrieved our loss,
from his poor manger to his bitter cross;
tread in his steps, assisted by his grace,
till man's first heavenly state again takes place.
The music led him to the East Wing and the red parlor, of all places. The lyrics came back to him, a haunting harmony.
When he stopped in front of the salon, the doors were wide open.
Standing at the threshold, he stared in amazement at the transformation taking place.
Emma was perched high on a library ladder with a servant on the other side of the hearth.
The two women adorned the mantel with greenery, arranging the garland around candelabras and adding gold ribbon at intervals.
Then may we hope, the angelic hosts among,
to sing, redeemed, a glad triumphal song:
“He that was born upon this joyful day,” he sang to the shock and delight of the company gathered round the hearth, recalling fondly the tender moments he’d watched his mother do the same. “Around us all his glory shall display.”
The servants stared at him as if seeing a ghostly apparition. But not Emma. A slow smile curved her lips and her eyes glowed with appreciation as she joined him in singing the last verse. “Saved by his love, incessant we shall sing, eternal praise to heaven’s almighty King.”
Captivated by her voice and fascinated by her exuberance, his feet anchored to the floor and a gale of delight swept over him.
Watching his mother dress the house had always been a joyful experience.
Mother’s attention to detail had been thorough, no corner remaining untouched.
The preparation and care given to Milne Manor, the home they opened to their tenants on Boxing Day, had helped improve morale and, thusly, the effectiveness of their stewards as they farmed the estate.
And yet—
It wasn’t his mother’s memory that transformed him.
It was the delightful view of Emma’s figure, displayed to advantage, as she turned and raised her arms to adjust the garland to her satisfaction.
Every gentle curve led him to another and his gaze slowly caressed her as she paused, tilting her head this way and that, before descending the ladder to the floor.
Her sultry movements emboldened his rudder.
He tacked, veering his body away so that the ladies had no need to fear.