Epilogue
The day after Christmas, Milne Manor abounded with laughter and music as tenants and their families arrived for Boxing Day, and the estate overflowed with merriment while Lord Astley-Milne thanked his workers for their good service throughout the year.
Wassail and syllabub were served with glowing praise.
Mothers ushered children back and forth, their footfalls a loud staccato echoing through the house.
Children ate sugar plums and ginger nuts and played games, waiting anxiously for the viscount’s traditional and legendary story hour.
All those assembled oohed and awed over the holly and ivy, ribbon and bric-à-brac decking the halls.
The house glimmered to the sharpest sparkle while fresh snow dotted the landscape, creating a blinding glimmer outdoors.
Rooms were set aside for festive games like Blind Man’s Bluff, Snap Dragon, Bullet Pudding, Hunt the Slipper, and refreshments—tarts and jellies, taffy and tea.
Sadly, this was the only time of year that the farmers and shepherds experienced extravagances such as these, though they wanted for nothing. Lord Astley-Milne saw to that.
The tenants were a hearty, proud people. They didn’t expect gifts during the year but appreciated the baskets lined up along the hall—hampers overflowing with bread, spices, pudding, and biscuits, each with an artfully arranged goose, and a beautifully-tied red ribbon on every handle.
This was the day to celebrate the tenants and their families, a day they looked forward to all year, a day when their children experienced all that was good and privileged.
Chris ambled through the house, feeling laughter bubble up from his chest. How he’d enjoyed Boxing Day as a child. It was the only time of year he could invite his friends indoors, the only time he could share what was his.
He’d done that, shared what was his on-board HMS London and then in the citadels where they were forced to live in squalor.
Rules did not apply in prison. A man could be killed for a blanket or half-rations without a second thought.
He’d stood up for the weak. Fought the cruel and insane.
But then, just as now, Christmas was the one day when the world gathered to celebrate love and peace.
He thought of the stories his fellows had told about the festivities they celebrated at home.
A sailor of German descent mentioned a Tannenbaum placed near the hearth and adorned with handmade ornaments and tapers illuminating each branch.
Though the practice wasn’t customary in England, as Chris passed the red parlor and assured himself that the yule log still burned slowly, he imagined how a tree might look on a side table.
Strange custom, cutting a tree down and bringing it into the house, but it was one even Queen Charlotte had adopted.
There were other customs from sailors and soldiers, and he meant to use them, honoring his fallen comrades.
Emma found him. “There you are,” she said happily. “Your father plans to tell one of his stories and I thought you might like to join us.”
“He’s like a crowder in Cornwall, a storyteller heralded wherever he goes for keeping the old ways alive.”
She smiled. “I think you’ll find a big change in him.”
“Oh?” he asked pulling her closer, mindful of the eyes that watched them. “Has Barrett mentioned my father’s health again?”
“We are blessed to have Lieutenant Barrett with us at Milne Manor. He’s been very resourceful, though I do not think he plans to stay.”
“Does that pain you?” he asked.
She looked away, dabbing her eye. “Yes.”
“Perhaps we can convince him then,” he suggested.
His father would certainly benefit from Barrett’s expertise.
Barrett had discovered the gout in his father’s left leg, and his father’s circulation had improved with Barrett’s supervision.
Now, his father appeared to get around much easier. “He has no family, no prospects.”
“He does have connections,” she said sweetly. “We are his family now.”
Oh, how he wanted to kiss her for welcoming his friend into her life so readily.
“Come,” she said, pulling his hand. “It is time for a story.”
“Must we?” he asked.
She smiled. “Just one.”
“Very well.” He followed her to the ballroom where children gathered around an upholstered chair, waiting for their storyteller to arrive. “Where is he? I thought you said my father was ready to tell a story.”
“Not me, my son,” his father said suddenly appearing with Collins by his side. “The time has come to pass the torch.”
“To whom?” he asked dumbfounded.
“I am old. My stories are repetitive. But you have been on adventures these children may never experience. It’s time to take your place, my place. After all, you are Sir Christmas Astley-Milne, the next viscount of Milne Manor.”
His chest knotted, twisting, tugging. He’d never been meant to be a viscount. That was Noel’s duty. “I could never take your place, Father.”
“My son, you already have,” he said with a wave of his hand.
The children gathered, their voices mingling until they were quieted. Chris studied the children’s faces, gazing up at him in sheer wonderment. Many were so young they had never seen him before and stared at him in confusion.
So, this was his father’s legacy. Weaving a tale hardy enough to put a spark in a child’s eyes. Connecting to the tenants on a human level. Putting the good of the village above all.
He ought to know. He’d suffered cruelly and yet gained his freedom at the hands of strangers and lived to tell the tale.
Emma offered her encouragement. “Tell them something you know all about, Chris.”
“What would that be?” he asked as he spied Barrett walking into the room with a young woman on his arm he scarcely recognized.
He cocked his brow, curious. Emma angled his face back to her, his mother’s ring on her left-hand glinting in the light, and the look in her eyes telling him she believed he could do anything he set his mind to.
God, how I love her mighty warrior’s heart.
The woman who’d taught him the true meaning of courage and love managed to surprise him at every turn.
“Teach them that they may roam, but also that nothing compares to coming back home.”
He kissed her cheek to a collection of oohs and aahs from the children then made his way to the story chair—his father’s chair—his chair.
He searched the faces staring up at him in wonder, noting their ages differed from two years old to thirteen.
He cleared his throat. Half didn’t know who the hell he was so how was he going to make this work?
Why would they listen to him? He thought back to Christmases past, to watching his father ply a tale with a tiny spark and a simple start, and always with a grain of truth woven in.
“Many of you may not know who I am,” he said. “I’ve been gone a long time.”
“Were ye really born on Christmas, Sir Christmas?”
“We are told ye were captured by Frenchies,” another supplied.
“Aye.” He nodded. “And, aye.”
“How did ye survive?” another lad asked.
“First, by believing I could,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Second, by accepting help from friends.” He gazed proudly at Emma and Barrett, the knowledge that without either of them he might not have ever made it home alive.
He clung to their support, and the memories of those who’d died, and those he’d been forced to leave behind, guilt assailing him still.
“Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? ”
The children shouted in agreement.
“My name is Sir Christmas. I am a captain in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
I was born on Christmas Day, and my brother’s name was Noel.
My mother loved Christmas, as do I,” he explained.
“Every year spent in France, huddling in the cold to warm ourselves in our prison cells, without light or baskets of food or shoes on our feet, we shared stories about the Christmases we’d experienced.
Those stories gave us the will to live.”
“What kind of stories?” a little one asked.
He leaned forward. “Did you know that people in Saxe-Coburg cut down a tree and place it in their houses?”
“Wouldn’t that kill it?” a smart lad put forth.
“Yes.” He chuckled. “The tree is called a Tannenbaum, and it is brought inside and treated like a welcome guest. The branches are dressed with ribbons and bows and candles with small flames. It is not very large, and it sits beside the hearth, admiring the yule log. I have even heard that Queen Charlotte brought a Tannenbaum with her to England. And by that tree she gathers her family to sing songs and await the arrival of the Christ child.”
“Do you sing songs?” a plucky little girl asked.
Emma came to stand beside him, her attendance reinforcing his self-confidence. Their gazes locked and the past no longer appeared dark and thorny. Rather, the joy of remembering the men who’d become like brothers to him buoyed him into a place of peace.
He broke into song.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Wie true sind deine Bl?tter!
Du grünst nicht nur our Sommerzeit,
Nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Wie true sind define Bl?tter!
“What does it mean?” Emma asked, her voice a silky caress along his neck as she leaned down to speak.
He gladly translated the verse for her.
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
How steadfast are your branches!
Your boughs are green in summer’s clime
And through the snows of wintertime.
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
How steadfast are your branches!
As Chris thought of Able-Bodied Seaman Gunther Baumann and the farming life he’d left to go to sea, he imagined himself as a tree, steadfast, flexible in tempests, a home to creatures and raptors alike.
Milne Manor was like that tree. The tenants were its branches, and he was their steward.
In the coming years, his and Emma’s deeply-rooted love would branch out to the estate, ensuring future generations truly cared for the land he’d fought so valiantly for.
He drew Emma down for a kiss. The children giggled, but he paid them no heed. He was a man in love. All that mattered was that he’d come home in time for Christmas.
Want to know what happens next?
Keep reading to learn more from the blurb for Yule be Home for Christmas, Book Two in the Christmas for Ransome Series, and the prologue.
From the workhouse to the British army, then captivity courtesy of Napoleon’s men, Lieutenant Daniel Barrett has never known the warmth or safety of a real home.
But now, his training as a physician and loyalty to his captain, Sir Christmas Astley-Milne, have found him a temporary resting place.
Having helped the wounded Chris escape to England, Daniel is sequestered at Milne Manor, caring for other soldiers who’ve returned across the Channel.
But it’s not the place he can call home, where he can settle with the wife and children he longs for.
For what can he offer a good woman such as Ivy Martin, the daughter of Milne Manor’s stableman and his able medical assistant, for whom he’s formed a secret affection, when he has no money and few prospects? Once again, it’s time to move on.
However, just before Christmas, Ivy’s father is badly hurt, and Daniel finds himself comforting her—and kissing her under the mistletoe. This changes everything. Or does it, when he’s preparing to leave Milne Manor for X come the New Year?