Chapter 29
THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER
Some say that ever ’gainst the season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated This bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad.
—Hamlet
The days running up to Christmas were busy ones, and I kept myself too occupied to think much.
Whenever I found my thoughts lingering on Brisbane or Emma or Henry Ludlow, I ruthlessly wrenched them away, turning instead to hanging mistletoe or poking cloves into oranges to make pomanders.
I went for long walks in the gardens and attempted to train Florence to sit nicely.
And I said goodbyes; some of them rose more easily to my lips than others.
Aunt Dorcas left us the day after her return from the Gypsy camp, and in spite of my parting words to her the previous night, I did my duty and stood with my family to bid her farewell.
She passed down the line of assorted relations, pausing when she reached me.
She flicked me a cool glance, which I returned.
Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, proffering me a crumb of respect.
I did not move, and she passed on. I was not sorry to see her go.
The following day, Plum and Alessandro, both of them nursing bruised hearts—and pride—took their leave as well.
I regretted their leaving, but I was relieved, I realised with a guilty little pang.
Alessandro had been a charming companion in Italy, but I had been mad to think even for a moment we might have been more than friends.
And Plum was no companion at all at present.
He was still sulking over his affairs, and Father had not been kind to him on the subject of Mrs. King, scolding him for taking up with such a creature.
They were barely speaking by the time Plum and Alessandro departed, but I knew they would make it up eventually. Marches always did.
Still another parting made me quite nostalgic.
My husband Edward’s distant cousin, the nearest neighbour to the Abbey, had been forced to quit the manor house at Greymoor.
The snowfall that had locked us in with a murderer had caused the weakened roof of the house to finally collapse.
Thankfully none of his family or staff were injured, but the damage was too extensive.
It was the perfect excuse for him to tear it down, and when he came to the Abbey to bid his farewells, he was full of building schemes for a property he had in Kent, near his wife’s relations.
So the last of the Greys moved out of Sussex, and the house was left to fall to ruin.
It would not be long before the village children began to dare each other to run up and touch its sagging doors and peer into its broken windows, I fancied.
Ghosts walked abroad at Greymoor, and I shuddered when I wondered if Edward might be one of them.
But the weeks before Christmas were happy ones, too.
Aunt Hermia and Portia’s beloved Jane came down from London, as well as a plentiful assortment of my brothers, sisters, spouses, nieces, and nephews.
We were a full and merry party, and as the season ripened, I felt myself growing more relaxed.
There had been no word from Brisbane, but I had not really expected one.
I wore the pendant, as a charm for his safety, I suppose, and went about the business of Christmas.
I wrapped presents and strung holly and ivy on the mantelpieces and played endless games of hunt-the-slipper with my nieces and nephews.
Christmas itself was Bedlam. The children were up at cockcrow, tearing into stockings and making a sweet nuisance of themselves.
But in spite of the noise and frantic activity, the day was surprisingly pleasant.
After breakfast we all bundled up and walked into the village for church.
I had dreaded this, fearing that we would be met with stares and hostility.
The shadow of murder still hung over our house, however normal we had tried to make things for the children.
But I had underestimated either the power of the March name, or the affection with which the villagers regarded us.
They were a trifle distant when we arrived, but after Uncle Fly’s eloquent sermon on the subject of brotherly love, we were greeted much more kindly.
We chatted politely, and Aunt Hermia even extended invitations to several families to come and take mince pies and wine with us.
No one stammered or fled in fright, which I took as rather a heartening sign.
Once back at the Abbey, we feasted on a delectable Christmas lunch and then the children opened presents, a noisy and lengthy affair.
Father, who could never bear to see anyone left out, gave each of his grown children a present as well.
I presented Puggy with his finished cushion cover, which he received with an indelicate noise deep in his throat.
I took that as an expression of gratitude.
Florence looked exceedingly pretty in a collar fashioned of Venetian lace, and Grim bobbed his head in thanks for a tin of glacéed fruits from Paris.
Then the children sang carols, and when they concluded—to tumultuous applause from their indulgent family—the tea things were brought in and we all gathered around as Father, preening in his garishly striped waistcoat from Violante, read out the Christmas letters from my absent brothers and sisters.
There were few dry eyes when he was done, for we were all quite fond of each other and missed one another more than we would admit.
When he was finished, Father wiped his eyes and shooed us all to our rooms to prepare for the party that evening.
Naturally it was to be a quieter affair than in years past. He had decided that dancing would be inappropriate, but Lysander had promised to play suitable music for our enjoyment.
Everyone hurried to their rooms, the adults to change, the children to an early supper.
Only Father remained behind, standing at the darkened window, and as I made to leave, he called me back.
I quirked a brow at him, and he waved toward the door.
“Close that, if you would. I do not mean to keep you long, but I should like to speak to you. Privately.”
I obeyed, and then joined him at the window.
It had long since fallen dark, but the landscape was dotted with lights—lanterns and bonfires and torches as folks moved from house to house in merry parties.
Father nodded toward a light not far away, just at the edge of a small wood on the other side of the moat.
“There is the Rookery. Can you see it?”
“Of course.” The Rookery was a tiny, quite mad-looking house.
The Rookery had passed through several inhabitants since it was built in the eighteenth century.
Each had left their mark, adding odd little staircases or pulling down facades and putting up new ones.
What remained was a bizarrely charming confection with a pair of reception rooms and a few bedrooms, nothing more.
Father nodded again. “It is a sound little house. It was overgrown with ivy, and a few roof tiles were loose. Nothing that could not be mended. I had Benedick oversee the repairs before the snow fell. It is quite snug now, and perfectly in order, freshly painted, and not a bit of damp.”
I was a bit mystified as to why he was telling me this, but I nodded encouragingly. “Oh, excellent. I have always thought it a darling house.”
“I am glad to hear you say it,” he said mildly. “It is yours now.”
I blinked at him. “I did not hear you correctly, I am afraid.”
“It is yours, Julia. I know I gave you a present with your brothers and sisters, but this is something else. Just for you.”
I stammered a little in my confusion. “B-but, Father, surely there are others in the family who need a house.”
“It is not a house,” he corrected. “It is a home. Of your own, for so long as you shall live. I cannot give it to you outright. It is entailed with the estate, and when I am gone, it will belong to your brother, Bellmont. But I have arranged with the solicitor that it shall be yours to live in for the duration of your life, so long as you wish it. You may go and come back, as you like, but it will always be here for you to return to.”
I shook my head. I could not quite take it in. “But why me, Father? Portia is a widow as well,” I reminded him.
“Portia has a home, and Portia has Jane.” He put out a hand and touched my shoulder. “I will not always be here, child. I do not know what the future holds for you, but I would have you cared for. You are my favourite.”
I put a hand over his. “You have ten children, and five of them are under your roof right now. How many times have you said that today?”
“Five,” he admitted ruefully. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “But I only meant it once.”
He left me then and I was glad of it. I did not want him to see me weep.
* * *
Boxing Day was, in a word, noisy. The tradesmen called for their boxes and were quite civilly invited in for mince pies.
We had a tremendous luncheon of the Christmas remains with far too much drink.
By the afternoon, the children were rampant with sugar and excitement and the adults were sore-headed as bears.
Father organised the children into a game of pirates, which entailed plundering the lumber room costume boxes and much shrieking and running about the Abbey.
Raids were conducted and booty secured, and at one point I was even taken prisoner by my niece Perdita, and tied to my chair with a petticoat.
She ran off as soon as she had secured me, waving a wooden sword and screaming threats in an alarming Irish accent.
Portia had a great laugh at my expense. She had only been tied with a cravat and worked her way free very quickly. I quirked a brow at her loftily.