Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The day was perfect—as perfect as a day could get in winter. The sun shone on the snow-covered trees and the white ground. Whatever it touched, sparkled.
Biddy pulled the drapes open; winter sunshine flooded Dahlia’s chambers.
“Happy Christmas, Your Grace!”
“And a Happy Christmas to you, Biddy!”
Dahlia stretched her arms, working the sleep off from her body. Looking outside, she could appreciate the looks of the day that mother nature granted them, as if she too knew it was Christmas.
Biddy went to her mistress. Sitting at the edge of the bed, she handed Dahlia a small box.
“Oh, Biddy,” Dahlia said, beyond touched. “You know you did not have to get me a present.”
“’Tis but a small thing, Your Grace. I made it myself. I hope you like it.”
Dahlia opened the small box. A look of delight crossed her face as she took out a fragile-looking white and silver hairpiece made from gossamer fabric and beads.
“Biddy, it is beautiful!” She rose from her bed and moved to the mirror. Placing the hairpiece against her hair, Dahlia exclaimed in delight.
“You made this?”
“That I did, Your Grace,” Biddy said proudly.
“Thank you, my dear Biddy,” she said softly. “I shall wear it for Christmas dinner!”
“I made Lady Mary and Lady Claire matching ones, Your Grace.”
“Oh, Biddy, you wonderful person!” She hugged Biddy who flushed with pleasure.
Dahlia suddenly raised a finger.
“You must wait there.”
Then hurrying to her desk, Dahlia brought out a package tied with a green ribbon.
“This is for you. Thank you for being a constant presence in my life.”
Biddy took the present with a sniffle.
“Must you make me cry, Your Grace?”
Dahlia chuckled and watched as the gift was opened.
“Oh, Your Grace, no, I can’t possibly accept this!” Biddy shook her head, eyes wide.
An intricate wooden brush made of polished wood and boar hair and a wooden comb of the same quality lay inside a velvet box.
“Oh, but you must. I cannot possibly return it, not after that hard-won fight with Mrs. Daniels.”
“But, Your Grace, this must have cost, well, I am unsure how much, but it must—”
“Biddy, please enjoy the gift. It will make me very happy if you accept it.”
“Then I shall, Your Grace.”
The morning encounter with Biddy left Dahlia in the brightest of moods. Indeed, with the beautiful day outside, she was prepared to welcome Christmas with a happy heart.
Breakfast was indeed a lively affair. So determined was Dahlia to enjoy the day that she greeted everyone, including Peter, with the biggest of smile.
She refused to think of last night; she refused to think of tomorrow. She would think only of today, of now.
They attended the Christmas service, Claire giving Dahlia a knowing look as the vicar, Mr. Lennox, launched into his sermon.
They had returned to Icedale Castle with hot chocolate and tea awaiting them. Delicious smells from the kitchens drifted out into hallways. At one point, Dahlia found Mary and Claire standing at the end of the hall that led to the kitchens.
“Hungry so soon?” Dahlia said with a laugh.
“No, not yet, but we very soon will be,” Claire said.
“We are trying to distinguish from the scent what Cook has in store for us for Christmas dinner.”
“Oh, what a fun game! Allow me to join,” Dahlia sad.
“But you already know; you planned the meal with Mrs. Baker. You have the advantage,” Claire accused her.
“I am quite offended, young lady.” Dahlia pinched her nose. “To be sure, I asked Mrs. Baker to surprise me with tonight’s menu. I am quite as clueless as you.”
“Oh, then if that be the case, you may join us.” Claire laughed.
It was five minutes into the game when they found themselves stumped by a new aroma which filtered out.
“Everlasting Syllabub.”
Peter stood behind them, smiling.
“Oh! I know of that. But we have never had it before now.” Mary was clearly excited.
“You were never old enough to have some before,” Peter said.
“Whyever not?” asked Claire.
“Spirits are used to make it,” Dahlia explained.
“I see. That makes me look forward to it more now,” Claire chuckled.
Peter reached out to ruffle Claire’s hair, but the young lady evaded with a laugh.
Claire took Dahlia’s hand and together they rushed off before their brother could think of more irritating brotherly things to do.
“I shall see you at dinner, Your Grace,” Dahlia said with a smile.
“Dahlia, if—” Peter hesitated. Shaking his head, he continued, “If there is anything I can help you with for tomorrow… you will let me know?”
“I thank you, I shall.” With another smile and a curtsy, Dahlia reminded herself that she would enjoy the day if it killed her.
Christmas dinner was indeed a marvelous affair: rich with roasted goose, tender venison, and of course plum pudding. Cook had outdone herself. Well, Peter thought, there really was not much to compare from the last Christmas dinners.
Picking up from the decorations in the great hall and the sitting room, Mrs. Baker had the staff match the dining room as well. A smaller, but no less beautiful tree stood in one corner of the dining room. The flowers and pinecones perfectly copying the ones found on the sitting room tree.
“I love everlasting syllabub!” Claire declared.
“We can all see that,” Peter said chuckling. “You have had three servings already.”
He observed Claire for any signs that the spirits in the syllabub had affected her, but aside from her usual exuberance, she just seemed happy—and satisfied.
“I believe the alcohol content is not significant enough to render us delicate females intoxicated, Peter,” Dahlia teased him.
“I am relieved to hear that.”
“I’m not so sure about that, I am feeling quite sleepy just now,” Mary said, closing her eyes with a sigh.
“That is because you have eaten too much, Mary,” Claire said laughing.
They moved to the sitting room as was their routine, the only difference being that each bore presents for the others.
“Everyone please put your presents under the tree,” Dahlia directed them. “I shall read out the names on the gifts and hand them to the owners, but we must all wait until every gift is distributed. Then we can open them.”
When the gifts were ready, she inclined her head at Peter.
“As the head of the household, it is your responsibility to hand out the presents.”
“Another German tradition?”
“A Dahlia tradition—I just invented it,” Dahlia said with a grin.
His gazed lingered on her for a while, but with a quick shake of his head, he did as Dahliah said. Picking up the first gift, he called out names until the pile of gifts under the fir tree disappeared.
“Now may we open them?” Mary asked.
“Yes, may we? Or is there another Dahlia tradition that we must follow?”
Laughing, Dahlia shook her head.
The gifts were opened to the sounds of surprise and delight.
Peter, who had preferred to watch his sisters and Dahlia open their gifts, put his aside and watched in all enjoyment as their feminine laughter filled the air.
“Oh, Dahlia,” Mary said tears in her eyes. She clutched the blank book she had just unwrapped to her chest. “I shall try very hard to write my own story.”
“They shall not be as beautiful as yours, but they will be written from our hearts,” Claire added.
“And when we see each other again, we shall show you what we wrote,” Mary said.
“And we give you leave to criticize them to your heart’s content!” Claire added.
Dahlia laughed and hugged them both.
Peter could not help but realize that it was the twins asking if they could see her again—and that Dahlia had not answered. A heaviness weighed down his heart.
“And look,” Dahlia said, turning to show them her hairpiece. Then she pointed to Biddy’s gift for them.
Their twin exclamations made Peter smile. The three of them matched. He watched as Dahlia fixed each hairpiece on each twin. They all moved their heads gracefully, admiring the lovely gift.
Peter made a note to thank Biddy personally for… well, for being Dahlia’s valued friend.
When he handed out the presents, he had watched Dahlia for her reaction once she realized that he had not given her one.
But either she did not notice, or she did not care.
While his mind hoped for the latter, for it signaled that she was coping well with their imminent separation, his heart had longed to see her affected.
It was selfish of him, he knew, but he could not help the feeling.
He was painfully aware that time was passing. In the morning—in a few hours—she was to leave the castle.
He watched her, committing to memory every detail of that night. How her red curls fell in styled waves against her nape, how the line of her shoulder shook when she laughed. He committed to memory what she wore, the green dress matching her eyes, accentuating the color of her skin.
Peter knew not how long he watched Dahlia. Nor, he realized, did he care if she noticed. She was to leave in the morning; consequences meant nothing now.
Her first Christmas and her last at Icedale Castle.
But we shall have many more Christmases even though she will not be there. Mary, Claire, and me. We have been doing it for years, and we shall continue to do so.
So why did it feel as if Dahlia would take Christmas with her and leave him nothing but the cold winter night?
Dahlia’s belongings were packed and ready to be transported back to London. Back to her parent’s house.
She could not help but feel that her return would be anticlimactic. Heaven help her, what would her family say?
Poor Dahlia, she has failed yet again.
What was she even to say to her parents?
She would simply tell them the truth. That her marriage arrangement with Peter allowed her a house of her own in London, and that that is where she preferred to be, but that there had been a slight delay in the transfer, therefore requiring her to stay with them for a few days.
Surely, they are not still clinging to the hope that I shall make Peter fall in love with me.