Chapter 1 #2
“Ever,” his father cut in, harshly now, his role as the great, powerful duke overshadowing the loving father. Then his father blew out a slow breath and said more temperately, “Now, we shall never mention this again. We shall forget it. And you, my son, will grow into a great man and not…”
His father’s voice trailed off, as if he could not bring himself to say the next word.
And the shame that spun through Oliver was so intense, so horrible, he nearly cast up his accounts.
Oh, how he wished he could. For he had disappointed the man he loved more than anything, and on his favorite day of the year.
Tears stung Oliver’s eyes, but he could not shed them. No. He was his father’s son.
And after this day, and after the shame of standing in his finery that he had loved so dearly but was embarrassing to his father, Oliver found he could no longer love Christmas.
He could no longer love all of the joy and the beauty and the sparkle of it.
He could not even like it. Not when the bitterness of the moment of his father’s disgust revisited him every year, like a Christmas ghost the villagers and tenants were so fond of.
No, Christmas was for duty. Christmas was for taking care of people who were, dare he say, beneath him. It was not for himself. It was not for any joy he might wish to feel.
And in the coming years, Oliver did learn to dance. He learned how to dance like a duke, without joy, without leaping, without twirling, without excitement. No, he would never dance like that again.
He would learn the sword. He would learn to box.
He would learn to wield a pen. And of course, he would learn great oratory skills so that he could speak in the halls of Parliament.
But he would never ever feel free as he had once done in his mother’s chamber, decked with beautiful things, because he would never ever forget the look on his father’s face that Christmas Day.
Christmas Eve
Several years later
The Duke of Westleigh’s estate
Some people loved gingerbread, and some people loved Christmas cake. Some people loved traditional carols, and some people loved all the festivities that would occur on Christmas Day and fill the twelve days of celebration.
Lady Phoebe, daughter of Perdita Briarwood and the Earl of Hythe, liked all of those things. Of course she did. They were wonderful. The oranges with cloves, the spices, the mistletoe, bringing in the Yule log. She had wondered at the magic of it all as a child.
But the greatest magic of all, in her personal opinion, was not found in the bringing in of the Yule log or in the decorating of the tree, which her grandmama loved and had established as a tradition in the Briarwood house after having spent time in Austria and the countries around it.
The magic wasn’t in standing around the pianoforte and singing carols or watching the performances of her aunts and uncles, who dearly loved the theater, or her cousins, who loved the ballet and would put on little performances and dance.
No, the greatest joy that Phoebe had was when she crept downstairs every Christmas Eve in the late hours of the night, not to await some idea of a Father Christmas, no, but to watch her mother and father.
For her mother and father had a tradition all their own. And in Phoebe’s mind, it was far more important than any Christmas tradition going back over hundreds of years because this tradition directly affected Phoebe in every way.
Her mother and father had met over Christmas, her mother and father had fallen in love over Christmas, and her mother and father had married over Christmas.
And every year, without fail, her mother and father would meet at the Christmas tree in the long hall and stand by the verdant, towering evergreen and gaze into each other’s eyes. And the love that flowed between them was far more powerful than any sentiment of the holiday.
And they would dance quietly together without music, swaying in each other’s arms, looking into each other’s eyes, seeing bliss and eternity there in the glow of the firelight.
Phoebe would find a little spot in the shadows and she would watch with awe in her heart. She would marvel at the love her parents held for each other, and how that love was so strong, so beautiful, so pure that it would overflow and touch any who came into its vicinity.
Phoebe had been bathed in a love that was so wonderful that she had never in her life known a day’s fear, a day’s lack, or a day’s shame.
No, she and her older brother, Laertes, she thought, were the luckiest children in the world.
All the Briarwood children were lucky.
But there was something really, truly special to her about her mother and father, their bond, and how they loved each other.
How, in the soft light of a deep Christmas night, they would affirm every year, no matter the difficulties, that their love was greater than any season, any day, any difficulty, or any fears on the horizon.
And Phoebe knew from the shadows, watching, that that was what she wanted, and she would not be able to settle for anything less.
But she wasn’t afraid that such a hope was far too outlandish because she was a Briarwood.
She knew that such a love would one day come for her.
One day, she would know the greatest gift at Christmas. And that, of course, was love.