Chapter 13
For the first time in years, Oliver smiled as Christmas approached.
That smile tilted his lips, forcing him into a bemused state as he left the rehearsal for the pantomime that they would put on for Christmas.
The Briarwoods had poured out of the room, leaving Monsieur Georges quite drained because the ballet master was a hard taskmaster, and he had driven them all quite intensely.
Oliver knew that he was driving Monsieur Georges to distraction because he was hitting all of his marks, he was lifting up Phoebe as he should, and yet he felt nothing.
He did not feel akin to the music. He felt no enjoyment in the dialogue. And he definitely felt great distance from the gestures that he was asked to perform in the pas de deux. Every day, Monsieur Georges threw up his hands, muttered in French, and then looked at him and said, “It will come.”
He didn’t believe Monsieur Georges, but he quite admired the man for insisting on believing.
As he headed down the hall, eager to seek out Phoebe after she changed so they could go out ice skating, he felt this was not such a horrible way to spend his time, and yet it did feel strange.
He was observing a family who felt love, acceptance, and joy, and who invited as many people as they possibly could to experience it with them.
If he had had his way, he would have stayed at his estates doing the things that he usually did, ticking off the boxes, doing the grand gestures that his father and mother had established for the people on his estates, and feeling none of it.
He was feeling things now, and the truth was if he had stayed home, he would not have met Phoebe. Well, that wasn’t true, was it?
He certainly would have met her sometime during the Season, and that might’ve been better, far better. Surely, he could have painted himself in a better light, but she seemed to be accepting him now. So, he chose to believe it was all worth it.
“You,” a voice called. “Come here.”
He stopped right in front of a wide doorway, looked in, and spotted the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh.
Her silver hair was wound atop her head, decorated with ivy and holly. He was quite astonished that such a pokey plant was festooned in her curling hair, but she seemed able to handle it, and she gave him a hard look.
“You are tall. I require your assistance.”
“I am indeed tall, Your Grace,” he agreed, amused. “What is it that you need?”
“This,” she said, gesturing to the tree before her. “It is for the children, and I am always in need of a tall fellow when decorating.”
He strode in, uncertain but determined. “I’m happy to oblige.”
“Good,” she said. “Now, take that up.”
He eyed the spot she was pointing to. It was a long strand of dried oranges, and he sucked in a breath as he was suddenly transported back years to when his sister and himself would sit in the nursery, stringing dried oranges and dried cranberries, making paper rings, and his throat tightened.
“Are you quite all right, my boy? You seem as if you’ve suddenly disappeared.”
“Yes, perfectly fine,” he forced himself to reply, shaking the memory from his head.
She faced the tree, her gown almost the same color.
“I want to surprise the children. They will help decorate the adult tree, which I think is splendid. They feel a part of something grand, a part of the whole family. But this year, I thought how wonderful it would be to have a tree just for them. We shall reveal it with great fanfare, and Laertes will play sprightly music for them.”
She was clearly quite pleased with her scheme and her grandson.
“Laertes is quite a good fellow,” he said.
“I’m glad you think so. As I understand, he’s the one who got you involved in our festivities.”
He let out a groan. “That’s correct. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”
She eyed him, her eyes alight with mischief. “He said he performed a bit of trickery upon you to get you here.”
“Did he?” he said. “That’s rather honest of him.”
“Oh, we are all very honest,” she enthused, her large emerald ring winking as she took up a large red velvet bow.
“Except for when you are tricking people,” he pointed out.
She tsked and tugged at the bow. “Has it been such a terrible experience?”
“No,” he granted, sliding the garland of oranges through his hands.
“But you don’t like Christmas,” she said.
He stared at her. “Is it obvious?”
“No, actually. You’re a good guest, but Laertes told me.” She let out a sigh and gave him a kind look. “What a disappointing thing, my boy, to dislike Christmas. Christmas is my favorite time of year.”
“It is for many people,” he said, hoping to give no offense, but he couldn’t quite keep all his feelings from his voice.
She laughed, a rich bell of a sound dancing through the room. “Oh, the hint of disdain in your voice intrigues me. Why do you dislike it so much?”
“Do we have to discuss this?”
“Of course not. Wrap the oranges around the tree, and then we’ll do the cranberries, and I shall do the lower parts. I am no longer as capable of climbing atop chairs and festooning things as I once was.”
He doubted that very much. Despite her age, she looked terribly capable to him, but he did as he was instructed.
When a woman like the dowager duchess instructed a fellow to do something, they did. Oddly, she and Monsieur Georges had a great deal in common.
So, he began linking the orange garland atop the tree and layering it around in a circle.
“It’s just a day that makes the rest of them tolerable,” he blurted at last.
“Yes,” she agreed merrily before she teased. “How atrocious that we should have one of those.”
“But don’t you see?” he protested as he worked, the scent of orange and tree wafting around him. “This day means that everyone focuses on a singular day to make everything worthwhile. Wouldn’t it be better if we focused on making every day better, rather than hoping for one good day?”
She tilted her head to the side and thrust a strand of dried cranberries at him. “You have very good logic, but why can’t we enjoy this one as well as all of the other days?”
He scowled, threading the next garland. “Well, I suppose, of course, one can, but I just think that people shouldn’t delude themselves.”
She arched a brow. “Delude themselves, my boy?” She tsked and brushed her hands together as she came to some conclusion. “Oh, I see. You are one of those.”
“Those?” he echoed.
She turned from the tree to him and gazed upward, for there was a considerable gap in their heights, but it certainly did not take away from her indomitable spirit. “You think that reality is acknowledging all of the hard parts and having no sense of idealism.”
“Isn’t that true?” he asked, eyeing her, wondering where this was going. But he was determined to make his case. “Don’t you think that we should pull down the veil from our eyes and acknowledge what the world is really like?”
“And what is it like, my boy?”
“Hard, cruel.” His mouth dried, and he forced himself to hold her gaze. “The people that you love? They let you down.”
She nodded. “Every word you say is factual. Every word rooted in truth, and so you’re going to abandon all the joy in favor of the logic.”
He ground his teeth. “You make me sound…”
“What?” she asked, folding her hands before her, surprisingly patient.
“Well, like I’m some sort of miser,” he returned. “In spirit anyway. I’m definitely not a miser when it comes to coin.”
“Oh, no,” she agreed swiftly. “I’ve heard of all the good works you do. It’s what makes me tolerate your arguments.”
“I beg your pardon,” he gasped.
“You heard me,” she said simply. “I tolerate your opinions, my boy, just like you tolerate Christmas.”
He stared at her.
No one in his entire life had ever said such a thing to him. This house was full of firsts. This family was full of dragging him into things that he really had no idea how to handle.
“What makes my arguments”—and he rather thought himself only tolerable, at least in her eyes—“only tolerable, Your Grace?”
She picked up another bow and stroked the red ribbon. “You have no enthusiasm for anything, you’re afraid of getting hurt, you won’t let anyone in, and you disdain people who do allow themselves joy.”
“You have deduced all of this so quickly?” he demanded.
“Yes,” she replied without apology and went on. “You are very grumpy, though you are trying to hide it from everyone.”
“Except Phoebe,” he said. “She spotted my actual feelings quite early.”
Her lips parted in a loving smile. “Of course she did. No one can lie to Phoebe. She’s an amazing sort of young woman. She always has been. No one has ever been able to trick that girl, and just so you know, you are not tricking her now.”
He ground his teeth. “What the bloody hell do you mean by that?”
“She knows that she may not thaw your icy heart, but she loves you anyway. It is the nature of Briarwoods. Still, I hope you do not lead her into a life of logic and reality and the abandonment of wonder.”
He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. “Isn’t that the only way to live, in logic and reality?”
“It’s a terrible way to live,” she countered.
“Because when one only chooses logic and reality, Your Grace, Duke of Crestfield, one eschews their dreams, one eschews their aspirations, and one eschews the imagination it takes to make the world better, and certainly to make oneself better. And if you’re going to make the world better, which I think you wish to do, you must start with yourself.
Because if you can only tolerate joy, you will go through this world grim-faced, scowling, and leaving bitterness wherever you go. ”
“I think people would rather have my logic, which produces full bellies, rather than idealistic claptrap—”
“Their bellies will be full, but their hearts will be empty,” she cut in easily.
“A full belly is far better than an empty one,” he ground out. He knew, in a way, that he wasn’t fighting fair. He knew how much good work the Briarwoods did. But he felt completely unearthed. She had him spinning like a top, confused, angry, and vulnerable.
“Oh, I know better than anyone else that that is true,” she said.
“But I can tell you this from someone whose belly has been empty many a night, whose toes have frozen from lack of shoes, and whose heart ached to be full. I would not trade my glorious full heart to only see the grim realities of this world. I will always choose to believe that Christmas is a beacon in the dark and that every single one of us is a light. And if we shine enough light, the darkness can never ever win.”
He tried to reply. But what the bloody hell could one say to that? Because deep in his core, in his heart, which had withered over the years, becoming colder and colder, he feared she was right. And that he had wasted many, many years trying to be the man his father wanted.
But he couldn’t turn back now. He couldn’t abandon the path he’d chosen or the pursuit of his father’s approval. It didn’t matter that the man was dead. He couldn’t…
“Now,” she said clapping, as if she had not just bestowed upon him the strangest and most intense of wisdoms. She turned back to the tree. “That’s a good start. Let’s do the paper snowflakes next.”
He blinked.
Had he imagined the moments before, the eviscerating words that made him seem like an absolute fool?
She was done with that conversation, and she was ready to move on. She was ready to enjoy Christmas, and what could he do but follow her lead?
And so, quite astonished, his head spinning with questions, his own heart daring to whisper for more, he took up snowflake after snowflake, garland after garland, and helped the dowager duchess decorate the tree.
And with her words ringing in his head, thinking of Phoebe’s joyful face, he tried not to simply tolerate the decorating of the tree. He tried to actually enjoy it, but it was hard, painfully hard.
And then she turned to him and grasped his hand, and she said with an intensity that seemed impossible at her age, and she almost certainly knew the value of time in a way that a man his age could not, “It will out, my boy, you know? That thing you’ve hidden deep inside your heart, praying that no one will ever see it again. ”
He tensed under her touch. “What are you talking about?”
“Pain can be buried,” she said, “but it will always resurface, so it’s best to let it out. This is the safest place to do so.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispered, unable to do as she asked. Unable to let it out.
She nodded and patted his hand. “It’s all right, my boy, there’s still time. And Christmas is the time for the most profound of possibilities. Now, I’m sure Phoebe is eager for your company. The tree looks magnificent.”
She shooed him away to leave her contemplating the tree.
And because he had no idea what to do, he headed out into the hall, far more confused than when he had gone in. At every turn, the Briarwoods seemed determined to rip his wounds open, and he couldn’t understand why.
Or was he…the one who was ripping his own wounds? A thought struck him.
What if they weren’t trying to hurt him? What if they were trying to help him?
But he did not need help. He had no idea how to take it. He wasn’t allowed.
That hollowness in his heart? That was never going to rise to the surface. He wouldn’t let it. He couldn’t, because if he did, he didn’t know if he’d ever recover.
That pain, the pain of a little boy shamed by his father? It had to stay buried.
He drew in a long breath, fortifying himself. He would get through the Christmas play and Christmas Day. He had to. He would do it for Phoebe, and then once Christmas was over, he would not have to worry about this day for a very long time.