Chapter 19
Christmas Day
Monsieur Georges’ jaw had nearly dropped to the floor in the beautiful drawing room swathed with evergreen boughs, ivy, and holly sprigs.
The great Yule log crackled in the fire. The scent of freshly peeled oranges, cloves, and ginger filled the air. The children were all bouncing with the excitement of presents, sweets, and the pantomime.
Emily, Anne, and Tabitha were positively in awe at how beautifully it was going. Even Oliver could see that, though he was currently playing the Pirate King for a drawing room that had only standing room.
Whatever had occurred out there underneath the snow had changed Oliver’s life forever.
Perhaps it was the moment that he had chosen to love himself.
All of himself. It was definitely the moment he had realized that he could love himself and be loved at the same time.
And that the little boy who had been so in love with dance and costumes and excitement had finally returned.
Oliver danced easily with grace and excitement, which was what was causing Monsieur Georges’ awe.
For though he knew all the steps, he had not allowed himself to feel them.
But after the revelations around Nestor and his son and those moments out in the snowy night?
He had been transformed. He no longer imprisoned his joy, his passion, his love for dance.
With Laertes playing at the piano and the entire Briarwood family and their guests watching, the play unfolded easily in scene after scene.
The room was full of laughter, applause, and gasps of delicious horror at the right moments. But when he had his moment with his bride-to-be, oh, how his heart soared! The audience held their breath.
Then for him, the entire room disappeared. He did not worry about the guests or the Briarwoods. He only saw her.
He took her in his arms, lifted her high carefully, gracefully showing her off. They turned and spun and dipped together, their bodies moving with one note, and he felt alive, completely and totally alive, with more joy than he had ever known.
It was even more than when he had been a boy, for he had finally found someone who believed in him, someone who cheered on his dreams.
No, not just someone, for when they stopped and the dance ended, the entire room erupted in applause. The Duke of Westleigh stood, his son Nestor, holding his own young son in his arms, stood, and everyone cheered again.
He had not just found one person to love him. He had found an entire group of people who would show him the way, who would light the darkness.
He turned to Phoebe and beamed down at her. Not caring a whit for any judgment, he kissed her, and another cheer went up from the crowd.
And that was when he turned and spotted a young woman standing at the back of the room, her dark hair coiled atop her head, her eyes wide with shock and hope.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
She watched him with such amazement.
His own heart felt the echo of a little girl who had held his hand so many years ago, watching the entertainments of Christmas Day, and then who had stood, watching from the shadows, as their father had condemned him.
His little sister, Seraphine, was there.
He grabbed Phoebe and whisked her through the crowd, rushing to her side.
“What the blazes are you doing here?” he asked.
She all but goggled up at him, clearly stunned.
“I received word that you were actually celebrating Christmas this year, not just getting through it. Mama told me that you were not coming home this year, that you were not going to officiate with your stony face, but that you had been invited to a house party, and I could not miss it for the world. Do you understand?”
He shook his head, taking this all in. “But you were supposed to be—”
She tsked, her cloak travel-stained and her bonnet slightly askew, as if she had bolted across the country to witness this.
“I don’t care where I was supposed to be.
This is where I am meant to be. Oh, brother,” she exclaimed, and she threw her arms around his shoulders.
“How happy I am that your spirit is returned to us!”
Phoebe watched joyfully.
He held his sister because he realized that that day so long ago had been terrible for her too.
In many ways, she had lost her brother. She had lost the free-hearted boy that he had been, and she had been mourning that for years, and she had mourned the loss of him on their favorite of days as children.
But now they were together again.
“Can you forgive me?” he asked.
“Forgive you?” his sister exclaimed, pulling back. “I am so proud of you. I have never been prouder in my entire life than in this moment.” She turned to Phoebe. “Thank you for whatever you have done. Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s not me,” Phoebe said quite seriously. “It’s him.” And she pointed to Laertes, who was sitting at the piano, still playing.
“Then I best go and thank him,” Seraphine said most seriously.
“Don’t be long,” he replied. “We have much to talk about. I feel as if I have wasted years.”
“Nothing has been wasted,” his sister said firmly. “Not after watching you today.” She swallowed back her feelings, her joy beaming in her eyes, and then she turned, went through the crowd, and headed straight for the pianoforte and Laertes.
Oliver glanced down at Phoebe. “It really is you though,” he said.
“No, it’s not,” she said, taking his hands in hers, twining their fingers.
“It’s you and me and all of us. We silly humans think we can solve it all on our own.
How terribly arrogant of us and how terribly silly.
We endure pain. We endure cruelty. We endure the most terrible things that we say to ourselves, determined to show the world that we need no one and nothing.
But the truth is we need everyone and everything.
We need this wild world, and we need the glory of Christmas,” she said.
He would celebrate the glory of Christmas. It was true. But the real glory? It was his Phoebe. His darling, wonderful Phoebe.