Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
If you ever have the opportunity to introduce a sophisticated young woman to the story of Mary and Joseph, prepare for skepticism.
As soon as I woke up, I ran to the window. Snow was sifting down, no longer thick and heavy. With luck, the next morning would bring sunshine, and we’d finally be able to climb onto the sleighs and leave.
Meanwhile, it was Christmas, and hope filled my heart.
Burnsby and I had regularly attended services in the village near his Scottish estate. The monstrous hypocrisy my husband had shown—sitting in the first pew at the village kirk while disrespecting his vows—nagged at me until I pushed the thought away.
I had been wrong about his character. Very wrong. Yet Burnsby’s calm, kindly demeanor had fooled more people than me. Godric’s father, for one, had left his only son in Burnsby’s care.
On inquiry, I had discovered that Ophelia had never been to a church service in her life. She understood little about the Bible or Christianity in general. Most of what she knew regarding Christmas came from hymns, which she summed up as a baby, wise men, and a bunch of angels.
“I have a book about Noah’s Ark,” she reported. “All the animals process up a ramp, two by two, as if they were heading for the altar. The book shows two ants, two giraffes, two elephants—and two bulls with great horns. No cows. That would be the end of roast beef, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” I admitted. I had grown up convinced that possessing knowledge of “earthy matters” was ruinous, but Ophelia was my opposite. She had grown up free to be logical.
Determined to teach her that Christmas meant more than Burnsby’s birthday, I assembled the six of us in the library after luncheon.
Having volunteered to read the story of Jesus’s birth, Godric had taken the weighty King James Bible from its stand and was seated by the fire, leafing back and forth through gold-trimmed pages.
Lancelot dropped onto a sofa, Colette beside him. “Shall I help you find the chapter? I doubt English barristers spend a great deal of time reading the Good Book.”
Godric shot him a dismissive glance. “Oh, ye of little faith. I’m a lay reader in my parish.” He blinked and turned to me. “Is that a problem?”
“Now why on earth would your Sunday traditions pose a problem for Evie?” Colette asked mischievously.
“It’s marvelous,” I said, meaning it.
“Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise,” Godric read aloud.
I loved the way his deep voice shaped the ancient words.
“When as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.”
Ophelia interrupted, her expression vaguely nauseated. “Does ‘come together’ mean what I think it means?” She was snuggled in a chair with Peony.
“This isn’t an appropriate moment to explain, but don’t ‘come together’ with anyone before you’re married,” Colette said, with a Frenchwoman’s brisk practicality.
Godric began reading again.
“Joseph’s behavior is somewhat illogical,” Ophelia said once Godric had closed the Bible. “He wasn’t in the room when the Holy Ghost spoke to Mary, which means he couldn’t know about the miracle. Why wasn’t he cross when she turned out to be pregnant?”
“Under the circumstances, most men would have jilted Mary,” Colette agreed. “He was particularly honorable.”
“He kept faith even in illogical circumstances, which was a test of his love for his wife,” Lance said.
“Also his faith in God, because certainty requires no faith,” Godric said quietly. “Joseph kept faith in God and in Mary.”
“Burnsby would have been unbelieving and unforgiving,” Ophelia said.
“Joseph was a better man than your father,” I said, in one of the world’s greatest understatements.
“Burnsby would never have entered the stable,” Mima put in. “He gave up hunting because he thinks deformities can be caught by proximity to large animals. I am surprised that he allowed you to have a pig, Evie.”
“I didn’t give him a choice,” I replied.
“I am learning a great deal from you about spousal management,” Colette said, giving her husband a little poke.
Ophelia scratched my piglet’s chin and was rewarded with a happy oink. “Maybe Peony’s ancestors were in the stable, wagging their piggy tails when Jesus was born.”
“Mary lost her son,” Mima said, her voice cracking. “Her son was taken.”
Godric rose and replaced the Bible on the stand, walked over to Mima, and held out a hand. “Shall we go to the kitchen and ask for buttered toast?” We had discovered that she was more cognizant surrounded by the bustling cheer of the household staff.
“No, I’ll go for a search, a quick search,” Mima said, jumping up. Over by the door, her footman sprang into action. A few days ago, I saw him chasing her around the quadrangle, a woolen cloak flapping in the wind; this time she allowed herself to be buttoned up before she left.
“Mima has stopped asking if I’m her sister,” I said. “Now she keeps asking if I’m a ghost.”
“I’m still her sister,” Colette said cheerfully.
Ophelia stood up. “Thank you for reading aloud the Bible,” she said to Godric. “The story of Jesus’s birth was thought-provoking, and I have a great deal of respect for Joseph. Since Peony hasn’t had her luncheon, I’ll take her to the kitchen.”
She put the piglet into the baby carriage, tucked a blanket around her, and headed for the door, sticking her head back in to cry, “Peace on earth, and good will to men and women and pigs!”
“A Christmas nap is a time-honored tradition,” Lancelot told Colette, a lazy smile on his face.
Which left Godric and me alone in the library.
I wanted to sink onto his lap and put my arms around his neck. I wouldn’t do anything so dissolute. “What caught your attention in the Bible when you first sat down?” I asked. “I noticed you flipping back and forth between the pages before you began the story.”
“Ophelia’s name is not recorded.”
I scowled. “Is there a quill and ink in the library?”
“I don’t think so, but we can ask Lancelot to amend the entry.”
“I wouldn’t want Ophelia to notice the absence of her name.”
“Even bearing in mind her approval of Joseph, I doubt that she will dive into the Bible. She seems to have spent the last five years curled up in a chair reading secular, if not salacious, novels.”
“I suspect she would be unsurprised.”
Godric rose, caught me up into his arms, and sat down again.
“Goodness,” I whispered, as my legs settled over his thighs.
“I’ve been waiting all morning to hold you,” he said into my hair.
I melted into him, greedy for the feeling of his arms around me. My icy adventure was receding quickly from my mind, but my body still remembered and relished his heat and strength.
He put his chin on my head. “Merry Christmas, darling.”
“Merry Christmas, Godric.” I snuggled against his chest the way Peony liked to snuggle against mine.
His hand slid down my back. “Shall we put on cloaks and take a walk around the cloister?”
I nodded. “Then I must return to my room. Tess and Colette’s maid, Fleur, have staged a friendly competition to see who can create the most impressive ensemble. She warned me that she needs at least five hours to prepare for this evening.”
“Will you be draped in diamonds from head to foot?”
I shrugged. “Colette and I agreed to let ourselves be used like dressmaker’s dolls.”
“Who will judge?”
“They initially planned to task Miss Wellington but rejected that idea, since I am nominally her employer. They considered Lance but discarded him as likely to show bias. Now the maids shall decide between themselves.”
“I, too, am available but biased,” Godric drawled.
I felt myself turning pink.
He bent down and pressed his lips to mine, achingly sweet. “The way you look at me,” he said.
“How?”
“As if I could do anything.”
“Says the man who thinks I might become a mathematician. Tell me about one of your cases,” I said, not wanting to leave the circle of his arms and walk into the cold.
“My first case in the new year will be the prosecution of a lord who beat his wife to death last summer. The butler attests that his mistress ordered the door put on the latch, saying the master would sleep elsewhere. His lordship insists that he arrived home after an evening in White’s to find the door latched, just as he heard his clumsy wife tumble down the stairs. ”
“He burst through the door?”
“No, he says he lifted the latch with a knife and found her dead at the bottom of the steps. His servants will testify to his previous violent behavior, but he claims that he tried to save her life after a tragic accident.”
“That’s awful,” I said, shivering.
“I can’t remove the baroness’s children from the household unless he is convicted. I can see they are terrified.”
“She was a baroness?”
“People always think that a title precludes brutality, just as they think that ladies are ignorant and unable to count cards.”
He kissed me, but my mind was turning over the story. “Is the baron a fashionable man?”
“Very. When I interviewed him, he was wearing tight breeches with a short coat that didn’t reach his waist, and a cravat that brushed his earlobes.” Godric wrinkled his nose. “He’s a dandy and not the dignified kind, either.”
“Then where did he get the knife?”
“What?”
“Where did he get the knife to open the latch?” I asked. “In summer, he would not be wearing a greatcoat.”
Godric put his hand in his breeches pocket, drew out a piece of wood, and flipped open a blade. “This is a slip joint or penknife. My father used it for trimming quills, and so do I. Men carry them everywhere.”
“Not dandies. No fashionable man would carry that knife because it would destroy the line of his coat. Burnsby’s silk pantaloons have no pockets.
You’d have to ask your baron’s valet, but I’m certain that his master would never carry a knife—unless he knew that the door would be latched against him, and he planned to enter. ”
“Bloody hell,” Godric breathed.