Epilogue
Six Months Later
“Vix!” Ambrose called, shrugging his snow-caked coat from his shoulders as the door swung shut behind him. “Vix, are you home? The post has come!”
He frowned, turning and dropping his hat on the coat tree. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg was curling through the air, a fine companion to the soft light of all the candles along the newly outfitted foyer.
In the distance, he could see the Christmas tree, still half decorated, peeking out through the open parlor door.
“Vix!” he called again. “I require you!”
“Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called back, harried and impatient as she pulled the parlor door the rest of the way open, appearing in silhouette in its frame. “Goodness, you could have just walked the rest of the way down the hall, Ambrose!”
“Yes, but I like when you obey me,” he said, grinning as she shot him a look of absolute venom, and making his way down the hall. “There was post at the door. Quite a lot of it, actually.”
“I can see that,” she said, eyeing the stack under his arm as he came to the threshold and leaned down to kiss her in greeting. “You are ice-cold.”
“Me?” he teased. “Shall we poll the staff about that?”
“Oh, shut up. Get in here,” she said, her lips twisting begrudgingly as she ushered him in. “I’m still not finished with the garland.”
He smirked, trailing her into the parlor, which was a damn sight brighter than it had been a month ago, painted a warm cherry red now on the top half, and paneled in glossy striped wallpaper on the bottom.
She almost matched tonight, her wool dress a warm plum color that could be taken for reddish in the right light.
Even her hair had a burnt glow to it against the hearthfire as she took her string and needle back up opposite a bowl of cranberries with the precision of a field medic, frowning at the next cranberry up for skewer.
“No card from Miss Sedgewick yet,” he said, flipping through the flat letters on the top of the stack. “Is it horrible that I almost hoped she’d still have the gall?”
“Yes,” she said, and stuck her needle right through the heart of the poor cranberry. “Yes, it is.”
“Oh, a parcel from Zeller, though,” Ambrose said, brightening as he retrieved a paper-wrapped box from the bottom of the stack. “What could it be? German soil, perhaps? How dare he leave us at Christmas?”
“He didn’t leave us,” she said, distracted as she plucked up her next victim. “He’ll be back in a few weeks’ time.”
“Abandoned at Yuletide,” Ambrose moaned, flipping the box over and tearing the paper away. “Oh, look at that. Chocolates, from the black forest. Wunderbar!”
At that last word, Bear shot up from his snoozing position at the foot of the fire and launched himself toward Ambrose, ready to partake in whatever had just been uncovered.
“No, no, Bear!” Ambrose exclaimed. “Gift! Gift!”
The word made the dog halt immediately and flop onto his side with a long, high-pitched whine.
Vix sighed and dropped the cranberry string at her side with a frown. “Oh, Bear. Poor darling keeps hearing that word all the time this month and now he doesn’t know what to trust anymore.”
“Tragic, yes,” Ambrose agreed through a mouthful of chocolate truffle. “It is poison, though, isn’t it? Chocolate?”
“For the dog?” Vix asked, blinking innocently at him until he hesitated in his chewing, at which point she grinned. “Yes, he can’t have that.”
Ambrose gave her a wary second glance before looking back at the remaining envelopes. “No, no, from my mother, absolutely not,” he droned, tossing them aside one at a time. “Invitations. Solicitations. Salutations. Congratulations. Conflagrations …”
“Ambrose,” she said flatly, pointing the needle at him.
He grinned at her. “And one from Mrs. Baxter’s.”
She froze, her needle glinting with a single, pointed shine. Her eyes went wide, and after a moment, she said, “Oh!”
He laughed, pushing all the other mail to the side, and beckoned her over, patting his own knee. “Come on, we’ll read it together.”
She nodded, a giddy little smile bubbling up on her face as she tossed the needle into the bowl of cranberries and hurried over, throwing her skirt up over his legs and dropping into his lap. “Give it here!” she begged, flexing her hands. “I want to open it!”
He laughed, relinquishing it as she examined the envelope, running her fingers over the address on the front in careful, childlike penmanship, and then turned it over to gently ease the seal apart.
“Do you think they got our gifts already?” she was asking as she opened the flap with shaking hands, so eager to get inside that she was slowing herself down. “Do you think it is going well, with the new books and clothes?”
“I’m sure we will know soon enough,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and dropping his chin on her shoulder, “but yes, I suspect both things have been tremendous successes.”
Vix held her breath, pulling the paper free and blinking her dark lashes several times as though dispelling the urge to well up before she could read a single word. Her hands still trembled as she spread the sheet out and their eyes fell onto the careful lines of the missive.
Dear Lady Aster,
I feel silly writing this letter. I have never sent one before. I know you get many letters every day, and they are all written by people better with a pen than I am.
But it is Christmas and Mrs. Baxter said I must write now, no matter how afraid I was to do it. I hope it is not a terrible letter and that you do not mind if it is silly.
We all wanted to thank you for the gifts you sent. For the new pillows and the chemises and the poetry books, especially. Mrs. Baxter said you might come to visit us in the spring, and that we might thank you in person. Is that true? Will you come?
I hope you will come.
Last Christmas, I was still sick after the building fell down. I lived in a tent for a while and then in a pub and then in a big room with a lot of other children. Tonight, I have my own bed with only one other girl to share a room with a fireplace and a washbasin and lots of blankets.
My life is very good now. It is very good because of you.
Please come in the spring. I should like to give you a hug. Would that be improper? It might be, but I should like to anyway.
Please do not tell Mrs. Baxter.
Merry Christmas,
Angelica Hackney
Age 11
When she folded the letter and pushed it gently into her lap, for a moment, they did not move.
Ambrose held her close against his chest, he shared his warmth, and he listened to her breathe as she absorbed the words that had been written there.
It was only after she seemed to ease, the tension in her body going soft, did he ask if she was well.
“Hm?” she said, flicking tears away from the corners of her eyes and turning to give him a bleary smile. “Of course I am.”
“You are crying,” he pointed out. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”
She laughed, another triplet of tears escaping over her dark lashes and down the elegant curve of her cheek. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his mouth, soft and hot and salty.
“I am not crying,” she lied.
“You aren’t?” he replied, holding her face and pushing the wetness away with his thumbs. “Then what the devil are you doing?”
“Oh, Ambrose,” she said, a little joyous laugh escaping her lips. “I was just thinking about one of the first things Mrs. Baxter ever said to me.”
“And what was that?” he asked, losing himself in those rich, black eyes. “What did she tell you, my love?”
“She told me never to forget my place,” Vix replied. “It’s only that I didn’t know what my place was until just this moment. Isn’t that funny? My place is here. With you. And with the girl who wrote this letter.”
Bear whined again, rubbing his back on the rug.
She gave a helpless little laugh, shaking her head. “And with Bear,” she amended. “Of course.”
“Of course,” Ambrose replied. “Yes. Your place is right here.”
She nodded. “I promise I will never forget my place,” she said.
And it was the greatest truth of them all.