Chapter Thirty-two
“G enova, dear.”
Thalia was by her side, bright-eyed. “Isn’t it time for presepe?”
How could she have forgotten? “Yes, of course. We must go up right now to do it.”
Genova hoped to slip away, but Thalia called out, “Beowulf, dear, Genova has a most charming Nativity in our room. We are off to give birth to the baby Jesus!”
Laughter rippled around the room.
Before Thalia could invite everyone along, Genova linked arms with her. “Come, then, Thalia. It won’t take a moment.”
“Miss Smith.”
Genova turned with foreboding to Lord Rothgar.
“Lady Thalia has described your presepe, and I remember seeing such collections in Italy. Alas, I lacked the foresight to bring one home with me, but I would be honored if you’d allow us to display yours here. It should, I think, be in pride of place.”
Panic churned inside. “It’s a simple thing, my lord, and…and has traveled.”
She would not use the word shabby.
“So have you, and so have I. So have we all in our various ways. None of us are the less for it.”
Genova realized that Hester’s words had etched deeper than she’d thought. She would not be ashamed of the presepe.
“Very well, my lord, and thank you. I’ll need some extra hands to carry down the parts.”
“I’ll go,” said Lady Arradale, and Portia came over with her.
Thalia agreed to remain below when promised that she would put the baby Jesus in the manger.
Genova and the two other women hurried upstairs and into the room where the empty stable sat waiting. Genova was wound tight with anxiety over her companions’ reaction. She still feared wrinkled noses.
“Oh, how lovely!” Portia exclaimed.
Lady Arradale touched the stable gently. “Isn’t it? We must obtain one of our own. Now, how best to move it?”
“I can carry the stable in one piece,” Genova said, smiling with relief, “but perhaps the rest should go back in the box.”
Portia raised her upper skirt to make a sling. “If we carry the figures like this, I think they’ll be safe. We’ll be careful.” She picked up the nearest animal and put it in the cloth.
Lady Arradale did the same. It was the sort of thing a countrywoman would do, gathering rosehips from a hedge, and their underpetticoats reached almost as low as their skirts. Even so, Genova was astonished that great ladies would do such a thing.
As she helped to collect the figures, she considered that her companions were countrywomen.
Portia had described her home as a simple country manor.
Lady Arradale’s Yorkshire home could hardly be simple, but various comments had made it clear that she involved herself in the affairs of her tenants and other local people.
Real people. In many ways like her.
The figures were all safely stowed, so she took the baby Jesus and the Mother Mary and put one in each pocket. Then she picked up the stable and cloth and led the way out of the room.
When they arrived back in the hall, Lord Rothgar gestured toward a table set not far from the fire. “I gather the mantle would be more traditional, but it should be low enough for the children to see. I’ll station a servant to make sure it isn’t harmed.”
Genova saw that some of the older children were still up, fidgety, but expectant. She went to the table and Ash stepped beside her. “Can I help?”
Another pearl.
“My hands are full, so could you spread the cloth?”
He took it and did so, smoothing it. Genova tried not to remember the fall that had broken her embroidery frame. It was hard, especially with her attention drawn to his beautiful hands, which made her think of his touch, his taste, his…
He stood back and she placed the stable on top, centering it carefully, blinking back tears. If only her mother were here.
She stepped back then, giving Thalia the pleasure of taking figures from the ladies’ skirts and placing them in their places. It didn’t matter if some were not quite where they normally went. It was time to let go of the past.
Someone took her hand. She knew without looking that it was Ash. Though her throat ached, she curled her fingers around his. Another pearl to be with him at this moment.
Thalia had half the figures in place when she said, “Each one has a story! Genova, what did you say this one was?”
Genova had to swallow to clear her throat. “A llama, from South America.”
“Ah, yes, and here’s the lovely dragon!” Then she paused and looked at Genova. “We must sing the song.”
“Oh, no…”
Ash squeezed her hand. “Teach us the song.”
She looked at him. “But my voice isn’t very good.”
“You clearly taught Thalia. Sing. I’ll help.”
Genova bit her lip, but she began to sing.
She hated to raise her voice in this great chamber, but the acoustics helped and Thalia joined in with the second part.
Then Ash picked it up, but not to sing the third round.
He added his voice to Genova’s, carrying her to places she’d never reached in song.
The third round wove in, and she realized that Damaris Myddleton was leading that with her strong, trained voice. Then everyone was singing, and the simple tune became a grand chorale.
In the stable, in the wild,
Came the mother, Mary mild,
Came the star as bright as day,
Came the angels, lutes to play.
Lutes to play, joy a-ringing,
At the sound of angels singing.
Joy, joy, joy, joy,
Joy, joy, joy, joy,
Joy, joy, joy, joy….
The cascade of “joy, joy, joy” rang as rich as the bells of Rome.
Genova claimed the angel Gabriel, wings gleaming freshly gold, and attached the figure to the peak of the stable—the last step before the miracle of Christmas. Without her having to guide, everyone ended their song until the last “joy” faded into silence.
She moved Mary-on-the-donkey behind the stable. Then she took out the baby Jesus and gave it to Thalia, who seemed as filled with wonder and excitement as Genova had always been.
The children were shifting closer, eyes wide. Heart swelling at their pleasure, Genova put the ass into the stable with Joseph and the Mother Mary in place. Then she stepped aside to let Thalia put the chubby baby on the straw.
“And now,” said Genova, as her father had always done, her voice choked, “it is Christmas. Peace to all.”
Everyone applauded and cried, “Peace to all!” and turned to greet and kiss those nearby.
Tears were pouring down Genova’s cheeks and she couldn’t seem to stop them. Ash pressed a handkerchief into her hand. Silk, finely embroidered, and edged with precious lace.
When she’d dried her eyes, he dropped a kiss on her lips. “May all your Christmases be blessed with peace, Genova.”
Something in his eyes suggested more, but then Lady Walgrave spoke.
“I know that it’s quite disgustingly apropos, but I do think this baby is beginning to make its appearance.”