As soon as we had taken off our coats and hats, Dickson the butler appeared with a punch bowl of steaming mulled wine and a tray of hot sausage rolls. This time I sipped slowly, warming up my fingers on the glass.
“Right, now we all have more work to do before dinner.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley took control again before anyone could slip away. “It’s time to decorate the Christmas tree. Lights in this box, glass ornaments here, tinsel garlands over there. You should be able to reach the upper portion of the tree by leaning through the banister, and I suggest you boys put the lights and ornaments on the upper part.”
We set to work hanging the delicate ornaments—trumpets and birds, gnomes and balls, then adding the finishing touches of pinecones, sugar mice, tinsel. When the lights were finally plugged in, the tree sparkled with a magical glow and the company broke into applause.
This time we dressed formally for dinner, except for Junior, who joined us in an awful blue-and-white-checked jacket. Mrs. Upthorpe and Ethel were sporting their Parisian gowns, which somehow failed to make them look elegant. I know that’s uncharitable of me, but I was trying to be an unbiased observer. I also wished that it could have been summer, not winter, as I too possessed a Chanel evening gown—designed for me by Coco herself. But alas it was a light chiffon and quite unsuitable for a winter gathering. And so I was stuck with my aged burgundy velvet. At least I had a strand of family rubies that took the attention away from where Queenie had brushed the fabric the wrong way.
I came into the dining room to see that Lady Hawse-Gorzley had outdone herself tonight. There were two large candelabras on the dining table and their light sparkled from silver and crystal. I could tell the guests were impressed, even the Wexlers. There were place cards at the table and I was seated between Colonel Rathbone and Johnnie Protheroe—which would not have been my first choice of assignment. Sure enough, we were only halfway through the first course, a hearty game soup, when I felt a hand on my knee. I pushed it off and pretended not to have noticed.
The second course came: John Dory in a caper sauce. And to my amazement I felt a hand on my knee again, only this time it was the other knee. Either Johnnie had grown very long arms or the colonel was also a groper. I pushed it away. Across the table I saw Darcy giving me a strange look as if he could sense something was not right. I looked to left and right of me then rolled my eyes. I think he understood and smirked.
A sorbet was served before the main course to clear the palate and no hands appeared. Then the main course was carried to the table: a splendid baron of beef, with individual Yorkshire puddings, crispy roast potatoes and a puree of root vegetables baked with a crispy top. Conversation lagged as everyone ate. Then, as plates were cleared, not one but two hands landed on my knees again. I decided this had to stop once and for all. I slid both my hands under the table and caressed each hand lovingly, a serene smile on my face. Then I picked up each hand and brought them together, carefully removing my own hands. It took them a moment to realize that they were holding hands with each other. I sensed a rapid movement and then each of the men sitting bolt upright on either side of me. Both had red faces!
The pudding was apple tart with Devon clotted cream, followed by anchovy toast savories. We ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee and were soon joined by the men.
“I think some parlor games are in order, don’t you?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, and she soon had us playing all the silly old ones like the minister’s cat. It was the sort of thing that I, as an only child alone with servants in a big castle, had rarely done while I was growing up and I loved every moment of it.
Around ten, the Wexlers opted to go to bed, but the rest of us decided to stay up, most of us planning to go to midnight service. A couple of whist foursomes were begun. The rest of us sat near the fire talking. After a while I found I wasn’t taking part in the conversation, instead letting my thoughts wander from the robbery today to Darcy’s Catholicism. I kept telling myself that it was Christmas Eve and all was well, but so many disquieting things had happened in the last few days that I couldn’t fully relax and enjoy the moment. I fought back tiredness and was glad when we were dismissed to change for church.
At eleven forty-five we set off up the driveway, marching two by two like students on a school outing. The dowager countess had declined to come with us, declaring that midnight mass was a papist invention and the only proper celebration of Christmas was matins on the day itself. Captain and Mrs. Sechrest decided to join her. I suspected they had both eaten and drunk their fill at dinner and were feeling too comfortable to move. The slushy snow had frozen again and made the going treacherous but we held on to each other and reached the church without mishap. Apparently the Hawse-Gorzleys had their own pews at the front, because Lady Hawse-Gorzley marched us past the rest of the congregation to the places of honor right at the front where nobody else had dared to sit. I noticed that Darcy had come with us and sat with Monty and Badger in the row behind me.
It was one of those perfect village churches dating from Norman times with a vaulted ceiling and simple altar and it had that special smell I always associated with old churches—a mixture of mold and old books and polish that was in no way unpleasant. It was also, like most old churches, not heated and our breath rose visibly toward the rafters. Miss Prendergast had decorated it splendidly, with holly in every niche and ivy trailing over the back of the altar. I noticed, however, that the Christmas creche, at the steps of the Lady Chapel, had no adornment of holly, thanks to Mr. Barclay.
The moment I located him, sitting at the organ still and formal in his red bow tie, he struck up with a resounding fanfare that filled the whole church. The choirboys shuffled in, the smaller ones rubbing their eyes and wishing they could be in bed. They looked so angelic in their white robes and red ruffs and when the organ struck up “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” they sounded angelic too. As we reached the verse that begins, “Yeah, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning,” the church bells began to ring midnight and it was Christmas Day.
After a rousing rendering of “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” we walked back up the drive, no longer sleepy but revived by the lively singing. I fell into step beside Darcy.
“I see you came to the church of the heretics with us,” I said, trying to make it sound as if I was joking. “So tell me, does your Catholic religion really mean that much to you?”
“I came with you because I thought it was polite to my hostess,” he said, “and also because the law says we don’t have to attend mass if the church is more than three miles away and if we are a traveler. The nearest Catholic church is at least ten miles away and I didn’t want to put anyone to the trouble of driving me in this weather.”
“Oh, I see,” I said.
“And as to whether my religion means anything to me, I can’t say I’m always a devout Catholic, but I try. My mother converted to marry my father, you know. And she became very devout. So I’m conscious of that.”
We walked on in silence while I digested this. As we took off the various layers of coats and scarves, Lady Hawse-Gorzley announced that there was brandy and hot mince pies in the drawing room to warm us up. I was about to go through when Darcy grabbed my arm and held me back.
“It’s Christmas Day,” he said, “and I want to give you my Christmas present.” And he took a small box from his pocket. “If I’d known you were going to be here, it would have been something rather different and a little more special,” he said, “but I wanted you to have something, to think of me when I’m not with you.”
I took the box and opened it. Inside was a silver Devon pixie on a pretty silver chain. I started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asked. “Don’t you like it?”
“Wait and see tomorrow morning,” I said. “And I do like it. Thank you.”
“And in case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “I planned ahead. You’re standing directly under the mistletoe.”
Then he took me in his arms and kissed me—not a perfunctory meeting of the lips, but a real, warm and wonderful kiss.
Chapter 19
CHRISTMAS DAY AT GORZLEY HALL
DECEMBER 25
I floated up to bed in a rosy haze. Darcy loved me. Nothing else in the whole world mattered. Queenie was lying on my bed, snoring away. Presumably she had been waiting for my return to undress me and had not been able to stay awake any longer. I roused her gently. “Queenie, you can go to bed now,” I whispered. “Happy Christmas.”
“Same to you, miss,” she muttered and promptly fell back to sleep again.
“Queenie. You have to go back to your own bed.” I prodded and tried to move her. She merely sighed and turned over. She was too heavy to lift. Since I was full of happiness and Christmas cheer I merely rolled her to one side of the bed, undressed and got in myself.
