The marquess stood up resolutely. “Put your pinafore away where you found it, now,” he said, “and I shall help you on with your coat.”
She stared at him, her lower lip protruding beyond the upper.
“We will be very happy to have her stay, if you will agree,” Lilias said softly. “It is good to have children here at Christmastime.”
His eyes turned on her, hooded, inscrutable. He inclined his head. “Very well, then, ma’am,” he said. He turned back to his daughter. “You may stay for an hour, Dora,” he said. “But you must come without protest when I return.”
Megan and Dora clapped their hands. Even Andrew looked pleased.
Lilias, standing at the door a minute later, watching the marquess swing himself into the saddle of his horse and proceed along the village street, was not sure if she had done the right thing or not, interfering between a father and his daughter. He had paused in the doorway and looked down at her.
“Another debt to call in?” he had said softly and icily.
She had not comprehended his meaning until he was riding down the pathway to the gate, and even then she was not sure he had meant what she thought he had meant. She hoped he had not. And she wondered again, though she wished with all her heart that she had not asked it, why he hated her.
They sang for almost the whole hour, sometimes the same carol over and over, while Andrew tackled the final feature of the Nativity scene, the baby Jesus, and Megan arranged and rearranged the items already completed. Dora first helped and then stood at Lilias’s elbow, staring fascinated at the tiny robe for Joseph that she was making.
Lilias smiled at her after a few minutes, when they were between carols.
“Why don’t you pull up that stool?” she said.
“Papa told me the story,” Dora said when she was seated. “About the baby and the stable and the manger and the smothering clothes.”
“The swaddling clothes,” Lilias said with a smile. “That is what I will be making next.”
“He is going to tell me again tonight,” Dora said. “I like that story. I am going to learn to sew next year when I am five.”
“Are you?” Lilias smiled again. “Will you like that?”
“Nurse is to teach me,” Dora said. “But I am going to ask Papa if you can teach me instead. It would be fun with you.”
Megan began singing another carol.
The caroling was not the only part of Christmas he had forgotten, Bedford discovered the following morning. And he really had forgotten that. He had always remembered Christmas as a white and outdoor affair.
Everything else had become hazy in memory.
But there had always been the caroling and the lanterns and the rosy cheeks and laughter, and the glasses of cider and wassail until not one of them had been quite sober by the time they got to church. None of them had ever been precisely drunk-just smiling and warm and happy. How could he have forgotten? And how everyone had wanted to stand next to Lilias because she had such a sweet voice and such perfect pitch. He had won almost all of those battles.
Dora, restless in the morning because it seemed such a long wait until the evening-he had promised her the night before, much against his better judgment, that they would join the carolers-wandered down to the kitchen to watch the cook roll the pastry for the mince pies. And she fell into conversation with Mrs. Morgan, who was delighted to have a child in the house again.
And that encounter led, unknown to Bedford until later, to a visit to the attic to find the relics of Christmases past.
“Papa!” Dora burst into the library, where Bedford was trying to read, though it was hard to bring his thoughts to bear on the book opened before him. She was moving at a run past the footman who held the door open for her, and her face was flushed and pretty with an excitement that she could barely contain. “Papa, come to the attic with me. We have been looking at Christmas. The dearest bells. And the star! May we have an evergreen bough, Papa? Mrs. Morgan says there were always evergreens.
May we? Do put down the silly book and come.”
He put down the silly book and came. Or rather was dragged by an insistent little hand and a voice brimming with an excitement he had thought her incapable of.
And of course, he thought as soon as he looked into the opened boxes in the attic and dismissed a rather uncomfortable and apologetic Mrs.
Morgan… Of course. How could he have forgotten? The evergreen boughs, decorated with crystal balls and bells that tinkled and twinkled every time a door was opened or a draft blew down a chimney. The evergreen boughs that had brought the smell of Christmas right inside the house.
And one year the candles on the boughs, until they had been forbidden forever after… after the great fire, when the branch had been singed black and a whole circle of carpet ruined, for he had collided with the bough during blindman’s buff and tipped it over… They must be only thankful that he had not burned too, his mother had said, hugging him while his father had scolded. And someone had been smothering hysterical giggles through it all. Lilias.
“May we have an evergreen bough, Papa? May we?” Dora’s voice was almost a wail, there was so much anxiety in her tone.
“There are enough decorations here for a whole forest of boughs,” he said with a laugh. “There used to be some in the nursery and dining room as well as a whole great tree in the drawing room.”
“A tree, Papa. Just one whole tree in the nursery,” she said, and reached up her arms to be picked up when he smiled down at her.
“Just one, then,” he said. “We will go out and find one ourselves and cut it down, shall we? I think the rain stopped about an hour ago.”
“Yes,” she said, hugging his neck and kissing his cheek.
It was only when they were outside and she was tripping along at his side, her gloved hand firmly clasped in his, that she had her great idea. Though to her it seemed quite natural.
“We will take one for Megan and Andrew and Miss Angove as well,” she announced. “Just a little one because they have such a small room. But there are so many bells and balls. We will take them before luncheon, Papa, so that I may still have my sleep ready for tonight. They will be happy, won’t they?”
“I think they have enough, poppet,” he said. “They are making their own Christmas. They will not want our offerings.”
“Oh, yes, they will,” she said happily. “You said Christmas is for giving, Papa. They will be happy if we give them a whole evergreen tree.
Besides, I want to see the baby Jesus. He was not finished yesterday.
Such a dear little manger, Papa. Miss Angove was going to make the smoth-the swathering clothes.”
“Was she?” he said, his heart sinking. Christmas was for giving, he had told her, and she had just thrown it back in his teeth. How could he refuse to give his daughter happiness?
“Just a little tree, then,” he said. “Papa has only two hands, you know.”
She chuckled. “But they are big hands, Papa,” she said. “Miss Angove is going to teach me to sew when I am five.”
“Is she?” he said, his lips tightening.
“Yes,” she said. “It will be more fun with her than with Nurse.”
And so they found themselves little more than an hour later yet again knocking on the door of the cottage, Bedford found, Dora at his side, jumping up and down.
“I want to tell, Papa,” she told him. The evergreen and the box of decorations, including the great star, were still inside the carriage.
And she did tell, rushing through the door, tearing at her cloak, and whisking herself behind the kitchen door for the pinafore just as if she had lived there all her life. And soon Megan was squealing and giggling and Andrew was exclaiming in delight and offering to accompany the marquess into the garden to fetch a pail of earth to set the tree in-a whole tree, and not just a bough!-and Lilias was clearing a small table and covering it with a worn lace cloth close to the window.