A Christmas Promise (25 page)

But it was all wonderful. Not just because the performers were children and all their parents and grandparents were sitting and watching, fairly bursting with pride and amusement. Oh, not just because of that. But because however imperfectly reconstructed, it was the Christmas story. Jesus was born and all was wonder and awe and happiness. There was in the whole story not one whisper of the Easter that was to follow so soon after. Only the wonder of unconditional love come to earth in a newborn baby.

“Oh,” Eleanor said, looking up at her husband after the children had all taken their bows and filed out of the ballroom, looking considerably more cheerful than they had when they came in. But she could think of no other words. Her hand, she saw, was still in his even though she must have released it several times in order to applaud.

He raised her hand to his lips. “I must go up there and remind everyone that all are invited to the party,” he said. “Come with me, Eleanor.”

She accompanied him onto the stage, their hands still clasped, and she smiled down at everyone as he spoke, praising their children and their teacher and inviting them all to stay for the children’s games and the tea. She felt the response of her husband’s people—the warmth and the affection. It was true, perhaps, that they would always be set somewhat apart, she and her husband. They could never make real friends of these people. Like it or not, she was a countess and he an earl. And maybe that was the way it should be. Her husband, after all, had a great deal of responsibility for their well-being. But warmth and affection were enough. They were far preferable to awe and distant respect.

T
HE ORIGINAL IDEA HAD
been to have games for the children and then tea for everyone. Of course, that idea did not take into account the fact that there would be Transomes present, all but two of them adults. But children to the very heart when it came to games.

When “Marching to Jerusalem” was announced, Uncle Sam took charge, arranging the chairs in a long line down the center of the ballroom, booming out instructions for the children to sit down, and announcing that there were at least a dozen chairs to spare. And so Eleanor took one and Uncle Ben another. George and Mabel joined in the game. Then a few of the less shy parents came to occupy still-empty chairs, egged on by their excited children. And a merry romp it was, the last adult falling out only when there was no other adult to roust but only children. A child must, of course, win each game.

And when it came to blindman’s buff, Aunt Ruth declared that she had not played it for years and agreed to play it this time, provided Muriel joined her. That drew Viscount Sotherby into the game. Then Jane and Harvey joined in and at least a dozen of the village parents. And Eleanor, of course, who was unanimously chosen by shrieking children to be the first to have her eyes bandaged.

The party became truly that, with everyone either participating or smiling on from the sidelines and cheering relatives. Indeed, the Reverend Blodell declared to the earl, his lordship had shown great condescension this day and had earned the eternal gratitude of his people. The earl felt an unaccustomed itch to join in the games.

Then, while Mrs. Blodell was repeating to him her husband’s speech but at far greater length, he found that he had no choice. Races had been organized and the third was to be a relay race, two adults and five children to each team.

“And we will have his lordship, the Earl of Falloden, to lead team number one,” Uncle Sam was announcing in his customary roar, “and Sir Albert Hagley to lead number two, and …”

A relay race. Good Lord! And yet as he crossed the ballroom to join his team—the other adult was Eleanor just as the other adult on team number two was Rachel—he found that his people had been given the perfect opportunity to let off some feelings about him. There were whistles, cheers, jeers, catcalls. He grinned.

“How does one do this, anyway?” he asked his wife as all the other teams were forming up.

“You have to step inside a sack,” she said, “and hold it up while you jump the length of the ballroom and back. Then you pass the sack on to me.”

“Good Lord,” he said incautiously.

She laughed merrily and was joined by the children on their team, who had been listening.

“It is easy, m’lord,” one little boy said, “as long as you do not fall.”

“As long as I do not …” The children shrieked with glee as he frowned. “And what do I do if I fall?”

But Uncle Sam was giving the order for the first member of each team to get ready to scramble inside his sack. “When I say ‘Go!’ ” he said.

The earl soon discovered what one did when one fell. One rolled and crawled and tried in vain to get back onto one’s feet without entangling them in the folds of the sack. And one inspired loud jeers from the onlookers and agonized groans from one’s team members. And one was invariably the last back for the changeover to the second person on the team. One also acquired a bruised elbow and an inability to stop laughing.

His wife did much better—the result of a lifetime of practice, he guessed—and caught up ground on the other ladies, most of whom either fell or moved rather slowly. His team was third going into the third round, second going into the fifth, and second at the end.

“Well,” he said, laughing around at his team, “that was fun. And who cares about coming in first, eh? Second sounds good enough to me.”

A row of footmen appeared with trays of food and drink as their master was running a three-legged race with Aunt Catherine, and set them out on the tables that had been laid at one side of the ballroom. The race over, a somewhat disheveled and breathless earl announced that tea was ready and that his guests were invited to help themselves. He suggested that contrary to custom, the children be allowed to go first, and the tables were attacked by hot and cheering hordes. The lemonade and the cold fruit punch proved to be the most popular items at first.

And then somehow, just when the party might have been expected to come to a natural end, the dancing began. Country dances, vigorously executed by people who were more used to performing the steps on the village green or about a maypole. It was hard to know who had suggested it—it was not Uncle Sam this time. When Uncle Sam suggested something, one was left in no doubt of the fact. Miss Brooks was playing the pianoforte and a little later the viscount. And almost everyone joined in. There were sets of children and sets of young people and sets of older people.

Somewhere in the middle of all the country dances Lord Sotherby played a waltz, throwing most of the dancers into consternation until they watched the few couples who knew how to perform the steps and joined in after a few minutes, laughing and watching their feet. Even the children tried it.

The earl waltzed with his wife and wondered if there could be more exhilaration dancing with her even at a fashionable ball to the accompaniment of a full orchestra. Sometime they would try it, he thought. Sometime when it would no longer matter that she did not wear mourning and he could take her back to London. Not that he craved London and its amusements. He rather thought that he could be content at Grenfell for a lifetime if this amity—and perhaps something more—with his wife could only continue. If only they did not discover in a few days’ time that it had all been Christmas and nothing else.

Bertie was dancing with Rachel, he saw, their heads bent together, talking. They had eyes for no one but each other. So much for Bertie’s determination to stay away from the girl today. He wondered if Uncle Ben was expecting a declaration at any moment and if Bertie was still reluctant to be snared. But then, the two of them had known each other for only a few days. It could easily be construed as a Christmas flirtation and no more.

Except that there was a look about them both that suggested somehow more than just a flirtation.

Another hour passed before the music stopped and the punch bowls had been attacked again and everyone was leaving as if on a prearranged signal, all flushed and smiling and pouring out their gratitude to the earl and his countess, who were standing to one side of the doorway. It was the very best party anyone could remember, if several heartfelt assurances to that effect could be believed.

“A happy Christmas, my lord, my lady.”

“A happy Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Mallory. And—Michael, is it? You were a very convincing king in the play earlier.”

The greetings went on and on until finally all the guests had left and Uncle Sam and a few of the cousins were gathering up sacks and scarves and other paraphernalia of the party games and Aunt Ruth was blessing her soul and saying that it was quite like old times and how wonderful it was of his lordship and dear Ellie to give them such a splendid party. Just as if it had been arranged solely for their benefit.

“I did not like to say this while all the guests were filing past you,” Uncle Harry said, smiling wickedly at the earl and his wife, “but do you realize where you are standing?”

That particular question at Christmastime could mean only one thing. The earl looked up and sure enough, there was the sprig of mistletoe he had fully expected to see there.

“Thank you, Uncle Harry,” he said. “It would be a dreadful shame to waste it, would it not?”

And he took his wife into his arms and kissed her firmly and lingeringly while Transomes and their disciples cheered and whistled about them.

He did not believe, the earl thought as he raised his head and smiled down into his wife’s eyes, that he had ever felt happier than he felt at that precise moment. And he had no wish at all to look beyond the moment.

“Happy Christmas, Eleanor,” he said.

“Happy Christmas, m—, R—, Randolph,” she said.

D
INNER WAS LATE, THE PARTY HAVING GONE ON
longer than expected. But then as Uncle Ben said—and everyone agreed—they had stuffed themselves so full of good food at tea that things needed to settle for a while before they could do justice to dinner. And it would be a shame not to do justice to it when Grenfell’s cook was such an excellent soul.

And so the interlude between dinner and having to leave for church was no longer than an hour. And almost before they could drink their tea and dream up some activity to fill in the hour, the carolers arrived from the village and congregated in the great hall with their rosy cheeks and their sheets of music and the snow melting on their boots.

The carolers, who always left the great house until last because it was the farthest distance to walk but always wished afterward that they had made it first because it was such a dismal ending to a happy evening, were in for a surprise. The former earl had always appeared on the staircase only when they had finished singing, and he had appeared only to nod stiffly and wish them the compliments of the season. The earl and countess before him had always come onto the staircase at the beginning and bowed and nodded graciously before instructing the servants to bring out refreshments, and then disappearing to their own apartments.

Not so with the new earl, whom some of the older singers remembered as a quiet and serious and rather wistful boy. The new earl appeared at the top of the stairs, almost before they were all inside with the doors closed behind them, his countess on his arm. And they both came right down the stairs into the hall, followed by all their guests, who it was said were a jolly lot, most of them being the countess’s relatives.

No sooner had the singers begun their first carol, “The Holly and the Ivy,” than some of those relatives unexpectedly joined in. And before the first verse was at an end, almost everyone was singing, including, the carolers noticed to their astonishment, the earl himself.

Four carols were sung at each house on the carolers’ route. Sometimes at the big house they had stopped at three. But on this occasion they would not have been allowed to stop at four even if they had wanted to or had thought of doing so. The hall rang to the sounds of one Christmas carol after another, so that even the two footmen on duty looked as if they might at any moment break into song.

Eventually the earl gave the nod to have the wassail bowl carried out and the bowl of hot cider and the trays of warm mince pies. And yet after eating and drinking, the carolers and the guests of the house and the master and mistress too felt compelled to sing once more before loud and seemingly endless greetings and handshakes were exchanged and the carolers were waved on their way from the open door just as if they were not to be seen again at church within the hour.

There had been much animated discussion among the women—no one thought to consult the earl or the countess—about how everyone was to be conveyed to church in two sleighs. They would just have to make several trips, Aunt Beryl said. The men could ride, of course, Aunt Eunice decided. And if they were prepared for a little discomfort, Aunt Ruth declared, they could seat three in each sleigh.

Of course, the wait at church for those who went first would be tedious. And those left behind would be anxious that they would be late to church. But the youngsters were quite capable of walking, the distance being little more than a mile and the weather now clear and still again, as it had been the night before.

If it came to that, Aunt Beryl said, she was quite capable of walking the distance too. Indeed, Aunt Catherine added, the exercise would be good for them after all they had eaten in the last few hours. They had walked out to the hills the night before, Aunt Irene reminded them, without thinking about the distance, though they must be almost as far from the house as the church was. Well, if everyone else was prepared to walk, Aunt Ruth said bravely, no one must go to the trouble of calling out a sleigh just for her. She would walk too. Doubtless either Sam or Ben—or Aubrey for that matter—would be willing to take her on his arm if she tired. But she did not believe she would.

And so by the time the earl thought to mention that he had ordered the sleighs and both the carriages brought around in time to convey his guests to church, everything had been arranged and he meekly canceled the order, with a private smile of amusement. They were all to walk. No one, it seemed, considered it ungenteel to turn up at church with reddened cheeks and noses and snowy boots.