What Happens At Christmas (31 page)

Read What Happens At Christmas Online

Authors: Victoria Alexander

“Grayson is in the library with his cousin.” She drew a deep breath. “Frankly, I'm rather glad it's just the four of us.”
“Because that went so well yesterday?” Beryl said sweetly.
“No, because I owe you all an apology.” She shook her head. “You are the dearest people in the world to me, and I shouldn't have been so short-tempered. Delilah”—she met her younger sister's gaze directly—“I am sorry that I said you were stuffy.”
“Oh, but I am stuffy, and no one is more aware of that than I.” Delilah shrugged. “And, as I am, I must admit it is the tiniest bit amusing to watch a tart pretend to be me. As long as no one ever knows about it,” she added quickly.
“In that, we are in complete agreement. I don't even want to think of the gossip, should this Christmas production of mine be made public.” Camille shuddered.
“However”—Delilah's gaze met hers—“as much as I do wish we were not involved in a debacle that threatens to come down around our heads at any moment and ruin us all, and I do blame you, I am rather, well, pleased that you've included me.”
Camille stared.
“Was that an apology?” Beryl asked.
“The thought had crossed my mind that you might simply . . . well . . .” Delilah cringed. “Lock me in the attic.”
Beryl gasped. “Never!”
“And I do apologize for saying that you don't think things through before plunging into—”
“Chaos?” Beryl suggested, then glanced at Camille and heaved a resigned sigh. “And I know you hate to have your past mistakes thrown back in your face—”
“Like Brighton,” Delilah suggested in what was obviously meant to be a helpful manner. Camille resisted the urge to wince.
“It was extremely unkind of me,” Beryl continued. “So you have my apologies as well. And I am so trying to be a better person.”
Camille bit back a laugh. “Thank you, Beryl. I know how difficult it is for you to admit you possibly might have been wrong.”
“It is indeed, as I am so rarely wrong.” Beryl heaved an overly dramatic sigh and rested the back of her hand against her forehead in a manner worthy of any actress.
Delilah laughed.
“And, Mother.” Camille summoned up her courage. She and her mother were usually in such accord. “About Mrs. Montgomery-Wells—”
“There's nothing to apologize for there, dear. I fully understand how difficult it must be to get a troupe of actors to play one's family, especially at Christmas.” She moved a silver glass ball from one branch to another, then studied it to determine if it was perfectly placed. “Just as you are sensitive about the mention of your past mistakes, I seem to be rather sensitive about reminders that I am inevitably growing older.” She cast Camille a wry smile. “And I suspect that Christmas, being here with all of you, only makes it more poignant. I recall every Christmas, you know. The gifts and the parties and the laughter. The awe on your faces when you looked at the newly decorated tree. The Christmas plays the three of you would put on, before you and Beryl grew too old to find Delilah of any use. I remember the sleigh rides in those years when there was snow and it was entirely too cold to go out-of-doors, and yet we did so, anyway. And I remember the way you would distract whatever cook we had at the moment, while Beryl stole freshly made gingerbread.”
Beryl shifted uneasily.
Mother slanted a chastising look at her. “You thought I didn't know about that?” Beryl smiled weakly. “The cooks knew as well. There are a number of other pranks the two of you played, mostly involving impersonating one another, that I know about, but I needn't go into that now.”
“Oh, but I would like to hear.” Delilah grinned.
“Oh, I daresay that's enough but thank you, Mother.” Camille chuckled then sobered. “But I owe you a far greater apology than miscasting your part. When I first thought of this plan, I thought I needed a proper family, or at least a family more proper than we are. In that, I did you a grave disservice. I had always thought that you simply liked being surrounded by nobility, regardless of whether they had wealth or power.” She chose her words with care. “But I have come to realize, in recent days, that you offered a home, albeit temporary, at Christmas and throughout the year, to those who were lost. Admittedly, they were inevitably an odd lot—”
“Do you remember the Oriental gentleman with the long, drooping mustache who could pull coins out of your nose?” Delilah said with a slight smile.
“No, but I recall the Frenchman. Oh, I think he claimed to be a
comte,
who was convinced the true hereditary king of France would be restored to the throne and his ancestral lands would at last be returned to him.” Beryl shook her head in a thoughtful manner. “I do wonder if he ever gave up hoping.”
“I daresay, there are any number of people we all remember.” Camille waved off her sisters' comments and turned her attention back to her mother. “The point is, I was concerned with what you, what
we, aren't
rather than
what we are.
What you are. I never should have been anything but proud. You were always willing to welcome those souls who had lost their place in the world into ours.”
Her mother continued to place the precious glass ornaments carefully on the tree; her words were measured. “I have always thought that should I lose my place in the world, my position, my home, even my country, I would hope there would be someone willing to accept me into their lives. Especially at Christmas. If only for a short time.” She shook her head. “I will not apologize for that.”
Camille swallowed hard and nodded.
“But you also mentioned the parade of lovers.” She met Camille's gaze directly. “I never flaunted them. I never displayed undue affection in front of you. In truth, I was most discreet and most selective.” She narrowed her eyes. “I daresay, you have no idea how many, if any, I actually took to my bed. Nor is it any of your concern.”
“Mother—”
“I would think at this point in your life, Camille, you would understand that there are moments when loneliness is an ache somewhere in the vicinity of your heart that cannot be eased, despite the presence of friends and family.” She gazed at her daughter for a long moment. “Do you? Understand, that is?”
“I think so.” Camille nodded. Indeed, hadn't she felt it herself? An ache, a longing, a need that woke her in the night reaching for something or someone just out of reach.
Grayson.
She couldn't get him out of her thoughts today. But then through the years of her marriage and the years since, no matter how hard she had tried to put him out of her head, he had always lingered in the dim recesses of her mind and her heart. At once, she realized what she should have known from the beginning. Wasn't that the way with true love?
“Camille?”
“Yes?” Her attention snapped back to her mother.
Mother studied her curiously. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Camille nodded. “My apologies. A random thought. Nothing of significance . . .”
“I should apologize to you as well, I suppose, for being short-tempered. Not for the way I have lived my life, mind you,” Lady Briston added quickly. “Although . . .” The oddest look of indecision washed across her face. “Admittedly, I have not always made the right decisions. There are perhaps one or two things I have done in the past—”
“Mother.” A warning sounded in Beryl's voice.
“That, while I thought were for the best, might, in hindsight, be considered, oh, I don't know, unforgivable.”
Camille stared. “ ‘Unforgivable'?”
“Don't be absurd,” Delilah chimed in. “I can't imagine anything that would be unforgivable.”
“One cannot be faulted for doing the wrong thing for what one believed to be the right reasons,” Beryl said firmly.
“Oh, but I'm afraid one can,” her mother said with a wry smile.
“But what if it's for the wrong reasons?” Camille said slowly. “What if one's decisions were prompted by anger or foolishness or pride?”
“I would say that's something else, then, isn't it?” Mother said.
“But you said it yourself yesterday,” Camille began. “How one needs to decide—to balance, if you will—what one might lose from forgiveness as opposed to what one might gain.”
“Good Lord.” Beryl stared at her twin. “You've forgiven him, haven't you?”
“Who?” Camille said casually, as if she had no idea what Beryl was talking about. She picked up an ornament and unwrapped it.
“You know who!” Beryl huffed.
“Grayson and I had a long, oh, discussion last night.” Camille placed the ornament on the tree. “We talked about what had passed between us eleven years ago. I know now what he was thinking and feeling, and he knows how I felt. And furthermore”—resolve washed through her—“I believe I know what I want.”
“For Christmas?” Delilah asked.
“Forever,” Camille said with a firm nod of her head.
“What a surprise.” Mother smiled.
“Did he tell you everything?” Beryl said sharply. “Did he tell you about his fortune?”
“Yes.” She met her sister's gaze directly. “And last night he admitted he should have known me better than to have thought the worst of me. I should place the same trust in him.”
“You can't just open your arms and say I'm yours.” Exasperation sounded in Beryl's voice. “The man does need to be taught some sort of lesson.”
“Although one could argue they have both been taught a lesson that has gone on for eleven years,” Mother said in an offhand manner. “Indeed, one might say that was long enough.”
“Or too long,” Delilah pointed out.
“Regardless.” Beryl heaved a resigned sigh. “I don't think you should make this too easy for him.”
“I daresay, it hasn't been easy so far.” Camille shook her head. “I lost him once, because he thought money meant more to me than love, and because his pride was wounded as much as his heart. I shall not lose him again because of my pride.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I said last night that I had changed, and I have. The girl I was eleven years ago waited for him to return. Waited for her fairy-tale prince to sweep her away.” She set her jaw firmly. “The woman I am now knows what she wants and has waited entirely too long to pursue it.”
Camille pulled a deep breath for courage and knocked on Grayson's door. Hopefully, she would catch him before he went down to dinner. If not, she'd leave him the brief note she had written. It wasn't an apology—she really didn't think she had anything to apologize for, except perhaps for losing her temper—but it was in the manner of an olive branch. And she had written that she loved him.
She had only seen him in passing most of the day; and when she had, he'd been preoccupied. The man obviously had something weighing heavily on his mind. While last night had brought her to the inescapable realization that she had never stopped loving him, she couldn't help but wonder if he had come to another conclusion altogether. Perhaps last night wasn't a new beginning between them, but rather it was, once and for all, the end. Perhaps they couldn't move past their anger and pain. And hadn't he chosen once before to let her marry the wrong man?
“Grayson?” She opened his door and glanced inside. Obviously, she had missed him. No matter. She would leave her note and speak with him later. And then perhaps they could share Christmas Eve together.
A book sat beside the lamp on the table by the side of the bed; she wondered if his taste in reading had changed. Curious, she picked it up and a document beneath it drifted to the floor. She bent to retrieve the paper, started to replace it, then froze.
It was a receipt for passage to America on a ship sailing the day after Christmas.

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