What Happens At Christmas (34 page)

Read What Happens At Christmas Online

Authors: Victoria Alexander

December 25th
Twenty-four
C
amille bolted upright in bed and stared at the clock on the night table beside her bed. Good Lord, it was afternoon! She hadn't slept this late all week. Of course she hadn't slept this soundly either. But she'd been exhausted, and knowing she no longer had to be concerned about Nikolai, or whoever he was—well, this was the best she had slept since coming to the manor.
Still, it was Christmas Day and she didn't want to waste a minute of it with the man she had waited eleven years for. She had already missed Christmas services. She scrambled out of bed and hurriedly dressed. She had told her maid not to worry about her this morning, as it was Christmas. Within a few minutes, she was dressed and headed downstairs.
“Fortesque.” She spotted the actor as soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Where is everyone?”
“Count Pruzinsky left early this morning.”
She shrugged. “Oh, well, that's that, then.”
He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “And Mr. Elliott left shortly thereafter.”
“What?” Her knees buckled and she grabbed the newel post to keep from falling. “Are you sure?”
Fortesque hurried to her side to assist her. “Are you all right?”
“No.” It was as if the air had been pushed out of her lungs and her heart ripped to shreds.
He helped her to a chair. “He said something about his aunt.”
She barely heard him. She was wrong, and once again Grayson had left her.
“Should I find someone to help?”
“No, I'm fine.” She wasn't at all fine but she would be. “Please find my maid and have her pack my bags at once. I'll be leaving as well.”
He stared at her. “He came back. Mr. Elliott, that is, not the prince. I don't mind telling you, Lady Lydingham, there was something about that man that did not sit well with me. The prince, that is, not Mr. Elliott.”
She stared at him. “He came back?”
“I quite like Mr. Elliott. I should tell you he has offered my wife and me a position.”
Laughter, equal parts hysteria and relief, bubbled up inside her. “Did he now?”
“It was most generous.”
“I'm certain it was.” She grinned. “Whatever Mr. Elliott has offered you, I will offer you more. We will discuss it later. But he is back?”
The actor nodded. “He's somewhere in the house. Your mother, uncle and Lord and Lady Dunwell are in the dining room. They asked that you be directed there when you came down. Mrs. Fortesque has prepared a late breakfast or rather early luncheon.” He paused. “Your mother sent the others on a walk.”
“I really should find Mr. Elliott.”
“Your mother was quite insistent,” he said firmly.
“Very well, then.”
Grayson could wait, but not for long. She started toward the dining room and pulled up short the moment she entered the room. Her mother, uncle and Beryl sat at the table; Lionel stood near his wife, his hand rested on her shoulder. Everyone looked entirely too grim for Christmas Day.
“Whatever is the matter?”
“We have something to tell you,” Mother said, and looked at Uncle Basil. “It's about your father.”
Uncle Basil rose to his feet. “Camille.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Of course I should have known.”
“Known what?” Mother said.
“I wondered if we would ever see you again.” She met her father's gaze directly. “It's good to have you home.”
“Is it?” The question lingered in his eyes.
“We have missed you.” The moment she said the words, she realized they were true.
Beryl's eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Oh, I've known since I was twelve or thirteen, I think. I heard Mother and Uncle Basil arguing about it. And I've heard that argument continue through the years.”
Mother studied her. “Why didn't you say anything?”
“Why didn't you tell me?” Annoyance sounded in Beryl's voice.
“I didn't know how to tell you.” Camille shrugged. “It wasn't my secret to tell. And I thought it would be too difficult for you. I suppose I was protecting you.”
“Me?” Beryl stared. “But I've always been the strong one.”
Camille shook her head. “Not about this sort of thing. I knew you would never be able to forgive either of them.”
“And you have?” Beryl said sharply. “Aren't you angry?”
“I was for a long time.” She looked at her mother. “At both of you. Until I realized you told us he was dead because you thought it was better to have a dead father than one who was too selfish to live up to his obligations. It was hard to fault you for wishing to protect us.” She turned to her father. “And I was angry at you for being selfish, until I understood that even the best of men can feel trapped in a life they didn't choose.” She looked at her twin. “As for forgiveness, I can't really say, because I don't really know. I do know he did not leave us impoverished. I know he wrote to Mother every few months. I know he asked to come home. I know Mother refused to allow that. And I know he saw Uncle Basil fairly regularly.
“Forgiveness has to be earned. I think Mother has earned ours through the years. As for Father, he may well have paid for his mistake.” She met her father's gaze. “My forgiveness is not as important as hers. Hers is the heart you broke.”
“I am sorry,” Mother said softly.
“I know you are.”
“I am sorry as well.” Father shook his head. “For leaving, of course, and for not coming home when I should have.”
“I told you—” Mother began.
“I should have ignored you,” he said in a hard tone. “I should have done what I knew was right. In that, I failed.”
“This will not be easy, you know.” Beryl stared at her father. “For any of us.”
“I do not expect it to be.” Father shrugged.
“Still, it is Christmas,” Beryl said slowly. “Which does seem to me to be an appropriate place to start.”
“What about Delilah?” Camille asked.
“That's why I sent her and the others on a walk. We thought we should speak to you first.”
“Are you all right?” Camille said to her twin.
“Well . . .” Beryl glanced up at her husband. He nodded slightly. “I've known for several years. I found some of Father's letters.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
Beryl winced. “I was protecting you.”
“It seems the only one in this family who was only thinking of himself was me,” Father said.
“Not entirely.” Mother met his gaze. “Oh, don't mistake my words, you were for a long time, far longer than I really expected. But all this”—she swept a wide gesture at her daughters—“took the kind of courage I never imagined you would find.” She hesitated. “When I told you never to return, I thought surely you would ignore me. I thought you'd be back. And every time I responded to your letters, I thought, ‘This time he'll ignore me. He'll finally come home.' ” She met her husband's gaze. “It only took you twenty years. I suppose it could have been longer.”
“It should have been less,” he said.
“It scarcely matters who should have done what at this point, does it?” Beryl looked from one parent to the next. “It seems to me we either wallow in recrimination and remorse, or we move on from here. I would much prefer to move on.”
“This is not . . .” Mother paused and managed a wry smile. “Well, not exactly the Christmas I imagined.”
“No, Mother,” Beryl said firmly. “In many ways, it's better.”
Camille stared at her twin. This was not how she'd ever expected Beryl would take the news of their father's reappearance. She wasn't entirely sure how she was taking it either, but then she'd known he was alive far longer than Beryl had. And her sister was right: This would not be easy for any of them. But then wasn't anything truly worth having worth the effort?
“Psst.”
“Good Lord, not now.” Camille heaved a resigned sigh. “If you will excuse me.” She cast her sister an encouraging smile, stepped out of the dining room and came face to face with Delilah.
“What on earth is going on?” Suspicion shone in Delilah's eyes. “I was summoned the moment we entered the house.”
“Mother and, um, Uncle Basil . . .” Camille wasn't sure what to say or rather what not to say. Even now, this wasn't her secret to tell. “Well, they wish to speak to you.”
Delilah peered around her to look into the dining room. “I see Beryl and her husband are there as well.” She straightened and met Camille's gaze. “This is significant then, isn't it?”
Camille nodded. “Very.”
“I did wonder . . . The moment I saw Uncle Basil, I suspected . . .” The younger woman sighed. “It's past time I suppose.”
Camille stared at her sister. “What's past time?”
“Oh.” Delilah hesitated then shook her head. “Nothing, nothing at all.”
Camille studied her closely. “You know, don't you?” She glanced at the gathering in the dining room then looked back at her sister. “About Fat—”
“I don't know anything,” Delilah said quickly. “I have always thought there were things about Mother's life she did not wish to share. Things that might be too painful or too personal. If at some point she wishes me to know those things then she will tell me. As she hasn't, I know nothing.”
“Then you do know.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.” She sidestepped her sister and moved toward the dining room, paused and glanced back. “But when one spends a great deal of time locked in the attic one does tend to read anything one finds.” She nodded and stepped into the dining room.
Camille stared after her. Who would have imagined that all three sisters knew their parents' secrets yet no one said a word for fear of upsetting someone else.
Fortesque cleared his throat. “Lady Lydingham?”
She'd almost forgotten he was there. “What is it now?”
“You're needed in the attic.”
“The attic?” She drew her brows together. “Why?”
“I couldn't say, my lady,” he said in a lofty manner.
She narrowed her gaze. “Couldn't or won't?”
“I have my instructions, my lady,” he said in a no-nonsense manner. “I am to escort you.”
“Are you?” What on earth was this about? The last time she was in the attic . . . She studied him for a long moment. His expression was as impassive as Clement's would have been. The man really played the role of butler quite well. “Then we shall go to the attic.”
Fortesque didn't say a word on the way up the flights of stairs. When they reached the foot of the attic stairs, he picked up a small silver tray with a single piece of chocolate on it and presented it to her with a flourish. “Chocolate, my lady.”
She raised a brow. “Swiss?”
“Of course.” He sniffed. “You are to enjoy that, and I shall return in a moment.”
“Very well.” She took the chocolate and popped it into her mouth. It was rich and sweet, but wasted on her at the moment. Anticipation sped up her heart.
Fortesque fairly sprinted up the stairs, opened the door enough to poke his head in and then gestured for her to join him. As soon as she was a step behind him, he opened the door, stepped into the attic and swept a dramatic bow.
“My lady, your prince awaits.”
“My what?” She stepped into the attic and her breath caught.
The room was aglow with the lights from dozens of chandeliers and candles. Swags of satins and silks and laces covered the boxes and the walls and the ceiling. Ferns and palms and potted plants had been brought up from the conservatory. Mistletoe hung everywhere she looked. The attic had vanished and in its place was a ballroom glittering with light and magic.
“My lady, it is my honor to present”—Fortesque stepped aside and gestured with a grand wave of his arm—“the Christmas ball.”
Off to one side, the footman who had played the violin last night, now dressed in the court costume of another age, started playing her favorite waltz. The other footman stood nearby, holding a tray bearing two glasses of champagne.
Grayson stepped forward, wearing some sort of antiquated uniform. It was white with gold trim, and sported glittering medals and a blue sash. She had never seen anyone so dashing, so perfect. Her prince. Her true love.

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