Silent Night (4 page)

The Seventh Chapter

O Flower, whose fragrance tender
With sweetness fills the air...

“Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming”
Traditional English Carol

A
fter Brisbane and I had settled amicably upon terms—I would investigate with his discreet assistance but he would answer no direct questions—I announced loudly that I would be writing letters in my room while Brisbane claimed to have business from the morning post that required his attention. Luckily for us both, the rest of the family were equally occupied. Father had bolted the door of his study against visitors while Aunt Hermia had closeted herself with the cook, who was out of bed but still walking in a gingerly fashion. Portia took Jane the Younger to the Home Farm to show her off to our brother Benedick, and that left only Plum, who disappeared with his sketchbook.

Together, Brisbane and I crept up to the attics, making directly for the lumber room where once before a spectral visitor had hidden the means of a ghostly disguise. I had just crossed the threshold when Brisbane gave an exclamation of disgust and held a robe of white gauze aloft.

“The devil might have had the wit to attempt to hide it.” His expression was sour.

“I should have thought you would be pleased to have uncovered the truth so quickly,” I soothed.

He narrowed his witch-black eyes at me. “I have matched wits with some of the most cunning criminals in the world. I do think it’s a trifle wasteful of my time to unmask an unimaginative servant bent on thievery.”

But he inspected the draperies with his usual thoroughness before tossing them to me.

“The same costume as the last time,” I reflected. “Doubtless the story got round the village and someone decided if the ploy had worked once it would work again.” I fell silent, nibbling at my lip as I thought. Brisbane bent to examine the other bits of the costume. The original affair had included a pair of pattens, iron frames that had once been fashionable for lifting a lady out of the mud when she walked, thus sparing her skirts. Our previous ghost had been clever to use them, for they gave the impression of floating if the spectre were seen in fitful light.

Brisbane held them up for my inspection. “Notice anything peculiar?”

I poked at them, twining a long strand of sticky silk about my finger when I pulled away. “Cobweb. They haven’t been worn, not in a very long time. So we have a slightly more interesting puzzle. The pattens made a ghastly effect. It was down to them that anyone who saw the previous ghost believed it to be entirely supernatural. Why then did our present ghost discard the most effective part of the ensemble?”

I strapped them on and began to move about the room as Brisbane watched. “They are dreadfully awkward. And quite heavy. It would take practise to walk in them gracefully and give the impression of floating. Therefore, I propose it must be a woman of small stature, unable to manoeuver in them easily and without sufficient time to learn.”

“So, a female member of staff, new to the house, and small in stature. Do we know anyone who fits that description?”

I sighed and thought of Aunt Hermia’s obvious agitation. “Unfortunately, we do.”

* * *

We found Rose in the stillroom, peering into the earthenware crock and turning the damp potpourri we had mixed.

“It smells a treat, does it not, my lady?” she asked. Her cheeks were pink with exertion and, I suspected, pleasure. I glanced at Brisbane, feeling an utter worm.

He took the lead, moving smoothly to the side of the worktable opposite the girl so as not to alarm her with his size.

“Brisbane, this is Rose, the new stillroom maid. Rose, this is my husband, Mr. Brisbane.”

She bobbed him a swift curtsey as he settled himself onto a stool, bringing his eyes level with hers.

“Good morning, Rose. My wife tells me you hail from London.”

“I do, sir. Cockney born and bred.”

“You must have had a difficult time of it last year,” he said, his voice gentle.

She shot him a sharp look then nodded. “You know what I was then.”

“I do. My wife’s lady’s maid was also trained at Lady Hermia’s refuge.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I have met that Morag. Stuck-up, if you ask me, high and mighty now she’s maiding for a lady. And she’s a face like a sour apple.”

Brisbane flicked me a glance. “She is not wrong,” I murmured. Morag had been known to flaunt her status from time to time, but I understood why. She had been on the receiving end of so much abuse for so much of her life, it was little surprise she sometimes found lording her position an irresistible temptation.

“Were you ever questioned by the police in connection with the Ripper case?” Brisbane put the question to her casually; he did not even hold eye contact with her. Instead, his eyes rested on her hands as they worked.

“I was not. I’ve no use for the police and they’ve no use for me. It is not so hard to lose yourself if you know how.”

“I am sure of it.” He continued to watch as Rose left off stirring the potpourri and moved to a basket of oranges. She took down a jar of cloves and an awl, sticking it firmly into each plump fruit before poking a clove into the hole she had made. The air was thick with the scent of citrus and spice.

Brisbane picked up one of the oranges and began to peel it with a studied air of nonchalance.

“It sounds as if you had some experience of the police before that. I do hope they did not trouble you unduly? They can be overzealous in their efforts.”

Rose snorted. “You can say that again and twice on Sundays! Took me up for thievery they did, and no more cause than the fact that I was in the same street. Lucky I was that the actual thief was caught red-handed with a packet of French lace. Otherwise I would have been sent to gaol for naught.”

Just as she turned to her work again, William IV appeared. In contrast to his previous demeanour, this time he approached formally, bearing a covered plate. “Begging your pardon, my lady, Mr. Brisbane. Rose, I have brought the suet Lady Hermia requested from the kitchen.”

He put it down upon the worktable and gave a short bow from the neck before departing.

“She must mean to put some out for the birds,” I began, pulling back the corner of the oiled cloth. Instantly Rose reared back at the mound of fat. She made the stone sink just in time, heaving quietly.

I took a cloth and wetted it, holding it against her brow after she was finished.

“Oh, my lady, I do apologise. The sight of that suet put me right off.”

Brisbane brought a stool and she perched on it, still clutching the compress.

“I do hope you are not falling ill, Rose. Lady Hermia has come to rely upon you.”

She bent her head to her work again, but I saw a tiny smile tug at her lips. “You are quite a nice lady,” she said, so softly as to be almost inaudible.

“Not always,” I said, feeling a quick stab of guilt. I dared not look at Brisbane. “Rose, if you are unhappy here, I am certain Mr. Brisbane and I can find a place for you at our house in London.”

Her head shot up as she looked from one of us to the other. “Would I have to work with that Morag?”

“Yes,” Brisbane put in. “But her bark is infinitely worse than her bite.”

She grinned. “I will have a think on it, sir. And thank you, my lady.” She handed me the spiced orange she had just finished, bobbing a curtsey as she gave it over. I sniffed deeply as Brisbane and I left her.

We paused outside the door and he lifted a black brow at me. “Your Aunt Hermia will not thank you for attempting to poach her maid. Do not look to me for protection,” he advised. “I have my hands quite full with one March lady. I could not rise to the challenge of taking on another.”

* * *

Aquinas served us our luncheon in the small sitting room adjoining our bedchamber.

“Upon Lady Hermia’s instructions,” he offered by way of apology.

“Where is everyone else?” I asked, peering into the chafing dish he held out for me. “Oh, woodcock!”

Aquinas informed me that Aunt Hermia had decided not to eat luncheon, Plum was still out sketching, and Portia was being fed at the Home Farm. “And his lordship is still at work in his study.”

“Sulking, you mean.” I said it, but I could tell from the small smile playing about Brisbane’s mouth that he thought it.

“It is not for me to say, my lady,” Aquinas said, but his lips twitched as well.

I sighed. “It does not even seem like Christmas. Everyone is in such a mood and the house is practically empty. It hasn’t even been decorated yet!”

I thought of the dozens of family holidays I had spent at the Abbey. I had missed only one—the year I had honeymooned with Brisbane. We had shared our first married Christmas together abroad, and even in the brilliant glow of newly-wedded bliss, I had suffered a pang at missing the traditional celebration with my family.

“Julia?” Brisbane’s voice was softly questioning and Aquinas withdrew on discreet feet.

“I know I am being childish about the whole thing, but you do not know what it is like to be here on Christmas. There has been snow every year upon Christmas Eve and do you know why? Because this is a holy place. There is a well in the village where a winter miracle happened so long ago no one even remembers what it was. But they remembered this was a sacred place and a village grew up around it and that is why it is called Blessingstoke—the blessed hamlet.” Brisbane said nothing. His silences could be weighty things, but they were often gifts as well. I went on. “And Christmas was always so special with everyone gathered round, even the relations I never much liked.” He lifted a brow and I responded with a repressive look of my own. “Do not judge me. You have met the Ghoul.” At the mention of my grisly, funeral-mad great-aunt, Brisbane gave a slight shudder. “Snow every year—even the warmest ones when the sun was bright on the solstice. By Christmas Eve it always came, blanketing the whole village in a shimmering cloud of white. And inside everyone would drink the wassail and get shockingly tipsy and sing songs while Lysander played the piano and Portia led the chorus. Benedick always found the fattest piglet to roast for dinner and the whole place smelled of cinnamon and clove and boxwood and ivy. And for just a little while all was right with the world. And now it isn’t.”

I could scarcely expect him to understand. The stunning conclusion of our previous investigation at the Abbey had called Brisbane away before Christmas. He had merely glimpsed the magic of the place. His own holidays had been meagre affairs, spent either with his Gypsy kin or living rough on the streets of London as a runaway boy. But perhaps it was that lack that helped him to grasp the keenness of my regrets.

He opened his arms and I went to sit on his knee. He embraced me, one hand stroking my hair.

“I feel quite stupid, you know. I oughtn’t to mind.”

He said nothing for a long moment and I relaxed into the warmth of him, feeling that large heart beating a solid, steady rhythm beneath my hand.

“Julia, we are all children at Christmastime.”

“You are not,” I pointed out.

He gave me a shadowy smile. “I think you told me once I was born old.”

The Eighth Chapter

Heap on more wood!—the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.

“Old Christmastide” Sir Walter Scott

I
wandered the Abbey for a little while, poking into various rooms, some I had not seen since a ghastly game of sardines two years before. Everything seemed chill and quiet, and in the long grey light of the afternoon, I felt a certain melancholy settling into the stones. It was a curious feeling. For as long as I had lived in the Abbey, I had thought it a happy place. It had always been colourful and loud, filled with music and laughter and the petty squabbles of too many children. I believed the monks had been happy there as well, toiling soberly at their carp ponds and fruit orchards, polishing the stones with prayerful knees. There were cycles in the life of a great house such as ours. When a lord is young, his family is boisterous and the house comes alive. But the wheel turns, as it must, and a quiet settles over the place as softly as a snowfall, muffling its gaiety as the lord ages and his family is flown. And then the wheel turns again and the house his handed over to the new lord and it stirs to life again, sheltering the family as it has so many before.

I toyed with the idea of sharing my thoughts with Father, but when I went to his study, his door was still locked. I heard a peculiar noise from within, so I bent swiftly and put my eye to the keyhole. Father sat at his desk, his handsome features maudlin and drawn. On top of the desk stood a modest bust of Shakespeare and on top of that perched Grim. He eyed Father and canted his head.

“Tragedy and woe,” he intoned.

“Indeed,” Father replied. “Rather a clever fellow, aren’t you?”

Grim bobbed his head.

With a tender hand, Father reached out and stroked the silken feathers. Grim suffered him to do so, not because he liked being touched. Grim was, in fact, somewhat aloof. But he was acutely sympathetic for a bird, and he had at one time saved my life. I was not surprised he offered father his feathery consolations.

I rose from my spying, wiped at my eyes and hurried up to my room to have a think. I fetched the ring box from the desk where Brisbane had left it and scrutinised it carefully. As I pondered, my eyes fell to a pair of Brisbane’s boots, so much larger than my own slender slippers, and an idea began to form. A quick trip to the lumber room to inspect the pattens strengthened my suspicions, and I returned to my room to compose a series of telegrams.

When I finished, I hunted down William IV in the great hall and bade him take the messages to the village telegraph office and wait for replies. He hurried off, and I turned just in time to find Nin twining herself sinuously about my legs. I bent and scooped her up.

“Where have you been, miss? I have not seen you for the better part of a day,” I scolded. She put out a velvety paw, touching my earring and I scratched her ears until she purred ecstatically. “Mind you tell your master that I have treated you with exceedingly good care,” I told her. I put her down and she scampered off again, disappearing into a narrow gap between the fireplace in the great hall and the carved walnut panelling of the wall beside it. It had once been used by the abbot as a sort of hidey-hole for caching his valuables. Since the Dissolution, it had been put to rather more prosaic use as a cats’ nursery. Christopher Sly in particular liked to give birth there as the stones held the warmth of the fireplace and she was never disturbed. I could only hope Nin was not about to follow suit. I should not like to explain to Sir Morgan Fielding that his extremely valuable and virginal Siamese had been willfully violated.

Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out behind me.

“Do not turn around, Julia,” my husband ordered. “And close your eyes.”

I did as I was told. “What on earth are you up to?”

“Do. Not. Ask.” His voice was strained and there was a series of strange sounds, scraping and straining, and under it all a fluent if subdued litany of modest swear words.

“There. Now turn around, wife.”

I did and nearly tripped over a felled tree lying in the middle of the great hall. Brisbane stood next to it, his usually pristine clothing deeply soiled and torn, his ebony hair tumbled wildly. Leaves clung to him, and he looked like an exceedingly handsome pagan god, the Green Man come gloriously to life.

“Brisbane, what—”

“It is a Yule log. For burning,” he explained helpfully.

“Yes, I know what a Yule log is for, but—”

I noticed then the cluster of men at the door—most of the male staff, my brothers Benedick and Plum, and even Aquinas.

“You wanted a traditional Christmas. And it is not a traditional Christmas without a Yule log.”

He opened his arms and I went into them, absurdly, wholly delighted with this enigmatic man that I had married.

“But you do not like tradition,” I murmured into his ear.

“I like you,” he replied. His arms tightened about me, and I went on tiptoe to thank him with a kiss. My brothers made appropriately appalled noises and Aquinas shepherded the staff out with promises of warm punch in the kitchen.

“If we are burning a Yule log, we really ought to hang the holly and the ivy,” I mused.

“Julia.” Brisbane’s voice held a warning edge.

“It is also tradition,” I protested.

“It is your father’s house and we are already trespassing upon his good-will by burning this monstrosity against his wishes.”

“I think Father will be inclined to holiday mirth by and by. And if we are putting up the decorations, we must have mistletoe,” I said, giving him my most innocent look.

He canted his head, very like Grim, I observed. “Mistletoe?”

“Mistletoe.”

“Lots of it?”

“Piles of it.”

“Where do you plan to hang it?” he asked, much more interested in the subject suddenly.

“Oh,
everywhere
.”

* * *

That evening, Father said nothing about the Yule log that had been pushed into the fireplace and prepared for kindling into a holiday fire. Aunt Hermia had merely shrugged when I told her I intended to hang the greenery, and the appearance of Jane the Younger after dinner lightened the mood a little. Father smiled once or twice at her shrieks before retiring to bed early, and Brisbane and I passed a thoroughly satisfactory and entirely private evening in the solitude of our room.

“Thank God for stout stone walls,” he said at one point, and I heartily agreed.

The next morning was Christmas Eve, and even the discovery that another pretty bauble had gone missing was not enough to dampen my rising spirits.

“But it is Jane the Younger’s favourite teething ring,” Portia protested. The thief had absconded with the pretty mother-of-pearl piece I had bought Jane the Younger, and the loss of it had not settled well with either mother or child. “I am afraid without it, she might get fretful.”

“Get?” Brisbane said under his breath.

“I heard that, brother,” she retorted. I hurried to smooth the moment.

“I’m sure it will turn up. After all, Christmas is full of surprises.”

“Julia,” she said narrowly, “you’re wearing an enigmatic face.”

“Don’t be feeble. This is the face I was born with.”

We fell to quarrelling gently then, and the day passed with agonizing slowness. I spoke to Aquinas, organising what was necessary, and starting each time I heard something in the entry hall. At length it was time for tea and we all gathered in the great hall, with the exception of Portia and Jane the Younger. The room had been hung with long boughs of evergreen and the spicy scent of it filled the air with wintry promise. Great bowls of Rose’s clove-studded oranges sat on each tables, and the footmen had carried in tall jars of the damp potpourri, placing them carefully upon the hearth so the warmth of the kindled Yule log would send their scented vapours through the room. As a special treat, Aquinas served wassail with the tea. It had been ladled into the traditional bowl, an enormous affair of ancient wood mounted in silver. Roasted apples bobbed merrily on the surface, and I murmured a warning to Brisbane about the strength of the stuff. It was sweetly spiced and a single glass could fell an unwary soul.

“What is this?” Father grumbled. “It looks like some sort of celebration.”

“It is Christmas Eve,” I said hurriedly. “Reason enough to celebrate.”

He made a harrumphing noise and I went to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet that screened the darkness outside. “It is snowing!” I cried.

The others crowded around the window overlooking the garden. All was quiet and peaceful, with the brilliant long light of a winter moon rising over the slumbering garden. And in that silver peace, clouds drifted, shaking soft petals of snow upon the ground.

“Just like every Christmas,” Aunt Hermia said, her voice thick with awe.

“Like every Christmas,” I breathed. She lifted her hand to touch me on the shoulder, but pulled away at the last moment, giving me a sad smile instead. I pressed a quick kiss to her papery cheek and looked over her shoulder.

“Father,” I said. I motioned for him to turn around.

In the doorway, still as a marble angel and powdered with fresh snow, stood Hortense de Bellefleur.

“Hortense! But how—”

She came forward, dressed in dark green velvet, her hands tucked into the white fur of her muff. She was smiling.

“I came because Julia invited me.”

“Julia.” Every pair of eyes swung to me. Brisbane’s were amused, but Plum’s were wary and even Aunt Hermia seemed slightly taken aback.

But Father was immobile, seemingly gripped by a disbelief that stilled his muscles. I took his arm.

“Father, would you not like to welcome our guest properly? Perhaps a private chat in your study?”

He nodded, but did not move forward until I shoved him lightly. He walked slowly to where Hortense stood and as he approached, she put out her hands. “Hector,” she murmured, her eyes sparkling as brightly as her smile.

He took her hands in his and led her from the room as the rest of the family turned to me expectantly.

“It is very simple,” I said, my voice unnaturally loud. “I had the box from which the ring disappeared. I instructed Monk to make enquiries in London and it seems Father did have a jewel stolen from his study—an emerald ring of considerable value. It had been ordered as a betrothal ring for Hortense.”

Aunt Hermia’s hand was at her throat. “Hector said nothing.”

“He wouldn’t, would he? Not unless she accepted him. Father must have known there would be difficulties in a marriage with Hortense. And until the lady herself agreed to the betrothal, there was no point in upsetting everyone, particularly you.”

“Me?” Aunt Hermia’s eyes were wide. “Why particularly me?

“Perhaps because you have been mistress of the Abbey since Mother died,” I offered gently. “If Father marries again, your position must be altered.”

“I would not care,” she said slowly. “Not if he were truly happy.”

“But Father would not know that. He is only a man.”

We exchanged fond glances as Brisbane stared quietly into the fire and held himself out of our family discussion.

“But why lie when the ring went missing and claim it was never there?” Plum demanded.

I shrugged. “She refused him. He was shattered. He certainly did not wish to discuss it with us. So he did the only thing he could think to do in the moment. He pretended the ring had never existed.”

Aunt Hermia fell silent, her complexion ashen. I knew she was thinking of the ring and what had become of it, but Plum shook his head. “So he decided to keep the whole thing a bloody great secret and tell no one.”

“Language, Plum,” said Aunt Hermia automatically.

“But he had told someone. He took one person into his confidence and swore him to secrecy,” I corrected, levelling my gaze at Brisbane. “Isn’t that right, my dearest?”

He stirred, looking up from the fire to meet my eyes. “It is.”

Plum goggled at him. “You knew Father meant to do this and told no one?”

“It was not mine to tell. He asked for my word I would keep silent.”

“I think you might have broken it upon this occasion,” Plum returned hotly.

“Then I think you know me not at all,” Brisbane countered, his tone deceptively bland. He would put up with Plum’s barbs only so long before he took the quarrel further, and that was not an eventuality I cared to see.

“Calm yourself, Plum. If I am not upset, you have no call to be.” I turned to Brisbane. “I understand why you did not tell me. You are a man of your word. And you know precisely when it is necessary to break it. This was not that time.”

The look he gave me was mingled gratitude and promise of a significant dose of his attentions later. I shivered a little as Portia entered.

“If that child doesn’t cut those teeth soon, I may go deaf. Sorry I am late, everyone. What did I miss?”