Cecile shuddered, her pale blonde curls quivering with the gesture.
“That one is worse, even, than the one you told last year. Ashen fagots burned on Christmas Eve in commemoration of battles is quite horrific,” she said with conviction. “But the butchery of children is another matter entirely!”
“Poppycock. It is a venerable tradition to honor our heroes who died in battle, and what better time than on Christmas, when families will be missing them most?”
“Perhaps, but there is something most definitely wrong with the need to burn the ears of innocent children,” his wife scolded.
“We don’t mind mother!” the children cried in unison.
“Well, but it is a Christmas tale,” Andrew argued. “What could be unsuitable about that?”
“Daddy,” his son interjected. “What does poppycock mean?”
“That is not a word for you to know,” Cecile admonished her son.
Andrew gave his wife a wink and a nod, conveniently ignoring his son’s question. “See, my dear… the children love my stories. Where else would they hear them if not from me? And you, my dear… as much as you protest, you always sit with an attentive ear. I believe you enjoy them as well.”
Cecile gave him a quelling glance and rolled her eyes. “Will you shush, at last,” she requested, with a tiny hint of a smile.
Hearing them carry on so, Emma couldn’t suppress her own mirth. “Even so… perhaps it is time for a somewhat less gruesome tale?”
Her brother might be a father and a husband, but he was still the same mischievous little boy she had grown up with. She understood him better than any, and though he loved their father dearly, being born an admiral’s son was much the same as being born a pastor’s daughter. There was something a little defiant in his spirit—something a little mutinous that neither the passing years nor the burden of responsibility could quite constrain. And their father, God rest his soul, despite his military nature, had never once discouraged it. In fact, Emma thought perhaps he may have taken private pleasure in the insubordination of others. It would be the only explanation for his interest in the likes of the Duke of Willyngham—a rebellious second son who was drawn toward insurrection. A challenge perhaps?
She held up the little green volume she’d seized from the library earlier. Truth to tell, she had no notion why she’d done so, only at that moment standing before that infuriating man, she had felt more than a little flustered. The last thing she’d wished was for Lucien to believe she’d come to the library solely to see him—although she had, of course. The fact that she carried the ring was proof enough of that.
“This is one of my favorites,” she said, thrusting aside the image of Lucien Morgen, looking far more handsome than a man had any right to.
She peered at each of her brother’s children in turn: Jonathon, the youngest at seven, his hair as golden as his mother’s, his sweet little face just beginning to lose its baby roundness. And sober Lettie, who was nine now, her hair only slightly darker than Jon’s. Missing tooth and freckled nose aside, Emma was certain Lettie would grow to be as lovely as her spirit. And then Samantha, the prankish eldest at thirteen. Her hair the same color as Emma’s strawberry blond, she’d inherited her mother’s stunning blue eyes along with her father’s uncanny sense of mischief. The three of them sat primly, their eyes twinkling in anticipation of the story to come.
“Care to hear it?” Emma teased, knowing the answer already. This particular tale was a yearly favorite, and she and Andrew both seemed to vie for the chance to tell it. Thus she had spied it upon Andrew’s shelf—nearly hidden behind a dog-eared copy of Gulliver’s Travels by Johnathan Swift. Of course, the book was not the true reason she’d ventured toward the library, though it made for a wonderful excuse nevertheless, and now she had the volume in hand, and Andrew did not.
Emma loved retelling this particular story because from the minute of its reading, all three kids were suddenly on their best behavior, each vying to do the best of deeds.
All three together shouted an emphatic, “Oh, yes, please!”
Thinking her brother’s children were, indeed, a great boon to her, Emma tried not to consider her own loss. The possibility that she might never have children of her own rent at her heart.
There was certain to be a scandal when their broken betrothal was announced publicly, and what would be said?
It didn’t matter, she told herself as she waited patiently while the children gathered nearer—away from their father, who winked at her conspiratorially, conceding the book, and the story with his usual good nature.
Emma sighed, taking comfort in their familiarity.
At Newgale, their traditions had always been rather simple but festive. Their mother had been a bit of a student of knowledge, and they had made it a point to incorporate traditions from her father’s travels. So in a sense, their holidays were a glorious amalgamation of both her parents’ lives.
She waved opened the book, smiling, and asked the children, “Have I told you about the Christmas crèche?”
“Only last year!” Jonathon replied, and Emma suppressed a giggle at his response.
“Well, pretend that you haven’t heard it,” she told him. “In France,” she began.
“Papa doesn’t like the French.” Lettie announced. She turned to ask him over her shoulder, “Do you, Papa?”
Andrew took the pipe out of his mouth. “Well, now...”
“Shush, Andrew,” Cecile demanded, though not unkindly. She placed her sewing into her lap to listen along with the children.
Emma flashed a look toward her brother’s wife and Cecile winked in return.
“In France,” Emma continued. “Every year, the children build themselves a crèche to place before a warm hearth…”
“What’s a crèche?” Jonathon broke in, despite that Emma knew very well he knew the answer. He cast a mischievous glance toward his eldest sister.
Samantha’s brows drew together. “You already know what it is,” she said. “It’s a crib!” She turned to Emma. “Right, Aunt Em?”
“Of course,” Emma confirmed, pursing her lips.
Jonathon pouted. “Well, our crèche is always empty,” he said. “So why bother?”
Emma patted his head. “But that’s really up to you, isn’t it?”
He shrugged.
“Anyway,” she continued, “you recall le petit Jésus was born in a stable, right?” All three children nodded, and she glanced up to find her brother and his wife nodding as well. Her smile deepened at the amusing sight they all presented. Trying not to ponder what it might have been like in her own home—if she’d had one—with children of her own—she bent forward, lending with her voice all the reverence she felt for the tale. “Well, in France they believe, and quite vehemently, that on the eve before Christmas...”
She glanced up suddenly, only to lose her good humor and her place in the story. At the sight the duke standing in the doorway, her heart vaulted into her throat and she momentarily forgot whatever it was that she was saying.
He was leaning much too idly against the door frame, watching her intently, and the way that he watched... well, it unnerved her completely.