He knees open the office door. Something smacks the top of it, and I crane my neck up to see a sprig of greenery hanging from a red ribbon.
“Wait,” I say. “Is that more—?”
“More what?” he says, deftly swinging me around so I can see it. “Stop squirming, Lady Thorne. You’re worse than that kitten of yours.”
“Also much, much heavier,” I say. “I’m going to suggest you put me down before we reach the top of the stairs. I’m carrying a few extra pounds these days.”
“So I’ve noticed. I’ve always encouraged your obsession with scones, but you may want to curb your intake. You seem to have developed a bit of a . . . belly.”
“Pretty sure I’ve always had one.”
“No, you have a lovely, lush figure, which is currently somewhat unbalanced in the center. I blame scones.”
“I blame you.”
“Me? I’ve been in Yorkshire all these months, unable to feed you a single biscuit or other sweet treat.”
“You just have Freya help you mail them to me. In large boxes. Which are much appreciated but still . . .” I lay my hands on my bulging stomach. “Even those treats are not responsible for this. Now set me down—”
“Too late.”
He takes a step down the stairs. I shake my head and go very still, which isn’t necessary. The Victorian country lord’s lifestyle is active enough. Add an insistence on doing one’s own property work, and the result is a man who has little difficulty carrying his not-small-even-when-not-pregnant wife down the stairs.
When we reach the bottom, he turns me around again, so I can’t see where we’re going. I don’t miss the kissing ball over the next doorway either, though he pretends not to see it.
“May I walk now?” I say.
“Certainly not. It’s pitch black and freezing, and I fear the cats have eaten our supper.”
“So I’m imagining the candlelight?”
“You must be.”
“And the crackle and heat of a blazing fire? The smell of a hot meal?”
He frowns down at me. “You didn’t catch a fever in that airplane, did you? You appear to be suffering from the most dreadful hallucination.”
“Including the smell of a pine tree?”
“Indoors? Dear lord, who would do such a thing?”
He takes another step and then pauses, his foot moving something that swishes over the carpet. I twist to see a brown-paper wrapped box with a bow on top.
“That’s not a gift, right?” I say.
“Certainly not. Someone has dropped a parcel on the floor.”
My gaze drifts over a pile of boxes. “Quite a few parcels, apparently.”
He sighs. “I cannot keep up with the post. Boxes upon boxes of saddle soap and shoe polish. Thank goodness you’ve finally arrived to tidy up after me.”
He deposits me on the sofa, and finally moves aside for me to see the room.
I gasp. I can’t help it. Yes, after seeing the kissing balls, I suspected he’d done a bit of decorating. Yet this is beyond anything I imagined.
There’s a magic to Victorian Christmases, even if it’s just our twenty-first century fantasy version, one that didn’t actually exist outside a few very wealthy Victorian homes. The appeal for us is the simplicity of the decorations and the emphasis on nature. Brown-paper parcels with bright scarlet bows. A real tree, smelling of pine and blazing with candles. Wreathes and holly and ivy and mistletoe, none of them mass produced in plastic. It’s a homemade, homespun Christmas.
That is what I see here. The fantasy, as if William pored over modern representations of that Victorian dream and brought it to life.
Brown-paper gifts piled under the tree, each wrapped in bright, curling ribbon. Evergreen boughs woven and draped across the mantel. Victorian holiday cards tucked into the boughs. Sprigs of holly scattered over every surface.
The tree stretches to the high ceiling, and the sharp scent of pine cuts through the perfume of the roaring fire. The tree is bedecked in red bows and ribbons. No candles—such a fire hazard—but hand-blown representations of them instead. The reflection of the roaring fire makes the glass candles dance, as if they’re alight themselves.
When I rise and step closer to the tree, I see pine cones sprayed silver and what looks like silver-wrapped balls, each no bigger than a nickel. William pulls one from the tree and unwraps it to reveal a spun-sugar candy.
He holds it front of my mouth, and I inhale the sweet smell of peppermint.
“It’s a bit early in the century for candy canes,” he says. “I’d hate to accidentally invent them, so I’m hoping these are an adequate substitute.”
I open my mouth to speak, and he pops the candy inside before I can. I laugh and let it melt on my tongue.
“It will do then?” he says, waving at the room.
Tears prickle at my eyes. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Serviceable? Good. Now I presume you’d like some supper.”
I catch the front of his sweater. “I can think of something I’d like better.”
His brows rise. “Better than sustenance for our unborn child?”
“I ate a scone. The baby’s fine.”
“Well, then . . .” He lowers himself to me. “I suppose that cold supper can’t get any colder.”
“And I don’t care if it does.”
Dinner is not a cold supper. It’s only slightly cool by the time we get to it. Mrs. Shaw knows her employer well enough to leave it in the oven, keeping warm until he finally gets around to eating.
Mrs. Shaw lives in the village, spending semi-retirement with her daughter and grandchildren. Yes, having Lord Thorne alone in his manor house, with only a live-out housekeeper and occasional stable boy is dreadfully shocking, but as I said, the people of High Thornesbury are accustomed to eccentric lords. I’m sure there are plenty of whispers about the fact that his new bride spends so much time in London—while she’s pregnant, no less—but an excuse about an invalid relative needing care has been deemed acceptable enough.
So we have the house to ourselves, which is good, considering that William is currently walking out of the kitchen naked, ferrying plates of food in to me, as I lie in front of the fire in an equal state of undress.
It’s a veritable feast. Holiday food, to go with the ambiance. There’s mincemeat pie, which still contains actual meat in this time period. Plum pudding is served with the meal, being considered more of a solid chutney than a dessert. To drink, there is a peach punch. Victorians love their punch, and being able to make it with out-of-season fruit is the mark of a cook—or housekeeper—who has mastered the art of canning.
The last dish is a tiny plate of sugarplums. William holds one to my lips as he stretches out beside me.
“Dessert before I’m finished dinner?” I say.
“Oh, I apologize. You aren’t done yet? You do look very full.” His gaze drops to my belly.
I groan. “You’re going to keep doing that, aren’t you?”
“I must. Freya bought me a book on twenty-first century fatherhood, and it included something called ‘Dad jokes,’ which it defined as repeating a vaguely funny witticism ad nauseam. I’m practicing.”