Silent Night by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online

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