A Christmas Homecoming Read online

  Alice accepted it without comment.

  Caroline glanced at Joshua, and saw that he, too, had recognized the first sign of disapproval. Paterson’s glance at Alice, and then the strange tension in his face at her lack of response, made the situation clear. He did not wish his fiancée to be wasting her time at such inappropriate pursuits. He had probably expressed his displeasure earlier, and Alice had clearly chosen to ignore him.

  The meal was generous and very well served. They began with soup, then fresh fish. Netheridge remarked that it had come in overnight and been brought up from the docks that morning.

  “I doubt we’ll get more for a while,” he said, looking at the closed curtains, beyond which the sound of the rising wind was quite clear.

  “They’ll put it on ice,” Eliza assured him. “We have plenty to last us.” She looked at her guests one by one. “I always find a stormy Christmas quite enjoyable, especially if there is snow. I can remember some years when Christmas Day was so beautiful it was as if the whole world had been made anew while we slept.”

  “So it had,” Caroline responded quickly. “At least in a spiritual sense, and that is how we should view everything.”

  Singer stared at her in amazement. “I thought you were a Jew,” he said, pointedly looking at Joshua and then back at her, his eyebrows high.

  There was total silence around the table. Alice dropped her fork and it clattered on the china of her plate.

  Caroline hesitated. She knew everyone was looking at her, waiting to see how she would react. All the players were aware of Joshua’s race and religion, but were the Netheridges? Caroline was so angry at Vincent that she put down her own knife and fork and hid her hands in her lap to hide the shaking.

  But she forced herself to smile charmingly. “No, you didn’t,” she said to Vincent. “You know perfectly well that Joshua is Jewish and I am Christian. You made the remark to be absolutely certain that our host and hostess are also aware of it, although I can’t think why, unless it is a desire to embarrass someone. If they now wish us to leave, then you have sabotaged the whole project, and all that hangs on it. Surely that was not your intention?”

  For several pulsing seconds the silence returned. The color washed up Vincent’s face as he fought for an answer. Beside Caroline, Joshua moved uncomfortably. Lydia stared at the floor; Mercy and James looked at each other.

  It was Alice who finally spoke, turning to face Joshua.

  “It would be terrible if you were to leave, Mr. Fielding. You are most welcome here. In fact, we cannot possibly succeed without you—either with the play, or with being the kind of hosts we wish to be. How could we celebrate Christmas if we were to turn anyone away into the snow, let alone our own guests, who have come here specifically to help us?”

  Netheridge winced, but so slightly Caroline would not have noticed it had she not been watching him.

  Eliza let out her breath in a low sigh.

  Douglas Paterson was clearly appalled.

  “You’ll make an actress yet,” Vincent said drily. “I look forward to working with you.”

  “Liar.” Lydia mouthed the word soundlessly.

  “This pork is delicious,” James remarked to no one in particular. “It must be local.”

  “Thank you,” Eliza murmured. She did not correct him that it was mutton.

  he meal finished with stilted conversation and very occasional nervous laughter. Afterward, Caroline found herself being shown the rest of the very large house by Alice Netheridge and Douglas Paterson. The tour began very formally, as a matter of courtesy. None of them had been particularly interested, but it was an easy thing to do, and filled the time until it would be acceptable to excuse themselves and retire to bed.

  Alice was clearly eager to make up for the earlier discomfort, although it had had nothing to do with her.

  “Do let me show you the stage,” she said eagerly. “It was originally designed for music: trios and quartets and that sort of thing. One of my aunts played the cello, or the viola, I can’t remember. Grandmama said she was very talented, but of course it was not the sort of thing a lady did, except for the entertainment of her own family.” She glanced at Caroline as she said the words, her soft face pulled into an expression of impatience.

  “She was thinking of her daughter’s welfare,” Douglas pointed out from behind her as they walked along the broad corridor. The walls were hung with paintings of Yorkshire coastal scenery. Some were very dark but, looking at them, Caroline thought it was more probable that time had dulled the varnish, rather than that the artists had intended them to be so forbidding.

  “She was thinking of the family’s reputation for being proper,” Alice corrected him. “It was all about what the neighbors would think.”

  “You can’t live in society without neighbors, Alice,” he replied. He sounded patient, but Caroline saw the flicker of irritation in his face—at least that was what she thought it was. “You have to make some accommodation to their feelings.”

  “I will not have my life ruled by my neighbors’ prejudices,” Alice retorted. “Poor Aunt Delia did and never played her viola, or whatever it was, except in the theater here.” Without realizing it, she increased her pace. Caroline was obliged to lengthen her strides to keep up with her.

  “I imagine she still gave a great deal of pleasure.” Caroline tried to imagine the frustration of the young woman she had never known, and wondered if Alice had actually known her well, or whether she was simply projecting her own frustrations into her aunt’s story.

  Alice did not reply.

  “She married very happily and had several children,” Douglas put in, catching up with Caroline and walking beside her. “There is no need whatsoever to feel sorry for her. She was an excellent woman.”

  Alice turned around to face him, stopping so abruptly that he very nearly walked into her.

  Caroline thought of her own second daughter, Charlotte, who was willful, full of spirit and fire like Alice, and impossible to deter from following her own path, however awkward the path may be. She had married far beneath herself socially, but since the marriage, her husband, Thomas, had risen spectacularly. Charlotte had always been happy: in her own way, perhaps the happiest of all Caroline’s daughters.

  Caroline looked at Alice facing her fiancé, head high, eyes blazing, and felt a protective warmth toward her. It was as if she had for an instant seen her own Charlotte as a young woman again, struggling to defy the rules and follow her own dream. She longed to be able to help Alice, but knew that to interfere would be disastrous. She did not know the girl. All kinds of arrogant mistakes could spring from even the most well-meaning intentions.

  “Excellent?” Alice challenged. “What does that mean? That she did her duty, as her husband saw it?”

  Douglas kept his temper with an effort that even Caroline could easily see, and she did not know him. To Alice it must have been as clear as daylight.

  “As she saw it herself, Alice,” he said. “I met her, if you remember? She was gracious, composed, a good wife, and a loving mother. You should not forget that. Playing the viola, like any other pastime, is a fine thing to do, in its place. Aunt Delia knew what that place was, and she still played occasionally at dinner parties and was much admired.”

  “For what? Playing well, or having given up being brilliant in order to be dutiful?” Alice challenged him again.

  “Living a life of love and generosity mixed with duty, rather than chasing after self-indulgence and an illusion of fame,” he told her. “Only to end up old, lonely, and probably destitute among strangers.”

  “Lie to yourself that you are happy, when what you really mean is that you are safe,” she interpreted. “If you take risks then of course they may turn out badly. But if you marry that can turn out badly, too.” She glanced at him, her lips closed tightly as if to stop them from trembling. “And so can having children. Not all children grow up to be charming and obedient. They can be anything: wanton, spiteful, spend
thrift; they can drink too much, even steal. Nothing is certain in life, except that you should not be too afraid of it to accept its challenges.”

  “You are very young, Alice.” He still kept his voice under weary control, but Caroline could see the edge of fear in him now. He did not understand her, and mastery of the situation was slipping out of his grasp. She felt a twinge of pity for him, even though it was Alice she was able to relate to, to understand.

  “I am working on getting older!” Alice snapped, and swung around again to continue on toward the theater.

  Douglas reached out to grasp Alice’s arm, but Caroline prevented him. She stepped a yard or so in front of the path he would have to take, making it impossible for him to catch hold of Alice.

  “Don’t,” she said quietly enough that Alice would not hear her. Her own footsteps and the rustle of her skirts drowned it out. “We probably none of us know whether Aunt Delia was happy or not. The point is that Alice imagines herself in Delia’s place, and feels trapped for her. You see her as gracefully letting go of an unreality and embracing a better path.”

  He looked at her with surprise. “Of course I do. Wouldn’t anyone, if they thought about it without theater footlights in their eyes?”

  Caroline smiled at him; it was almost a laugh. “Perhaps. But then I can’t say; I have the same lights in my eyes. Or had you not noticed?”

  “Oh.” He blinked. For a moment he looked far younger, and not at all unattractive. “I’m so sorry … I …”

  “Think nothing of it,” she said cheerfully. “Let us allow Alice to show us the stage, and all its charms and limitations. She will do it anyway. We may as well be gracious about it.”

  He did not move. “Do you think this … play … will come to anything?” There was a real anxiety in his eyes. “Is she … talented?”

  Caroline read a world of fear behind the words. What he was really asking was, was Alice bored with Whitby, even with Douglas himself? To him the theater was a tawdry world of make-believe, while to her it was the gateway to freedom of the mind, the wings to carry her to an inner life far brighter than any outer clay could be.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, remembering that Joshua had said the play was desperately amateur, close to unworkable. “But if she has the courage to put it to the test, you will win nothing at all by preventing her from finding out.”

  The flicker crossed his face again. “She may be hurt. It’s my place to try to save her from that.”

  “You can’t,” she said simply. “All you can do is comfort her if she fails. You will learn that when you have children. Nothing in the world hurts quite like seeing your child fail, and then watching as they try to face the pain of it. But you must not prevent them from following their hearts, just because there is the possibility of failure. All that shows is that you don’t believe in either their ability, or their courage. Believe me, Mr. Paterson, I have daughters just as willful as Alice, if not more so.”

  He looked startled. “Did they want to write plays?”

  “No, but one of them wanted to marry a policeman, and live on a pittance.”

  He swallowed. “What did you do?”

  “I let her. Not that I imagine I could have stopped her,” she admitted. “It was a matter of doing it graciously, or ungraciously. I am delighted to say that she is very happy indeed.”

  He was clearly not sure whether to believe her or not.

  “Let us join Alice, and be shown the theater.” She took his arm, so he was obliged to leave the subject and do as she commanded.

  fter seeing the stage, which was unexpectedly impressive, Caroline returned along the series of corridors to the main part of the house. She found that Joshua had apparently gone to discuss the following day’s arrangements with the rest of the players. Only Mr. and Mrs. Netheridge were in the large withdrawing room. Caroline hadn’t had time to really notice the décor earlier, as they had actually approached the dining room from the other side, and so had glimpsed this room only through its open double doors.

  Inside it was awe-inspiring, certainly the central room of the house. The ceiling was unusually high and ornate. She tried to imagine how long the scrolled and curlicued plasterwork must have taken, and gave up before her staring became too obvious to be good-mannered. The walls were separated into panels, but the most remarkable feature of the room was an enormous window of almost cathedral-like proportions with panes of delicate leaded glass, most of it in rich autumnal colors. It was clearly seen because the curtains on either side of it were drawn back and held by thick silk ropes. Lanterns outside the window shone through the colored glass.

  Mr. Netheridge saw her looking.

  “My father had that built,” he said proudly. “Talk of the town, it was, back then. And folk take it for granted now, least from the outside they do.”

  “I can’t imagine that’s true,” Caroline said truthfully. Whether you cared for it or not, the window was certainly impossible to ignore.

  Netheridge was pleased. “Whole room designed around it, of course,” he went on. “My mother did it all. Had a wonderful eye, didn’t she, Eliza?”

  “Wonderful,” Eliza agreed drily. Caroline caught the look of sudden loss in her face, but Mr. Netheridge was looking the other way. His gaze was wandering over the richly colored walls—too richly colored for Caroline’s taste. She found the shading oppressive, and longed for something cooler, less absorbing of the light. She wondered if Mrs. Netheridge senior had been as dominating in personality as she was in her ideas of design, and if Eliza as a new bride had felt obliged to subordinate her own tastes because of it.

  Caroline looked at Eliza again and saw a momentary unhappiness in her face that was so sharp as to make Caroline feel that she had unintentionally intruded. She wanted to make amends for it immediately.

  “It is quite unlike anywhere I have been before,” she said with forced cheerfulness. Perhaps she would make as good an actress as Lydia or Mercy, one day? “And it is so extraordinarily comfortable. For all its richness, it still feels like someone’s home.” That was a total lie, enough to make her teeth ache, but she saw the pride in Netheridge’s face, and the relief in Eliza’s.

  “We’re glad you came,” Netheridge said with satisfaction. “It’ll give our Alice a real chance. Bit of fun for ’er, before she settles down to married life.”

  Eliza said nothing.

  aroline slept well, too tired to even move. Even when she heard Joshua’s voice speaking her name, and felt his hand on her shoulder, she had to battle to the surface of consciousness. She opened her eyes to sharp, white winter daylight, and it took a moment or two for her to remember where she was.

  Joshua was smiling. “Sorry,” he said gently. “Have I landed you with a wretched Christmas?”

  “Probably,” she replied. “But listening to Eliza Netheridge in that awful drawing room yesterday evening, I thought of my mother-in-law, and blessed your name for having rescued me from her.”

  “Oh, Grandmama.” He rolled his eyes. “I was just doing my impersonation of St. George, rescuing the maiden from the dragon. Was she pretty awful, old Mrs. Netheridge? I believe she died over ten years ago.”

  “She’s still around in spirit,” Caroline said, sitting up in bed and pushing her long hair out of the way. It was soft and shining, and still mostly dark brown. She rinsed it in a solution of cold tea and iron filings, but she would rather that Joshua did not know that. “She designed the décor, and it has remained untouched since then,” she went on.

  “It must have been redecorated in ten years!” he protested.

  “Certainly, but not changed.” She looked at him. “It’s awful, isn’t it!”

  “Ghastly.” He leaned forward and kissed her softly, intimately, then stood up. “After breakfast I have to read through this play again. I don’t know what on earth I’m going to do with it to make it work. It’s bad on the page, and I’ve an awful fear it’s going to be even worse when it’s read.”

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bsp; “We have a week to work on it.” She pushed the bedclothes away and swung her feet out. “Let’s at least enjoy breakfast. I shall probably eat far too much while I’m here. Judging from dinner last night, they have an excellent cook, and nothing in the kitchen is my responsibility. That in itself makes it all taste better.”

  The meal lived up to her every expectation. The sideboard groaned under the weight of chafing dishes of kidneys; bacon; sausages; potatoes; and eggs boiled, scrambled, poached, and fried. There was porridge for those who wished it, and racks of toast with butter, jam, and marmalade, and pots of tea. It was only the temper of the guests that was sour.

  Vincent barely spoke, but that was usual for him in the mornings. Lydia was cheerful, but for some reason, this irritated Mercy.

  “I don’t know why we are bothering,” she said for the third time. “Look at the weather. Nobody’s going to be able to come for the performance, even if they wish to.” She reached for the marmalade.

  “Why wouldn’t they wish to?” Lydia asked with exaggerated innocence. “Dracula is all the rage in London. Everyone is reading it, if only to not be left out. It will be enormous fun. Don’t you want to be Mina, and fall into the arms of the vampire, become one of the ‘children of the night’?” She sipped her tea delicately.

  Mercy glared at her. “All I can say is thank God you die near the beginning!”

  “But then I am ‘undead’!” Lydia said with a grin. “It isn’t until much later that I can go into the audience and watch all the rest of you without having to worry about remembering any more lines.”

  “That’s if we can make it workable in the first place,” James said darkly. He had taken a liberal breakfast and was still eating it: kidneys, bacon, eggs, and sausage.

  “We must,” Joshua reminded them. “A good deal of our company’s survival next year depends on it. And I suggest that next time you find a line difficult or an entry or exit clumsy, you remember that, and try a bit harder to make do.”