The Christmas Secret (7 page)

“I see,” Mr. Bristol said and slipped his hand around hers as if they’d been familiar. “Tell me about this school of yours. What do you study?”

She laughed. “Oh, so
many
things,” she said, her voice playfully grand. “Pianoforte and embroidery. And one mustn’t forget the proper way to address letters and how to seat a table of twenty-four.”

“Good Lord,” Mr. Bristol said. “There will be no end to your talents, Miss O’Conner!”

“I’ve not even mentioned poise and walking.”

“Thank heaven you are learning to
walk,
” he said with jocular admiration.

“You are envious, I think,” she said. “Walking is not merely stomping about as you might have imagined, Mr. Bristol. One must glide, aye? It does not do for a lady to skip or walk briskly, and God help her if she develops a limp.”

Mr. Bristol laughed and lightly squeezed her hand. A shiver of delight raced up Eireanne’s spine. “What of riding?” he asked. “Do ladies ride, or must they always be conveyed?”

“Oh, they may ride,” she agreed. “But quietly, and without gallop.”

He laughed heartily.

“Where were you schooled, Mr. Bristol? Do they teach students the proper way to walk in America?”

“Regrettably, I have not received proper walking instruction. Our schooling is a bit different, really. We are not segregated, as seems to be the practice here. I have a sister, Sarah,” he said. “She was schooled alongside me and others in a small schoolhouse in the river valley where we live, until I went away to attend college in New Jersey.”

The notion of a girl being educated alongside boys was fascinating to Eireanne. She couldn’t imagine it. “What did your sister learn?”

“Sarah? To read and write, of course. Arithmetic. Geography. She’s fascinated with maps.”

Eireanne tried to imagine herself in a schoolroom with boys. Studying maps. It sounded divine to her. But then again, she’d been educated in the nursery at Ballynaheath by a succession of tutors. Alone.

They’d reached the cliffs, and Mr. Bristol let go of her hand and walked to the edge, staring out over the sea. “It’s an extraordinary view,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You are fortunate to have had this vista all your life.”

“Yes,” Eireanne agreed as she watched seagulls bobbing on the water’s surface below. “It can be rather lonely at times. It almost feels as if you are the last person in the world up here, does it not? Yet I would not trade places with anyone.”

“Not even for the diversion of a larger society?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

She shook her head. “My family is here. My memories are here. My life has been played out on this stage. Do you feel that way about New York?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “My family roots me, as well. But they each have their lives and I have mine. I miss them dearly, but I do not believe I could be tethered.”

“Tethered!” Eireanne said, and shifted her gaze to the sea. “This isn’t tethered, sir. This is freedom.”

Mr. Bristol didn’t say anything to that. When she glanced at him, she found him regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and wonder, and so attentively that it made her feel oddly tingly inside. She didn’t know what to do with a look like that. One glance at his mouth and the blood rushed in her veins. She thought how lovely it would be to kiss those lips, to feel them against her own, yet the thought caused her to blush like an unsophisticated girl.

Mr. Bristol shifted closer to her. Eireanne, in a moment of indecisive panic, looked to the sea. “Would you like to see how high we are?” she asked, and took a few steps toward the edge.

“Miss O’Conner!” Mr. Bristol said and caught her arm, pulling her back. Eireanne meant to laugh at his nervousness, but when she looked up into his eyes, she forgot the sea altogether. There was a different sort of light in them now, one that made her heart race. Mr. Bristol’s gaze dipped to her lips. He tilted his head, leaning closer, and Eireanne’s heart began to thrash about in her chest with the knowledge that this handsome, rugged, American man was going to kiss her.

But when he was but a moment from her lips, he said softly, “Have a care,” and let go her arm. “One good gust of wind, and you’d be lost.” He shifted away from her, taking several steps and clasping his hands tightly at his back.

It seemed to Eireanne that he was restraining himself. She felt strangely bemused by his restraint and looked to the sea again. “My grandmother will wonder what has become of me.”

“Yes,” he said and turned back to her, holding out his arm to her. When Eireanne put her hand on his arm, he slipped it into the crook of his elbow and covered her hand with his as they walked.

Eireanne couldn’t think, so close to him as she was, feeling his body brush against her. She racked her brain for something to say, something to take her mind from the feel of him beside her. “What is your custom at Christmas?” she asked in near desperation to wrap some words around them.

“Our Christmases are quiet,” he said. “We do not celebrate in the manner your family has planned. A turkey for supper and a celebration of the holy event is really all.”

She noticed that a hint of beard had begun to show itself on his chin, and she desperately wanted to touch it. “Seems rather sedate.”

He smiled. “I wasn’t aware that it was desirable to be anything other than sedate.”

“You jest,” she accused him. “There are few celebrations I look forward to more than Christmas.”

“I agree that it is an important occasion in the Christian faith—”

“Mr. Bristol, it is not the religious significance that I enjoy as much as it is the celebrations.”

“Aha,” he said, nodding. “I understand you quite clearly now. You must believe we are prim Puritans in America, is that it?”

“Well,” she said, with a shrug. “It sounds a wee bit . . . staid.”

“And here, it is quite a to-do, is it?”

She laughed. “You must know by now that at Ballynaheath, everything is a to-do.” She told him about Christmases past, and how, one Christmas, Mr. Hannigan had been nowhere to be found when it had been time for the Hannigans and their other guests to take their leave. They’d finally located him behind the settee in the green salon. He’d been asleep, having suffered a wee bit too much Christmas cheer.

The talk eased her of the tension she’d felt on the cliffs, and they were laughing at Mr. Hannigan’s unfortunate demise as they walked into the forest. “You will see for yourself, Mr. Bristol,” she said as he paused to catch up her cloak, which had begun to drag on the ground behind her. “We can be quite a festive lot here.”

“I had already noted it,” he said with a grin as he straightened her cloak onto her shoulder. Then, as if he’d done it many times before, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Mary Chambers had said American men were bold. She’d told the tale more than once of the gentleman who’d been so besotted with an unmarried woman of his acquaintance that he’d strolled into the soiree her parents had been hosting one summer evening and carried her off, straight to a church altar and a priest. They were now, according to Mary Chambers, happily married and expecting their third child.

Eireanne wondered if this was the way such bold things were begun, with a single bold touch. If so, she liked it.

“I cannot miss this festive occasion, if only to see after Mr. Hannigan,” Mr. Bristol remarked.

Eireanne laughed. “
Go maith.
”

Mr. Bristol arched a brow. “French?”

“Gaelic,” she said, and her smile deepened. “It means ‘good.’ ”

He touched his knuckle to her cheek and stroked it. “
Go math.
”

Eireanne laughed at his pronunciation. “Have a care, Mr. Bristol, lest someone mistakes you for an Irishman.”

He grinned. His hand slid down her forearm, his fingers stroked hers a moment. “I think there are far worse things that could happen to a man,” he muttered and leaned close, his lips so near hers that she believed she could feel them. Eireanne’s eyes fluttered shut . . . and she felt his lips on her cheek. He kissed her cheek, as if it that was perfectly natural. And he lingered there, while her blood sizzled beneath his lips. “Far worse things,” he said again and smiled, gesturing to the path before them. “There is the paddock. Shall we?”

“Yes,” she said, and with a ridiculously broad grin, she stepped forward, stumbled on a rock or some impediment, and quickly righted herself. And then she floated beside him, to the paddock, said good day to him there, and floated back to the house, her head full of Christmas and a pair of shining brown eyes.

Chapter Five

On Christmas Eve, after the family returned from church services, Henry was invited to a quiet family meal that, for once, did not include the Hannigan clan. The house had been decorated with wreaths and boughs of holly, bound together with red ribbons, as well as sprigs of mistletoe. It seemed an intimate family gathering, and Henry felt a bit conspicuous in their midst, but Mrs. Sullivan assured him he was most welcome. However, the evening was not lively as he’d envisioned, and he wondered if this was what Erin considered “festive.”

After the meal, when they had repaired to the salon, Lord Donnelly lit a single candle, which Eireanne placed in the large front window.

“It is to light the holy family’s way,” Mrs. Sullivan explained to Henry.

When the candle had been placed, a footman carried a platter of food—duck and potatoes, left over from supper—to the window and placed it on the table near the candle.

“For Mary and Joseph,” Mrs. Sullivan added. “And any other weary traveler on this night.”

“Ah,” Henry said.

“When I was a child, I was always very cross with Mary and Joseph,” Erin said. “I believed Mary and Joseph had come and eaten all our food.”

Donnelly laughed at that. “I have enjoyed some of my finest Christmas feasts in the wee hours of Christmas morning, all for the sake of your amusement,
muirnín.
I did not know you’d missed the point of it all.”

“What traditions do you practice, Mr. Bristol?” Lady Donnelly asked.

Henry grinned. “None that require the leaving of a perfectly good slice of duck breast on a plate,” he said, and they laughed with him. “And nothing as endearing as this,” he added. “Up until the last Christmas, my brother and father and I looked forward to the hunt for the wild turkey more than anything, I think.”

“A turkey!” Mrs. Sullivan said. “What sort of ritual is that?”

“It is a ritual for three proud men who refuse to be bested by a turkey,” Henry said. “You’ve never seen a turkey as big as this, I’d wager. When he spread his tail, it was four feet across. His snood,” he said, gesturing to his nose at the point where the flesh of a turkey’s snood would hang, “was six inches long. He was the finest specimen of a bird I’ve ever seen. But year after year, Old Tom eluded us. It became my father’s fondest wish that he grace our Christmas table.”

“What happened?” Erin asked.

Henry chuckled. “We sighted him last Christmas and knew where his hens had made their nests. We tracked that old bird for two days, but he remained one step ahead of us. We were desperate to bag him after four years of hunting him, and one morning, just as the sun began its ascent, we heard his call. My brother Thomas saw a flash of copper tail, and he fired. My father, who was in the woods nearby, bellowed so loudly that we believed we had finally bagged Old Tom. We could taste his flesh, we were so confident of it.”

“Oh,” Lady Donnelly said, looking horrified.

“Do not fear for that old tom, madam. What my brother shot was my father’s hat, right off his head. His new hat, I might add. We decided then that Old Tom had won, and I believe he still wanders the woods along the Hudson River.”

“And your father?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.

Henry laughed. “He suffered the loss of one fine hunting hat, but little else. It was my brother’s pride that suffered worst of all.”

“I am rather heartened for the old tom,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “Have you any other traditions?”

“Sleigh rides, if there is snow. Before my mother passed away, she would play Christmas hymns on the pianoforte.”

“Hymns?” Donnelly said. “Hymns are for the elderly and the infirm. Prepare to dance on the first day of Christmas, laddie,” he said. “We do not squander our celebration on hymns.”

“Oh, Declan,” Lady Donnelly said laughingly. “He’ll think he is among heathens.”

“Do not pretend you are not a heathen, my love,” Donnelly countered easily. “Bristol, we believe Christmas should be celebrated properly, aye? We begin on Christmas day with a few friends and family to celebrate, and hope that at the end of the twelve days of Christmas, our neighbors will join us for a ball.”

“You say that as if that has been your practice all along, darling,” Lady Donnelly said. “This will be your first ball in quite a long time, and it is only because I insisted.”

“Aye, of course,
muirnín,
” Donnelly said with a smile full of affection for his wife. “My life did not begin until I met you.”

“There you have it, Mr. Bristol. From the man’s own lips,” Lady Donnelly said.

“As I recall, Keira,” Erin said with a fond smile, “it was only a few weeks ago you wrote me that you feared no one would receive you at all, aye?”

“Aye,” Lady Donnelly agreed. “But come one, come one hundred, we shall celebrate properly.” She put her hand on her belly and smiled. “We will never let a wee bit of scandal keep us from a happy Christmas. Speaking of which, we should all get some sleep.” She stood from her seat at the settee. “I shall bid you all good night,” she added, smiling charmingly at Henry. “I want to be fresh for tomorrow’s feast.”

“As should we all,” Mrs. Sullivan agreed.

Twelve days of Christmas, Henry mused as he made his way to his room. He only hoped it did not grow tedious. He could not abide long days spent in parlors with a lot of small talk. Only so many Christmas candles could be lit before one was rendered unconscious.

But the next morning, Henry was awakened not only by the sound of rain but also by the voices of servants calling out across the courtyard to one another. It sounded as if they said something like
nully honey dit.

He saddled a brown stallion he was thinking he might purchase from the earl, and rode out in the wet weather, his hat pulled low over his brow. He meant to concentrate on the horse, but his thoughts kept wandering to Erin. The image of her lovely face, her sparkling eyes, invaded his every thought. He had relived the moments of the walk he’d taken with her through the woods to the cliffs. He adored her sense of humor, and the fact that she was pleasantly shrewd and saw through a man’s flirtations.

She was not like any other woman he’d known, really. She was, Henry mused, refreshingly unique. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss the woman like he’d never wanted anything in his life. But he’d kept from it, reminding himself that he was a guest in this house, that he was indebted to Donnelly for what he was learning and would not compromise Donnelly’s sister as his thank-you. No, Henry would have to keep his desires and his regard for her tucked away, a most precious souvenir of his time in Ireland.

At the appointed time of two that afternoon, Henry arrived at the main house dressed in formal coattails. A new candle was burning in the window of the salon, and a wreath of holly had been hung on the door. As he stepped into the foyer, he could smell something that made his mouth water.

“Welcome!”

He turned toward the voice of Lady Donnelly. She swept out of the grand salon. She looked radiant, her smile glowing. “
Nollaig Shona duit,
” she said happily, gesturing to the salon.

“Merry Christmas,” he responded, hoping that was the appropriate response, and followed her into the salon. A blazing fire chased the chill from the room. Erin was standing on a small stool, arranging some boughs of holly on the hearth’s mantel. She was even lovelier than he’d thought before, in her gown of ruby velvet, and a shawl hung loosely from her arms. She’d put her hair up for the occasion, and it was held in place by several small pins, tipped in rubies, that caught the firelight and glittered at him.

The room itself was twinkling with the light of dozens of candles. But even with the smell of beeswax, Henry could smell apple cider.

“Mr. Bristol, I did not see you enter.
Nollaig Shona duit!”
Erin called out to him and hopped down from the stool.

“Nully hun a dit,” he tried, and Erin laughed.

“The Gaelic is a bit cumbersome, aye? Happy Christmas, sir. Would you like some wassail?”

Henry glanced at the bowl. “Wassail,” he repeated skeptically.

“Mulled cider,” she clarified. “It’s an English drink. When Keira’s cousin, Lily Boudine, was sent to live with the Hannigans many years ago, she insisted that she have her Christmas wassail. It seems we’ve all adopted it. It’s rather good. You haven’t had mulled cider?”

“No,” he said. “We drink egg nog during the Christmas season. It’s a drink made of milk and egg and, if one is fortunate, a bit of whiskey.”

Erin grinned. “Then I think you will like our wassail very much.”

“I need no further invitation.” He watched her cross the room. Or rather, he watched her hips and slender back cross the room. She poured him a cup and offered it to him.

Henry sipped and made a sound of pleasant surprise. The drink was potent. “Mulled,” he said, “is an interesting choice of word to describe this.”

Erin laughed. “There, you see? Something festive.” She twirled about, her arms outstretched. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” he said sincerely. He could not tear his gaze from her, the flush in her cheeks, the bright glimmer in her eyes. How was it, he wondered, that she grew more comely every day?

“I meant the décor,” she said.

Henry smiled. “Only adequate in comparison.”

Erin laughed, but she was blushing, and she nervously touched the small cross that hung just above an enticing décolletage. “More wassail?”

“That seems a bit dangerous. Perhaps later.”

Erin filled a cup for herself, then inclined her head and held out her cup. “A very happy Christmas, Mr. Bristol.”

He touched his cup to hers.

“Here we are!” Lady Donnelly called behind them, sweeping into the room and hurrying to the window. “Eireanne, you will not believe me when I tell you that the O’Shays
have come! They swore they’d not cross the threshold of Ballynaheath again.”

“Surely you did not believe Margaret O’Shay could possibly keep away, aye?” Erin asked, and joined Lady Donnelly at the window.

A steady stream followed, nearly thirty souls in all, including the children. Most of the guests arrived carrying small boughs of holly tied together with bright ribbons. Erin put them around the main salon—there were no servants for them today, Lady Donnelly informed Henry, as they had all been given the day to enjoy with their families or in their own feast, below stairs.

Henry was happy to have an occupation, and he helped Erin serve wassail and ale, waving off Lady Donnelly’s protests that he himself was a guest. He liked working alongside Erin, listening to her chatter with her acquaintances, her laughter rising above the din.

At precisely four o’clock, Mrs. Sullivan announced that the meal was served. Henry lost sight of Erin during the procession, but Molly Hannigan attached herself to him as he entered the dining room, determined to guide him through the Christmas feast.

When they had managed to seat themselves with only one loud outburst of complaint over the seating—“Mr. Flannery again,” Molly sighed wearily—and the platters of food were uncovered, Lord Donnelly stood at the head of the table. “
Nollaig Shona duit,”
he said.

His guests returned his greeting in kind.

“I am not one to make grand speeches,” he continued. “But I must thank you all for putting aside your reservations to join us on this, the holiest of occasions. I offer you all an old Irish blessing.” He lifted his wineglass. The guests followed suit. “
The light of the Christmas star to you, the warmth of home and hearth to you. The cheer and goodwill of friends to you, the hope of a childlike heart to you. The joy of a thousand angels to you, the love of the Son and God’s peace to you
.”

Several of the ladies tapped their glasses with spoons to signal their approval, and others called up a cheerful “
Sláinte.
”

And then began the liveliness Erin had warned Henry about. The meal was a rowdy affair—it seemed that if there was no one to serve them, the privileged Irish were happy to abandon decorum and serve as they saw fit. Platters and plates were passed in every which direction. The wine flowed freely, as did the laughter. The bounty of food—three roasted geese, a turkey, brandied yams, potatoes, and a variety of puddings—was delicious, perhaps the best meal Henry had enjoyed since crossing the ocean.

When there was not a scrap of food left on a platter or plate, or a drop of wine in the goblets, the guests were asked to return to the grand salon, where the wassail bowl had been replenished by some kind soul, and a gentleman with a shock of white hair and new boots produced a fiddle.

“An Aimsir Fháistineach!”
someone called out, and a few men pushed the furnishings aside to make room.

If a gentleman had not picked up a fiddle, Henry would not have understood what was happening. He was surprised by it; this was something one might see in America, but here, it seemed as if there was a rule for everything—who might speak to whom, when one called on a friend, what should be worn to a supper party, and certainly in what rooms one engaged in what activity.