The quiet was interrupted at last not by the clangor of children or the shrill command of the duchess, but by the measured approach of boots, soft at first, then louder, unhurried, a sovereign untroubled by the threat of interruption. Pearl didn’t turn. She had learned over the last few days that to anticipate Victor’s entrances was to invite disappointment. He rarely appeared on the terms she expected, and never on the schedule she preferred.
He entered without preamble, shutting the door behind him with the careful finality of a judge closing court. His clothes were the height of country discretion, a dark wool coat, and breeches of such immaculate tailoring that they seemed poured rather than stitched. In the afternoon light, his hair was almost black, and the lines at his mouth and temples were deep.
She heard the bottle before she saw it, the faint clink of cut glass against the sideboard.
“You’ll join me for a drink, I trust?” Without waiting for her reply, he poured two glasses. He brought them to the settee, choosing the seat next to hers and leaving just enough distance for plausible propriety.
Pearl accepted the glass, her fingers brushing his for a single, charged instant. She wondered if he felt it, that spark of contact, but if so he gave no sign.
He raised his glass, but didn’t drink. “To December,” he said, his voice low and sardonic. “The only time of year England admits to being beautiful.”
She smiled, more from habit than amusement. “You would say the same of any month, I think.”
He considered this, then nodded. “True. But December is honest. There’s no pretense, no delusion about what lies beneath.” He sipped, his eyes never leaving hers.
Pearl found herself without a retort, so she drank as well, the liquor flooding her mouth with warmth that quickly radiated to her chest.
Victor set his glass on the little table, then leaned back, one arm stretched along the top of the settee. “My mother says you are to oversee the trimming of the Christmas tree,” he said, and if there was a joke in it, it was buried too deep for Pearl to exhume.
Pearl traced the rim of her glass. “I was under the impression it would be a group endeavor.”
“A fatal mistake.” His smile was a flicker, gone before she could catch it. “Nothing good ever came from committees.”
She allowed herself a small laugh, which felt at once dangerous and liberating. “You sound like my late husband.”
The words surprised her. She hadn’t spoken of Percy much since arriving. Victor’s face didn’t change, but she saw a flicker of calculation in his eyes.
“Did he like Christmas?” Victor asked.
Pearl weighed the question. “He did. Too much, perhaps. He would spend hours shopping in the village looking for just the right gifts for the girls.”
Victor looked into the fire as if conjuring the memory for himself. “I remember how he laughed loudly enough to wake the pigeons in the dovecote. No sense of proportion at all.”
Pearl stared into the depths of her glass, watching the light shift. “The girls miss that.”
He was silent for a moment, then asked, “Do you?”
She didn’t answer immediately. The question was both too simple and too dangerous. Instead, she watched the fire for a full minute, letting the warmth seep into her bones. At last, she said, “It’s different now. I think at first I missed the noise most. The certainty that every day would be filled with someone else’surgency. I’ve become accustomed to the quiet, but it’s not the same as liking it.”
Victor nodded, as if this confirmed some private hypothesis. “Loss is an odd thing. We imagine it’s an absence, but really it’s a presence. Like a bell that rings louder for being empty.”
Pearl nearly laughed again, but stopped herself. “You are not what I expected, Victor.”
He arched an eyebrow, interested. “And what did you expect?”
She weighed her words, unwilling to wound him but also unwilling to lie. “I thought you would be… harder. More like the legend.”
He snorted, a sound surprisingly devoid of malice. “Legends are for people with nothing left to lose.”
She set her glass down. “And what have you lost?”
He shrugged, the motion elegant, controlled. “Everything that mattered. Which is to say, not very much at all.”
They sat for a while, letting the silence accumulate. It wasn’t unpleasant. If anything, Pearl found it companionable, the hush that came only from two people equally determined not to be the first to leave.
She looked around the room, searching for a neutral subject. She noticed the decorations were exquisite. Evergreen boughs looped above the mantle. Ribbons of blue and silver threaded through the arrangement, less festive than dignified. A small tree, modest by Abbey standards, had been set in the corner, awaiting ornaments.
“Your mother has a remarkable sense for these things,” Pearl said, gesturing to the tree.
