But Christmas was different, and every year, her solitude weighed more heavily on her shoulders. The trainers and workers at her stables passed the holiday with their families and, though Lily had transformed the absent Earl of Whitby’s stables into her own, she wasn’t eager to spend Christmas shoveling manure alone. Though making excuses for Whit’s absence at Boar’s Hill was only marginally more pleasant than a wheelbarrow full of shite.
“Are you going to drink that or stare at it?”
Lily jumped at Aunt Margaret’s barked question as her cheeks heated. Being surrounded by the people who knew her best gave her few places to hide, including in her own thoughts. “You can have it,” she said, handing the glass to the elderly woman.
During her woolgathering, her two sisters had joined Archie and the boys at the Christmas tree, though her youngest sister, Fern, was upstairs with her fellow mathematician husband, Alex, while she nursed their baby. Lily was grateful for an excuse to escape her aunt’s pointed attention and made her way to the tree.
Marigold lifted her head from a box of decorations as her sister approached. “Mama left these out for us to hang.”
Rose held a delicate glass orb up to the candlelight. “This one is yours, isn’t it, Lills?”
Lily took the ornament and turned it over in her palm, the blues and pinks on the blown glass blending into the orange and yellow, gathered together under a gold hook.
Her voice was tight when the words emerged. “It is.”
Lilies come in all colors and types, but there is only one Lily I love.
Her chest seized, and she nearly crushed the ornament in her fist. Every year she wished for the resolve to hurl the glass, the last gift Whit gave her before he disappeared, against the nearest stone wall.
And every year, she relented and handed it to someone else to hang as she vowed not to search for it. Of course, her eyes would immediately place it amongst the branches, pulling her attention to that spot and reminding her of what she lacked.
Lily opened her mouth to ask Rose to take the ornament back, but was interrupted by the disheveled and pink-cheeked couple being marched down the stairs by their red-faced mother, Cricket barking to announce their entry. Amid the distraction, she returned the ornament to the box and buried it beneath the packing paper.
Callum had the decency to look abashed as he entered the room, but Violet’s upturned lips showed her lack of remorse.
“After everything our family has been through,” her mother scolded, “I would think you’d be thrilled to spend Christmas at home and not out on the streets!”
“We wouldn’t be on the streets, Mama.” Violet shoved a loose lock of hair—one of many—back into her markedly lopsided chignon. “We have the house in London, and—”
“You know what I mean.” Lady Redbourne pointed a slim finger, starting with Violet before pausing with each of her other daughters. “It isChristmas.I expect a wholesome, magical experience for my grandsons, and none of your shenanigans will ruin this for me. Is that understood?”
“Understood,” they chorused in response, and their mother huffed before making her way to the kitchen.
“My apologies,” Callum said, his Scottish burr more pronounced than usual. “I didnae realize we were so…”
“Enthusiastic?” Rose suggested.
Violet raised her pert chin. “What did she expect when she gave us the creaky bed?”
Rose cackled. “You can always try the floor. Who has the room next to these lovers?”
Marigold lifted her hand. “Though I will probably sleep in the adjoining room.”
“You mean Archie’s room?” Lily teased, and Marigold blushed.
Callum lowered his voice. “Timothy and James have adjoining rooms as well. Is your mother aware…”
“That they’re lovers?” Lily snorted. “Yes, she is, but she won’t say it.”
“She’s not a fool.” Violet linked her arm around her husband’s. “And besides, it’s the least she can do for Timothy.”
Though not a religious person, Lily sent up a silent prayer of thanks for their neighbor, the Marquess of Trembly, the man somewhat of a brother to the five Waverly sisters. Just a few months ago, when the Waverly family had been on the verge of insolvency, the young marquess used his savvy investment skills to pull them back from the brink of ruin. While the hallways were full of family again, the scars of the perilous time remained in the dark squares on the silk wallcoverings where oil paintings once hung, the bare floors where Aubusson carpets once lay, the table set with far less silver than they’d seen in Christmases past.
But they’d weathered the storm, and Lily’s sisters had found love. Fern and Rose were living their dreams in America. Marigold’s stutter was nearly gone, and her boys were thriving, and Violet finally found peace in the arms of her husband after the tragedy she experienced.
Everyone was happy, settled as they hadn’t been in years. This would be the first holiday of tranquility, and Lily was determined her sisters and mother would experience the joy they deserved. Arriving at Boar’s Hill a day ahead of her siblings, she’d thrown herself into restoring the house to the holidays of their childhood. She scavenged the grounds for boughs of holly and dug through trunks in the attic for ribbons and candles. What they lacked in wealth they made up for in cheer.
But as for Lily…
