Page 67 of Christmas All the Way

Jenny poked her head around the door. ‘Are you ready? Everyone’s here.’

‘Of course,’ Keeley said. ‘Show them in.’

For a moment, Jenny hesitated and Keeley thought she was about to speak, but then she heard the rumble of voices coming along the corridor and Jenny flashed her a quick smile of reassurance. ‘Break a leg,’ she whispered, and pushed the door back to allow the audience inside.

Malcolm and the other trustees filled the front row, an assortment of men and women, mostly of advancing years, although some younger members had been recruited recently and Keeley judged them to be under seventy. Behind them sat the other guests; Keeley recognised the chair of the Society of Authors and the editor of The Bookseller. The publishing director of the company who had won the auction to publish The Merriest Month was also there, alongside a slender, middle-aged woman Keeley did not know, although she was puzzled to see Grace waving at her with undisguised enthusiasm. The final seats were taken by those volunteers who were able to attend; Keeley was pleased to see Brian had made it. His diligence in managing the car park throughout the month of December had not gone unappreciated and she was glad he was able to enjoy the small pleasure of this special afternoon. And then she saw a figure that knocked the breath from her lungs. Xander Jones, looking as tanned and tousled and godlike as ever, was chatting animatedly with Elspeth, who had, presumably in all the excitement of seeing him, finally broken character. Keeley’s gaze flew to Grace, who waggled her eyebrows in what might have been surprise at Xander’s unexpected presence, or encouragement for the imminent reading. She supposed it was probably both, because only Grace knew everything that had happened between them and would understand just how discombobulated she would be feeling. But she couldn’t fall apart now, she told herself firmly as an expectant hush descended over the small group. It was time for the show to begin.

‘Welcome, friends, trustees and valued guests,’ she said, keeping her gaze firmly away from the row where Xander sat. ‘Thank you so much for joining us today for this special reading from Eliza Norton’s newly discovered manuscript, The Merriest Month.

‘As many of you will know, Eliza’s other works have not always received the recognition they deserve. With the extraordinary circumstances behind this, her last work to be found, I am pleased to say her time in the literary wilderness seems to be coming to an end.’

Every instinct screamed at her to look at Xander then. Was he remembering, as she was, the night they’d found the hidden compartment? Did his lips tingle at the memory of what had happened afterwards? She cleared her throat. ‘For me, the most astonishing thing about The Merriest Month is the sheer abundance of joy Eliza infused into every page. It is a celebration of Christmas, an homage to gathering family and friends near and a celebration of the generosity of mankind, but it is also a trailblazer. I firmly believe that Eliza Norton wrote the first feel-good festive romance – the precursor to all those that came afterwards, from Bridget Jones’ Diary to the myriad Christmas novels readers simply cannot get enough of today. And like everything else Eliza wrote, she did it brilliantly, with characters who crackle from the page. So here, without further preamble, is an extract from Chapter One.’

She bent down to collect her bottle of water, taking a long sip before unfolding her sheets of paper. Sitting up a little straighter in her chair, Keeley began to read.

‘The winter was very hard. Lady Anderson of Gordon Square was often to be heard remarking to her husband, “What is to become of us? Has the sun forsaken us?”

Which only goes to show that wealth and good breeding are no substitute for a keen mind and curious spirit. For in that cold, unforgiving winter, many souls perished. Yet one flower blossomed in the stony, dead soil. One soul thrived. Her name was Hannah Rose Underhill and she would become the saviour of Christmas for many a year. Draw near and I will tell you her story…’

When Keeley drew to a close, some eight or nine minutes later, the room exploded into applause. Malcolm was on his feet, drawing the other trustees with him. The volunteers and guests followed suit and within seconds, everyone was standing up and applauding. Embarrassed and gratified and more than a little overcome, Keeley gestured them into silence. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m grateful for your generous applause. Are there any questions?’

There were, of course. The chair of the Society of Authors began by wondering why the manuscript had never been published.

‘I suspect we may never know,’ Keeley said simply. ‘Perhaps Eliza doubted herself, or it could be that she understood she was ahead of her time and decided to wait for the literary world to appreciate how brilliant The Merriest Month was. Locking it away in a secret compartment seems a little extreme but I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s only added to the mystery. It was actually very clever of her.’

The observation elicited wry laughter before the editor of The Bookseller raised his hand. ‘Why do you think Eliza’s previous works have gone under the radar, despite being well published and really rather good?’

It was another question Keeley had never been able to answer to her own satisfaction, let alone to that of a fellow professional. She cited the bias of familiarity, and suggested that readers often gravitated towards authors they knew they would enjoy, especially in the nineteenth century, when books were an expensive luxury. ‘But ultimately I don’t have an answer. I hope it’s a situation that will change.’ She offered a mischievous smile. ‘In fact, change is already on the horizon but I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy on that score.’

That raised a flurry of curiosity but she refused to be drawn. At last it seemed that all the questions had been asked, and answered to the best of Keeley’s ability. Malcolm led the audience in one final round of applause and then Keeley was allowed to rise from her chair to mingle. Jenny and Grace cleared the seats away, to allow more room for guests to circulate. Keeley was determined to avoid Xander and mostly succeeded, especially when Grace beckoned her over to meet the middle-aged woman she had waved to at the beginning. ‘Keeley, this is Nicole Wilson. She works at English History and is the expert who assessed Eliza’s manuscript.’

‘Hello,’ Keeley said, smiling. ‘It’s lovely to finally meet you, Nicole. Thank you for all your hard work in confirming the work belonged to Eliza, and for making sure the manuscript and the diary were well looked after.’

Nicole shook her outstretched hand. ‘Not at all. Thank you for letting me look at them. It’s not every day such a fascinating manuscript lands on my desk but I also enjoyed reading the diary and letters.’ Her expression grew a little embarrassed. ‘And I hope you’ve forgiven me for inadvertently letting the cat out of the bag where the trustees are concerned.’

Keeley blinked. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

Nicole looked shamefaced. ‘I thought they knew, you see, and I was enthusing about the brilliance of Eliza’s writing when I bumped into Portia Lord, one of the trustees. And it was only afterwards that I realised I’d done something rather unprofessional. But Malcolm said it had all worked out for the best and I assumed he’d told you.’

Beside her, Grace’s expression was faintly horrified. In Keeley’s head, several things clicked into place at once and the roaring in her ears subsided. She fixed Nicole with a warm, if slightly mechanical, smile. ‘Of course – it did all turn out well. The important thing is that readers will be falling in love with The Merriest Month soon. No one will remember the tiny details of who said what to whom.’

The other woman looked relieved. ‘Oh, thank you. I’m so glad you see it that way.’

Grace smiled too, but Keeley couldn’t help noticing it didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘Lovely. Can I introduce you to Brian, Nicole? He’s one of the volunteers here at Juniper Cottage and an avid reader.’

Keeley wasn’t sure how she managed the next thirty minutes or so of small talk. She knew she spoke to Malcolm and the other trustees, including Portia Lord, who she decided she didn’t like very much. The chair of the Society of Authors was charming but Keeley couldn’t remember a word of the conversation afterwards. Throughout it all, she was acutely aware of where Xander was, however. And when at last people began to say their goodbyes, and the room began to clear, she knew exactly who he’d spoken to and for how long. It was as though a beacon had been flashing above his head, keeping her apprised on his every move. Eventually, Grace ushered everyone but Xander from the room and with an expressive look at Keeley, closed the door behind her.

‘Hello,’ he said, with a tentative smile that was most unlike his usual confident grin. ‘How have you been?’

‘Fine,’ she said, her throat suddenly dry. ‘You?’

‘Yeah, okay,’ he said. ‘Keeping busy. A bit like you. Malcolm tells me the tours were a runaway success.’

She managed an awkward smile. ‘Yes. I wish you could have seen them.’

‘Me too, but I thought I’d give you some space.’ He paused, watching her carefully. ‘Look, I know you don’t believe me and I must have said this a thousand times already but it really wasn’t me who—’

‘I know,’ Keeley cut in and, to her horror, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I know it wasn’t you because the curator from English History just admitted it was her. She accidentally let slip to one of the trustees that she was authenticating a newly discovered Eliza Norton manuscript and that was it. The cat was well and truly out of the bag.’