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In point of fact, lyrical Molly possessed an excellent voice, and stage fright had never bothered her. With professional training, she might have pursued a career in music; as it was, she was well served by amateur status. Under her enthusiastic leadership, a few brave souls took up the tune of “Deck the Halls,” while Gabriel, using a wooden spoon as baton, set up a clumsy but energetic beat. Others joined in for “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful,” Mendelssohn’s “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” “We Three Kings of Orient Are,” and even “Jingle Bells” and “Up on the Housetop.”
The overall mood was one fitting to the season: benevolent, generous, and kindly.
And Hannah, who somehow found Gabriel standing next to her during all these melodic songs, was able to smile at him as he grinned at her.
A few of those present might be considered in the same range of talent and ability as Molly herself. Linus Drinkwater, for one. His mellow baritone voice provided solid support for the rest of the unrehearsed choir; and the first few bars that issued forth from his capable throat drew a surprised, pleased sideways glance from Abigail. A “Well, what have we here?”
It was when their rendition of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” was nearly finished that someone said, in hushed tones, “Oh, look. It’s snowing.”
Indeed it was.
/> Just small, light flakes, brightened by winter moonlight, that drifted down like a sweet benediction upon the silent earth.
That seemed to be the signal for the party to break up.
Molly, yawning, dragged her husband away, as did Letty; the Tucker family (table service quietly washed and the kitchen restored to order by their conscientious daughters) departed en masse. Rev. Beecham, who had had, he assured his hostess, a divine evening and so appreciated the invitation, wandered off through the powdery white streets toward the manse, in company with Oliver Crane, who would return to his own bachelor quarters, and a cheerfully half-sober Linus Drinkwater on his way to the hotel.
Those who had had little to say for public discourse throughout the evening had taken advantage of the Forresters’ hospitality, relaxing, chatting easily with fellow party-goers, and sampling from the wine cellar (actually a shelf in Ben’s study). Thus, Jimmy, more than slightly under the influence of free-flowing intoxicants, went away arm in arm with Elvira on one side and Florence on the other, all still humming something tuneful like a trio of tipsy sandpipers.
The last guest ready for departure was Gabriel, pledged that he would safely return Abigail to her dwelling-place above Table of Contents; he lingered at the front door long enough to retrieve a canvas haversack that had been deliberately tucked away with his overcoat.
“A little Christmas thank you,” he explained, handing out small wrapped boxes all around to the ladies, all around. “One for you, gracious Camellia, and please give the other two to Letty and Molly, if you would. And these, as well, to my good friend Abigail and Miss Hannah, here.”
Those for the three married Burton sisters were compact and of a similar size, everyone noticed; those for the two spinsters in his company proved to be larger, and more gaily beribboned.
“Curryin’ favor, are you, Doc?” Ben, one arm providing support not only in the physical sense but that also of devotion for a wife who was nearly falling-down exhausted, inquired jovially.
“Hey, I know the rules,” replied Gabriel, already reaching to help Abigail with her heavy garment. “A gentleman does not bestow gifts upon a lady to whom he is not related. Well, hooey. I’m stayin’ within the bounds of etiquette—sure as anything not handin’ out expensive jewelry or some kinda silver doodad.”
“Well, then—what?” Leave it to Hannah to always want the truth of the matter.
“A mere token of my esteem for all of you. Sweetmeats, in a variety that I hope will please everyone: miniature frosted cakes, crystallized fruit, candied preserves. Please enjoy them with my compliments during this most joyous season.” And he bowed, formally yet whimsically, with a glint in his green eyes that gave absolutely no clue to some other deeper intent.
Chapter Eight
HOLIDAY CELEBRATIONS for Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve and Day passed by quietly, being observed just by the family, low-key and briefly, for the most important of reasons. That being the woman impelled, willingly or not, into the role of matriarch, nucleus of this growing clan: Camellia.
Camellia had discovered that her supply of energy was not inexhaustible, after all; she was not some superior prize fighter. So she had to resort to spending hours upon the settee for absolute, uninterrupted rest. Nor did she take responsibility for that decision, as, for the current time, her spirit was willing but her flesh was weak. No, Ben laid down the law, reinforced by, upon consultation, an adamant Dr. Havers. Both simply overrode her protests.
“You did too much with all them party preparations, darlin’, and wore yourself out—as I was afeared you might do,” her husband reminded her, with a touch of asperity. “I’m headin’ over to the store for now, but I called in a nursemaid to watch over you whilst I’m gone.”
The nursemaid turned out to be Hannah. For one day. Then Letty, for the second. Finally, for the third, Molly. After that, they might draw straws.
Wily Ben. Methodical as always, he had arranged a schedule for each sister to do duty, taking turns. While Camellia might reluctantly submit to his dictates, she did her share of squawking. To him, of course; he merely smiled and went his own way. Then to her first caretaker, loudly and profusely.
“Oh, shush,” Hannah, never one to mince words, said frankly. “I think it’s sweet, the way he dotes on you.”
“Sweet,” grumbled Camellia, flouncing into a new position on her settee. “I’m nothing more than a baby factory. His attitude is absolutely medieval.”
“Don’t be silly. Ben just wants to keep you healthy and in his life for a long time, that’s all—baby or no factory. Now, kindly take a nap, as you were ordered to do, so I can finish this article. Mr. Crane has already complained because I’m not in the office today.”
Camellia was shocked. “Complained? Must you remind him that he was in my house not a week ago, enjoying all the benefits of my party? Surely he ought to have a little compassion for someone who worked her fingers to the bone, who provided a meal to die for, who—”
“Cam.” Shaking her head, Hannah retrieved the pencil that had nearly rolled off the kitchen table. “It won’t wash. As I explained before, the man simply has no compassion. Now. Will you sleep, or must I take matters into my own hands and dose you with some laudanum?”
A splutter of outrage followed. “Laudanum? Why, Hen, you wouldn’t dare! I’d sic Gabriel onto that nasty trick in a heartbeat.”
“Yes, I suppose you would.” A sigh. “And I wouldn’t do it anyway. Since I’m stuck here, though, I ought to be able to make whatever threats I want.”
