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five
“WE HAVE TWO MAJOR CELEBRATIONS COMING UP,” BRIGITTE informed Noelle, kneeling alongside the tub.
“What celebrations?” Noelle’s nose wrinkled in concentration as she watched Brigitte lift Fuzzy from his first bath. Snatching him away, she squeezed him free of water, then began vigorously toweling him dry. “Fuzzy looks grand,” she declared, holding him up to admire. “Now even Mrs. Lawley couldn’t say he was dirty.”
Brigitte was still reeling from the implications of Noelle’s question. “Did you say ‘What celebrations’?” she demanded. “Why, your birthday and Christmas. Or have you forgotten December is but a month away?”
Noelle’s motions slowed. “November only started a week ago.”
“Yes, but Advent begins at month’s end—that’s less than three weeks. A scant four weeks later is Christmas Day and your fourth birthday. We have hours of preparation ahead. Baking, selecting gifts, planning a party—”
“Fuzzy doesn’t like parties,” Noelle interrupted, retying the ribbon about his neck. “He likes to spend holidays alone with me. Besides, Uncle won’t allow guests at Farrington. He doesn’t see anyone—you know that.”
“Only too well.” Brigitte sighed, feeling utterly discouraged by the lack of headway she’d made with Eric.
In the fortnight since she’d arrived at Farrington, he’d made no attempt to see her or—worse—to see Noelle. In fact, they’d spied him but thrice, each time by accident and each time only until he noticed their presence and vanished. Never had he ventured into their wing. Not even to investigate when Noelle’s antics resulted in ear-splitting crashes that could wake the dead: the oriental vase she’d used as a croquet mallet, the flock of bird figurines she’d sailed over the second-story landing to prove they could fly, and the half-dozen other “incidents” that had accompanied her gradual but steady transition from a behavioral nightmare to a normal, high-spirited little girl who no longer needed to destroy her surroundings to receive the attention she craved. That attention, a natural expression of Brigitte’s love, was now given freely, supplanting the reprimands of Noelle’s numerous foster families.
How much easier Noelle’s transition would be if her unyielding uncle would allow her into his heart.
But with or without Eric’s help, Brigitte was determined to offer her precious charge the joyous elements of childhood that she deserved—Christmases and birthdays.
On that thought, Brigitte returned her attention to Noelle. “Even if your uncle maintains his rules and his seclusion, that doesn’t preclude us from having our own private birthday party. We’ll take tea and cake on the grounds—in the snow if necessary—followed by a rousing puppet show. Wait until you see how superb Grandfather is at puppetry …”
Panic widened Noelle’s eyes, and she clutched Fuzzy to her chest. “He can’t use Fuzzy as a puppet No one holds Fuzzy but me.”
“Of course not. Fuzzy will be a guest. What kind of cake does he prefer?”
Silence.
Comprehension struck like a douse of cold water. “Noelle, have you never had a birthday celebration?”
Noelle buried her face in Fuzzy’s fur.
Brigitte fought her rising anguish. “Noelle.” She stroked the child’s shining dark head. “How have you spent the past four Christmases—and where?”
A shrug. “I was born on my first Christmas,” she mumbled. “So I s’pose I spent it at Farrington. I don’t remember my next one—I was at some family’s house, I guess. When I was two, I was at the Reglingtons’. They sent me up to the nursery without dinner ’cause I squashed a few of the presents when I was playing in the sitting room. When I was three, I was at the Ballisons’ house. I clipped the needles off their Christmas tree and spent the rest of the day in the cellar. Do you promise the vicar won’t take Fuzzy away?”
“I promise, darling. No one will take Fuzzy away.” Brigitte’s stomach was in knots. After a fortnight of stories such as these, she’d thought herself beyond shock. She wasn’t.
Lifting Noelle’s chin with one damp forefinger, she probed the matter, needing to verify her suspicions. “You’ve never decorated a tree? Baked mince pie? Sent Christmas cards? Gone caroling?” Seeing Noelle’s negative shake of the head, she sucked in her breath. “And what about your birthday? Surely the families with whom you lived didn’t ignore it entirely?”
“They didn’t know it was my birthday. The only person who knew the date was Uncle—He’s the one who told me I was born on Christmas Day. ’Course, my name is Noelle, so I kind of guessed. Which is good, ’cause he didn’t really want to tell me. I just pestered him ’til he did. But he never told anyone else. And as for parties, Uncle never celebrates anything, ’specially the day I was born, which he tries to forget.”
That did it. Brigitte’s final heartstring snapped.
“Noelle, it’s time for you and Fuzzy to rest.” Tossing down the towel, she guided Noelle from the bathroom into the blue bedchamber, pausing only to draw the newly hung curtains. “We’ve been racing about since we finished your morning studies. A short nap will do both you and Fuzzy good—especially Fuzzy, who’s probably exhausted from the ordeal of his first bath.”
Noelle settled herself beneath the bedcovers, blinking her huge eyes at Brigitte. “You’re going to see Uncle, aren’t you?”
Had she truly hoped to fool her brilliant young charge?
“Yes, Noelle, I am. It’s time he and I had a talk.”
“You’ve been here two weeks without talking. In fact, we’ve only seen him three times. But he’s seen us a lot more.”
Brigitte’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
“’Xactly that—we’ve only seen him three times,” Noëlle repeated patiently. “Once, when we came in the back door after collecting our groceries, and twice more in the kitchen when we were preparing dinner. You remember—he disappeared the instant he saw us.” She cradled Fuzzy to her cheek. “You were right, you know. Fuzzy looks ever so much nicer now that he’s clean. And he didn’t mind the bath nearly as much as I thought he would.”
