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Chapter Seven
Pengarron, Cornwall, 24 December 1825
“Papa, Papa!” Ameliacried. “Come and look! Harry’s helping me decorate the fireplace!”
Ross looked up to see his two-year-old son brandishing a sprig of holly, laughter in his eyes, as he toddled across the carpet toward his older sister, who was hanging a string of pinecones on the mantelshelf.
“Take care Harry doesn’t hurt himself, Amelia.” Ross said. “Those holly leaves are prickly.”
Amelia rolled her eyes in much the same manner as Alice did when Ross stated the obvious. But, nevertheless, she bent down and gently took the spring from her brother’s pudgy little fist. He let out a wail and she picked him up, placed a kiss on his forehead and swung him round until he squealed with laughter.
“Amelia looks after her brother well enough, don’t you, my darling?” Alice said. She reached out her hand to Ross and he took it, his blood warming at the feel of her fingers interlocking with his.
Amelia beamed with delight, then resumed her decorating, giving Harry a pinecone to play with.
The drawing room was full of noise and life. Late afternoon was always Ross’s favorite time of day—that delicious moment when the tasks of the day were done, but before the younger children’s bedtimes, when the whole family was gathered together. And tonight, the night before Christmas, the air was filled with the magic and anticipation of tomorrow.
Ross couldn’t remember the last time the room had been filled with so much joy. Three families together who had endured more than their fair share of heartache, but were now united in their love for each other. Amelia, who he’d once thought was doomed to be an only child forever, played with little Harry, her face shining with love for her brother. And his beloved wife sat in the midst of all the joy of a happy family, busying herself with decorating an orange, studding it with cloves.
Their guests joined in the merriment—indulging in the informality which reigned over Pengarron. Even Westbury had loosened his necktie. The duke sat on the rug with his wife and Miss Claybone, showing his youngest daughter, little Henrietta, how to tie a ribbon. And Stiles sat at the bureau, helping his daughter Georgia cut stars out of paper, his youngest daughter Eleanor on his lap. Stiles’s wife, Frederica, sat in the corner sketching the whole party.
The air was filled with spices—the scent of cloves from Alice’s decorations, and the warm aroma of cinnamon and ginger in Mrs. Bascomb’s mulled wine.
Ross took a seat next to his wife, picked up a clove and poked it into the orange, relishing the tangy scent. Then he placed his hand over the orange, caressing the dimpled flesh. Alice lay her hand on his, her skin soft and smooth compared to his skin.
“Do you remember the first time you gave me an orange?” she asked.
“Yes my love, I do.”
She tipped her face up and he couldn’t resist stealing a kiss.
“It was the most precious gift I have ever received,” she said, “for I knew it came from the heart.”
A cheer rose up. “Papa!” Amelia cried. “It’s finished!” She gestured to the fireplace. “What do you think?”
“It’s the best decoration I’ve ever seen,” Ross said. “Much better than last year.”
“You say that every year, Papa,” Amelia said, her voice serious.
“That’s because it’s true!” he laughed. “All it needs now, is your mama’s oranges, and the room will be ready for tomorrow.”
“Here you are, Amelia,” Alice said, holding up her orange. She rose to her feet then gave a cry and sat back down.
The laughter stopped.
“Alice?” Ross asked. “Are you well?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, crossly. “I sat up too quickly, that’s all. I sometimes forget my size.” She stood up again, this time more slowly, cradling her belly. “Your child has been restless today. I fear the world will soon be graced with another troublesome Trelawney.”
“More troublesome than me, Mama Alice?” Amelia called out.
“Statistically speaking, that’s highly unlikely,” Ross said. Alice swatted his arm.
“Ross!” she admonished, laughter in her eyes. “Amelia’s an angel. I somehow doubt thatyouwere as perfectly behaved as a child.”
Stiles rose to his feet and crossed the floor to sit next to Alice.
“Mrs. Trelawney,” he said, “you have it on good authority from me, that your husband was a most ill-behaved child—and a significantly worse young man. He led me into all sorts of scrapes at Cambridge.”
