That Silent Night

 

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

Thank you for buying this

St. Martin's Press ebook.

 

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

 

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

 

For email updates on the author, click
here
.

 

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.

 

So perish all whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow

For others' good, or melt at others' woe!

What can atone (O ever-injured shade!)

Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?

No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear

Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier.

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,

By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,

By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!

—Alexander Pope,
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady

 

 

 

 

 

“I blame Mr. Dickens entirely.” Colin Hargreaves, my husband, a scowl on his well-formed lips, stretched his long legs, crossed them at the ankles, and then sipped his whisky. “And his wretched little Christmas book.”

“You must place some of the onus on Prince Albert,” I said. “Christmas trees are an old German tradition.”

“Trees I do not object to in the least,” he said. “It is the carolers and their incessant singing that brings me to the brink of madness. The whole population of London must be roaming the streets tonight, and if I am forced to endure one more rendition of “Good King Wenceslas” I shall take no responsibility for any bodily injuries suffered by the performers.”

“Be that as it may, you would certainly regret them in the morning,” I said. “I have already instructed Davis to send all carolers away with a good tip.”

“Even that doesn't silence them,” Colin said. “They keep at it as they make their way along the pavement. Insidious.”

“I have never known you to be such a Scrooge, if I may take up your reference to Mr. Dickens' work,” I said.

“I resent the accusation,” he said. “I enjoy Christmas as much as the next man—“

“We have fled Anglemore with the specific purpose of avoiding festivities,” I said. “That does not suggest enjoyment.”

“We have come to London for a bit of shopping. You know there is a particular toy I am hoping to find at Hamleys for Richard.”

“You need not have come all the way down to London from Derbyshire to personally select a Noah's Ark,” I said. “You could have rung them and explained what you want. That is, after all, the point of telephones.”

“A palpable hit, my dear,” he said. “However, had I done so we would not have this time alone. Quite the contrary, at this very moment we would be playing charades at Montagu Manor.”

Now, at last, he admitted the truth. We had removed ourselves to Anglemore Park, our house in the country, not, with the fashionable set at the start of grouse season, but later, when fog descended upon London and the weather began to turn inclement. Colin adored taking our boys—the twins, Henry and Richard, and our ward, Tom—to the zoo and the museums. The British Museum (Natural History) proved a favorite with Richard, who had become fascinated with elephants during the course of the summer. Tom, always amiable, enjoyed any exhibit, but I must admit Henry had caused more than a few problems. He objected strenuously (and loudly) to taxidermy and had to be physically removed (by me) when he had shouted “Morbid! Profane!” incessantly after being confronted with displays of animals in this unacceptable state. I am still unsure as to how either of these words entered his vocabulary.

Colin remained behind with Richard and Tom while I delivered a stern lecture to Henry after I had dragged him outside. He stood very still, his little hands clasped behind his back, his features placid, and gave every appearance of being a model of youth subdued unless one noticed the defiance in his sapphire blue eyes. I did not entirely disagree with Henry's judgment on the practice of stuffing and mounting animals and, my reprimand finished, I took him by the hand and walked toward the British Museum, where the two of us spent the remainder of what turned out to be a most pleasant afternoon looking at ancient artifacts.

When, sometime in September, we retreated to Anglemore, we settled into the quiet country life, the boys running wild on the extensive grounds while I set myself to the task of reading Herodotus in the original Greek. Colin spent much of the autumn abroad, called upon by the Palace to deal with a sensitive matter developing in Russia, about which he could tell me nothing. This caused no tumult between us; as the wife of one of the Crown's most trusted agents, I had grown accustomed to the demands and restrictions of his work. When at last he had accomplished whatever it was that needed to be accomplished—and having done so, I did not doubt, with panache—he came home, exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to relax at his ancestral estate.

Then December arrived. We very much enjoyed the company of our nearest neighbors in Derbyshire, the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu—Rodney and Matilda Scolfield—and frequently dined with them. Matilda, no doubt having inherited her grandfather's tendency to the dramatic—the old man had torn down the family seat and replaced it with a replica of a medieval castle so that he might play feudal lord—had got rather carried away with celebrating the season. Her own children, a girl not yet two and a boy who would turn one during the summer, were too young to be much affected by what Colin now referred to as
The Festival of Horror
and the brunt of her excess was felt, instead, by her husband and my family.

During the first week of the month, she hosted two holiday-themed dinners, a pantomime, and tried to convince Colin to dress as Father Christmas for a children's tea. When he learned of her plan for a daylong charades tournament that would include the entire population of a neighboring village, Colin ordered a special train and bustled me off to London with him, on the pretense of Christmas shopping.

Much as I enjoyed teasing him—just a little—about his escape, I always adored London when fashionable society had abandoned it for the country. After our requisite visit to Hamleys, we walked home via Piccadilly, calling in at Hatchards, where Colin bought a copy of Henry James'
The Awkward Age
and I, ready for a little light reading after my Greek, selected Mary Elizabeth Braddon's latest,
Her Darling Sin.
As we approached Fortnum's, snow danced from the heavy clouds that had darkened the skies all day, and by the time we had turned into Park Lane, it had blanketed buildings, pavements, tree limbs, and even the tops of hansom cabs and carriages until not a hint of grit or grime remained visible. Rather, I observed, like a Christmas card.

My husband did not appreciate the remark. We had planned to drop our parcels at home and then go back out, as we both wanted to see the moving staircase installed in Harrods the previous month, but the lure of the warmth of our library proved a greater temptation.

“It was kind of you to insist Davis accompany us to town,” I said. “I do believe he is even less fond of charades than you, and Matilda was quite insistent that all of our servants join hers in the game.” We kept a skeleton staff on at the townhouse when we were not in residence, and could have got along quite nicely with them (and Meg, my lady's maid, who had, of course, come down with us from Derbyshire), but Colin told Davis that his presence, too, would be required.

“I have always thought Davis a most sensible man,” Colin said, closing his book and rising to his feet. “I must run to my study before we retire to finish one small thing for the Palace. Do you plan to read for much longer?” The look in his dark eyes told me exactly what he proposed as an alternative.

“Four more pages in this chapter and I shall come straight up,” I said. He bent over to kiss me with a thoroughness and intensity that would have inspired me to abandon Mrs. Braddon's heroine even before the end of the chapter had he not work left to do. Alone in the comfortable room, with its blazing fire, tall cherry bookcases, and my treasured collection of ancient Greek vases, I finished reading in almost no time—it is, after all, much easier to focus one's attention when one does not have a trio of sticky children clinging to one's skirts—and went to the large windows facing Park Lane and pulled aside the heavy velvet curtains so that I might look out at the snow. It continued to fall heavily, and the combination of the slippery roads and the late hour had reduced greatly the amount of traffic passing the house. There was hardly a carriage in sight, and no pedestrians were out braving the elements. The gas streetlights, from which someone had hung wreaths with festive red bows, cast a warm glow through the thick, white flakes. Across the street, the entrance to Hyde Park was not yet locked—it remained open until after midnight—but I doubted anyone would still be in the grounds as the snow looked to be at least eight inches deep.

On this count, my instincts failed me for, when I looked again, I saw a woman who appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in the park gate. I could not make out her features in the dark, but the moment I laid eyes on her, all the warmth of the room around me inexplicably disappeared. She wore a dress, cut in a style that had not been fashionable for more than a decade, but she had no coat, and stood, alone, her hands in a ragged-looking muff, gazing across in the direction of the houses that lined the other side of the street.

She ought to have a cloak, at least, I thought, but when I tried to move from my spot at the window to fetch one for her, my feet would not obey. As if she had read my thoughts, she moved forward, closer to the streetlight, and now I could see her face, thin and drawn, with dark smudges under her eyes. She faced me directly and took two steps forward before again standing motionless, staring at me.

I cannot say what about her frightened me, but something in her appearance sent shivers racing through me. I dropped the curtain back into place and came away from the window. Composing myself, I went to the front door. She would not be out in such a storm without a coat unless she had suffered a terrible misfortune and needed help. I pulled open the heavy door and stepped onto the threshold.

“Miss! Are you in need of assistance?” I called, my voice echoing along the empty street, but she was no longer there. I saw no sign of anyone in Park Lane and surmised she must have retreated into the park. Pausing not even long enough to grab my coat, I raced out of the house and crossed the street, still calling for her. When I reached the park gate, she was nowhere to be found, but that was not nearly as troubling as what I saw when I looked down to the snowy ground.