Chapter Twenty-Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T he Christmas Eve party at Lassiter Court was one of the great events of the season in Highbridge. The upper echelons of the town’s society were delighted by the chance to sip champagne in one of the best houses in the area, and the thrilling addition of theatre folk gave the evening a spice of devil-may-care revelry. The fact that Lady Lassiter was harbouring the scandalous Stella Stanmore and exiled royalty in her home meant that local matrons fell over themselves to secure an invitation. One or two, who had perhaps blotted their copybooks with unfortunate remarks around the history of Jack Treadwell’s birth, took the precaution of block-booking tickets for the pantomime into late January, in the hopes that Mr Poole might put in a good word for them.

Grace was absent during the preparations, watching the technical rehearsals for the pantomime, her nails bitten down to the quick, then having a final run-through of the lighting cues. Christmas Day would be spent visiting local hospitals with the cast, entertaining the nurses and patients with carols and handing out gifts, then on Boxing Day they’d have the dress rehearsal and the opening night. Going over her notes in these final hours, Grace found her heart beating fast and her chest tight. She felt, finally, absolutely alive.

She was still absorbed in her plans when Jack drove her to Lassiter Court to change for the party, so it wasn’t until Grace was back down-stairs that she had a chance to look around and appreciate the transformation to her home. Great quantities of greenery had been carried in from the gardens and park, and every picture frame and doorway was lined with swags of holly, yew and mistletoe. Artful displays of bare branches renewed with spirals of ivy spilled across the occasional tables, and squat candles nestled among them on silver dishes. Everything glowed with warmth and promise, and the romance of Christmas.

Grace ran her fingers over the polished table tops in the hall, then turned in to the dining room and found the grand mahogany table had been spirited away to make room for comfortable clusters of chairs at intervals around the walls. At the end of the room stood the Christmas tree, hung with dozens of glass ornaments – snowflakes, sailing ships, globes and teardrops – shimmering among silver drifts of tinsel, and more candles in individual glass lanterns. Under the tall leaded windows which looked out onto the drive, a luxurious buffet had been set out. Grace, discovering she was suddenly extremely hungry, spotted platters of devilled eggs and anchovy toasts, and in the centre the caviar sat in a silver dish, surrounded by ice, with a thin golden spoon sticking out of the pot and plates of immaculately cut and buttered triangles of brown bread beside it.

‘Do you like it?’ Lillian asked, coming in behind her.

‘It’s absolutely wonderful,’ Grace said sincerely. ‘The old cats of Highbridge will find nothing to disapprove of, and their husbands will bless you for the anchovy toasts.’

Lillian laughed. ‘I worried I was perhaps becoming a little too pagan with the decorations, but Hewitt assures me the spirits of Christmas are on my side. And I did so want Nikolai to see a proper English Christmas. I bought fountain pens as favours this year, and the usual packages of gingerbreads. I think we shall send everyone home happy.’

Grace hesitated. ‘Lillian, can we afford all this?’

‘No, not at all,’ she said with a shrug. ‘But it’s important to put on a good show. I have faith in our prospects for the New Year, Grace. We have the panto to set us up, Jack has Miss Chisholm, and Nikolai and I have been burning oak leaves in the fireplace in the library.’

‘Oak leaves . . .?’ Grace asked as Hewitt glided into the room with a tray of brimming champagne flutes, and Lillian and Grace both took one.

Lillian laughed. ‘Thank you, Hewitt. Yes, dry ones, harvested from the woods. It’s an old Marakovian custom, apparently. Burning them casts sparks of inspiration and good luck into the house, which will make all our fortunes.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Grace said with enthusiasm, and did.

‘Grace, darling,’ Lillian said as Hewitt retreated, ‘I have a favour to ask you.’

‘Anything,’ Grace said, overcome with firelight, greenery and her first sip of champagne. Lillian hesitated before she spoke, which was most unlike her. Grace frowned.

‘I’ll be making an announcement this evening.’ Grace thought she noticed the suggestion of a blush on Lillian’s perfectly powdered cheek. ‘Might you take care to perhaps be close to Jack when I do?’

‘Of course, but—’

Before she could ask any more, Tom sauntered into the room, a glass of champagne in his hand. ‘Lillian, I’ve set up the gramophone in the library as requested, and I’m happy to play carols on the piano in the drawing room whenever you give me the nod.’ He paused to admire the tree. ‘Good Lord, that’s a stunner.’

‘Marvellous. Is your mother coming this evening, Tom?’

He grimaced. ‘Oh, yes, and I’m expected to share her Christmas ham with her tomorrow.’

‘I do wish you and she got along better,’ Lillian said.

‘Lillian,’ he protested with a slight laugh, ‘Constance was a monster to you.’

‘She was,’ Lillian conceded. ‘But I am so happy this evening, my goodwill extends even to her. Any news of Edmund?’

Tom lowered his head over his champagne glass. ‘Nothing that makes me think we’ll see him in Highbridge any time soon.’

There was something in his expression which made Grace want to ask more, but a horn tooted outside. The charabanc from the theatre was approaching along the drive. ‘Oh,’ Tom added. ‘I’ve been observing Nikolai preparing his Christmas cocktails. I suspect this party will go with a swing.’

It swung. An hour later, Jack was ambling through the hallway with a glow in his blood that was half plum brandy, and half a reflected glow of pleasure from those around him. Harold Drabble had led a singalong at the piano that had left Lillian’s guests pink with delight. Terrence Fortescue was sitting in the middle of the dining room, with the now devoted girls and boys of the chorus lounging at his feet, as he leant on his stick and delivered a mixture of cryptic advice in oracular fashion. Ruby and Mrs Poole occupied a settee with a good view of the Christmas tree, and Nikolai plied them both with his Christmas cocktails while Mr Poole, not quite able to give up his front of house role, walked between the rooms, greeting regular patrons of the theatre and occasionally twitching the evergreen displays when he thought Hewitt wasn’t looking.

Jack bore down on him with a fresh glass of champagne.

‘Mr Poole! Season’s greetings!’ Mr Poole took the glass with an appropriate murmur. ‘How are the bookings looking?’

Like the illuminated sign outside the theatre, Mr Poole had been looking a lot cheerier in the past few weeks. His cheeks were filling out a little and there was a distinct sparkle in his eye.

‘It’s absolutely marvellous, Mr Treadwell,’ he said, then sipped his champagne and wrinkled his nose as the bubbles hit. ‘We’re entirely sold out for the first fortnight, and healthy numbers for the week after, too. I think that article Mr Bowman did about Mrs Treadwell gave everything a boost.’ He sipped his champagne again and sneezed very delicately. ‘Our patrons have wanted to show Mrs Treadwell their support, you know, ever since that horrid notice, and they haven’t had a chance. Really, Archibald being driven out of the country by the taxman was an huge boon.’

Jack realised Mr Poole had been overheard. Constance Lassiter was standing a little way from them in desultory conversation with Sir Tobias Seymour, but on hearing Mr Poole’s comment she had gone still, then turned to look at them over her shoulder while Sir Tobias took the opportunity to sidle away into the crowd.

‘Good evening, Constance,’ Jack said, adopting a polite smile.

She looked him up and down, then turned and moved away.

‘Rude!’ Mr Poole said, though by his expression, the moment had delighted him.

‘Yes,’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘Not everyone shares our delight in The Empire’s good fortunes. Have you seen Miss Chisholm, by the way? I want to make sure she gets her fair share of Lillian’s caviar. God knows she’s earned it.’

‘Yes, Miss Chisholm is certainly here. When I last saw her, Marmaduke Smythe was explaining the motivations of King Rat to her.’ Jack felt a spasm of concern, but Mr Poole leant towards him. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Mr Treadwell. She seemed wryly amused.’

The chink of a fork on a champagne flute summoned the attention of the crowd to the stairs.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, if we might have your attention for a moment.’

Lillian was standing halfway up the first flight, with Nikolai at her side. The bannisters were festooned with holly, and in her pale turquoise dress, a sheer tulle shawl over her shoulders, she looked like a fairy queen in her bower. Guests drifted in from the other reception rooms, and Jack found Grace taking his hand as the crush thickened.

‘Welcome to Lassiter Court, everyone, and Merry Christmas,’ Lillian said, resting one hand lightly on the banister. ‘I do so hope to see you all at the pantomime. I would just like to thank our wonderful cast for all their hard work preparing what I know will be a wonderful show this year, and of course, I am particularly thankful to dear Grace, who has stepped in as our director and been doing magnificent work—’ She was interrupted by a chorus of ‘hear, hear’, particularly from the cast. Jack glanced down at his wife and squeezed her hand. Her eyes were dancing, and he was torn between delight in her pride and pleasure, and concern she might be overstraining herself. Loving people meant always being in a state of mild worry. He thought back to his adoptive parents. He missed them terribly, but at least, when the Spanish Flu took them, they’d known he was in a prisoner of war camp, not lost like so many young men, forever on the fields of France. On the edge of the crowd he spotted Miss Chisholm, standing with Ruby and Mrs Poole, and near the door to the library was Dixon, wearing an ill-fitting dinner suit, his bow tie a little crooked. On the edge of the crowd, Lillian’s business partner Agnes and her fiancé Joe Allerdyce were standing with Charlie Moon, the previous manager of The Empire, who had helped Jack so much when he’d first arrived in the town. That was before Jack had uncovered the mystery of his birth – or partially uncovered it, at any rate. Looking around at his family, Jack felt no need to meet his father. Whoever it was had seduced, attacked and abandoned Lillian under a false name. Jack had long ago decided he’d rather never know the scoundrel’s identity. Seeing those familiar faces around him, he knew that he was truly blessed among men. Lillian had started speaking again.

‘And I hope you will forgive me for making a personal announcement on this happy evening. I am honoured to tell you, my dear friends, that His Excellency, Grand Duke Nikolai Goranovich Kuznetsov has asked me to be his wife. And I have accepted.’

Jack froze as Lillian’s guests applauded and raised their glasses. Grace nudged him and, as Lillian’s gaze sought him out in the crowd he managed – just – to smile.