Eighteen

A fter dinner, they removed to the drawing room for the exchange of Christmas gifts. Everyone seated themselves to await the guest of honor, who soon toddled in wearing a gown of frothy lace and holding tight to her nursemaid’s hand.

At a year and one half, little Georgiana had Rachael’s dark curls and Griffin’s leaf-green eyes, which were just then wide open and staring round at all the people come to dote and shower gifts upon her. With her mother’s intrepidity, she stood her ground against the onslaught. And with just a little instruction, she got the trick of ripping open her parcels—the contents of which were sadly no match for the delights of plain brown paper and string.

Only after the child had finished and returned to the nursery did the adults have their turn. First came the gifts Claire had made for the gentlemen, who each received a handsome enameled watch fob. For the ladies, Noah had chosen Paisley shawls, and after unwrapping them with praise for his good taste, they immediately began to speculate upon the identity of the woman who must have aided him.

Sadly, this diverting topic was cut short by Lady Caroline fleeing in tears.

While the ladies exchanged guilty looks, chivalry came from an unlikely quarter: the always affable—and almost always thoughtless—Captain Talbot. Perhaps moved by the Christmas spirit (or just bored, having blown through all his gifts in one rapacious frenzy), the captain went gallantly to her aid. The gesture earned him near-universal acclaim, and brought Jonathan to feel he’d misjudged the fellow.

But one among them did not look on Talbot’s exit with approval: Poor Elizabeth watched the proceeding with an expression of shock and dismay. Seeing this, Jonathan nudged Claire, who promptly distracted her sister by demanding she open Claire’s gift.

The little velvet bag was duly opened, and Elizabeth looked pleased to find within a delicate silver pendant in the shape of a heart, studded with diamonds and entwined with a rose formed of a gleaming pink metal.

“What sort of metal is this?” Elizabeth asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“Indeed, you haven’t,” Claire said proudly. “It’s a new alloy called Russian gold. One mixes gold and copper to get the rosy color.”

Elizabeth admired its tones against her skin. “Lovely!” she declared.

“May I see?” Jonathan ventured to ask. Though he’d felt no hostility from her this morning, he’d maintained a cautious distance thus far.

To his relief, her answer was perfectly friendly. “If you’ll help me put it on afterward!”

“I’d be delighted.” They shared a smile as the piece exchanged hands, and he wondered whether he’d imagined her standoffishness last night.

Between misunderstanding both her and Talbot, it seemed his judgement had become rather unreliable.

“Exquisite,” he concluded after examining the pendant, favoring Claire with a doting look. “And quite fitting, too, given Elizabeth’s love of flowers.”

“Oh, I despise roses,” Elizabeth said cheerfully, turning round to present her neck. “So difficult to press!”

Jonathan cleared his throat as he fastened the chain. “Never mind,” he said, “it looks beautiful on you.”

“It does,” came Elizabeth’s muffled reply, for she’d ducked her chin to see for herself, “despite the evil rose! Thank you, Claire.”

Claire rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Happy Christmas!”

“My turn next.” Rummaging amid his pile for Claire’s gift, Jonathan came up with it triumphantly. “I think I’ll open this one!”

“Oh!” Claire bit her lip. “Right! Before you do, however, that’s not your real gift. That is—it is a gift, and it is for you, but—um—well, to tell you the truth, it’s your gift from last year. I’m so sorry! I know it’s a poor excuse, but I only learned you were coming at the eleventh hour, so I was quite short of time?—”

“Claire,” he interrupted, using the growl he’d noticed was quite effective at silencing her. “It’s fine. May I open it now?”

The wrappings concealed a large tome with a burnished leather cover. Its only ornament was an unusual silver book clasp. Embellished with an overlay of gold-wrought feathers, the clasp had the shape of a bird with a very long tail.

“Venus’s peacock?” Jonathan touched the finely etched feathers. “Did you make this?”

She nodded.

“But last Christmas you hadn’t yet seen the villa. How…?”

“You’ll see.”

Moving to a table, he laid the book down and carefully released its clasp. By now everybody had clustered round to see the impressive-looking volume. He opened it to the first page and found there not words, but a picture. A picture he recognized. Drawn by a deft and graceful hand, rendered with as much beauty as precision.

He turned the page to find another. And another, and another. “Are these?—?”

“All the engravings you brought home to me last year,” Claire said. “And many more besides.”

Jonathan flipped more pages. There were dozens upon dozens of them, depicting every detail of the villa. “How did you do this?”

“Noah helped me contact a Mr. Richard Smirke, whose initials I’d seen on the engravings. When he heard I was making a book for you, he was only too happy to furnish copies of more of his work. I shouldn’t have presumed to use your name, but…”

Jonathan had paused on a close study of the Venus mosaic. “You got the peacock from here.”

“That’s right,” she said with a helpless laugh. “At the time I’d no idea it was your favorite mosaic! I just liked the birds.”

He flipped a few more pages before pausing on a mosaic dolphin. He touched the bottom of the page, where a second set of initials appeared alongside the R.S. for Richard Smirke: S.L. —for Samuel Lysons.

Closing the book, he finally looked at Claire. “Thank you. It’s thoughtful and absolutely wonderful. I only wish…” He shook his head. “Well, by comparison, my gift to you seems rather silly.”

“Oh!” Blowing out a breath, she grinned. “I’m sure you’re wrong! At any rate, it doesn’t signify. I’m just glad you like the book.”

“I love it.” Now it was Jonathan’s turn to feel nervous, and his gaze slid away from hers, meeting Mr. Evans’s behind her.

The butler nodded and slipped out.

Claire noticed the exchange. “What’s going on?” she asked.

Jonathan thought for a moment how best to explain. “On the Grand Tour,” he began, “one is always assumed to be in the market for art.”

“Oh?” She blinked. “I never realized you were a collector.”

“I’m not,” he said wryly. “But it proved difficult to avoid the frenzy altogether. I felt a particular desire to buy a painting for you —some scene of beauty that might always bring a smile to your face. I considered many pieces—and even purchased a few—but nothing seemed quite right, until…”

As he was speaking, two footmen had entered carrying between them a flat, fabric-draped object nearly as wide as Claire was tall.

“I must warn you,” he went on anxiously, “it’s a bit…different. The others are of the usual sort, the French pastoral scenes and Italian landscapes—and should you prefer those paintings, we might certainly hang them instead! In fact, they ought to be hung regardless, for there’s not a thing wrong with them, except they don’t remind me of you.”

“Very well,” she said gravely, though with a glint in her eye. “Is the artist anyone of note?”

“Not much,” he replied, suppressing a smile. Something in her manner made him suspect she knew nothing at all of art. “Neapolitan fellow, I believe. Name of Rivalta.”

“Hmm,” she said importantly. “I cannot say I’m familiar with his work. Let’s have a look.”

“By all means. But really, if you don’t like it?—”

With a dramatic flourish, she threw off the drapery—and the whole chamber seemed as one to freeze.

Jonathan watched her face in suspense, gritting his teeth. If she’d hoped to see rolling Tuscan hills or Venetian canals, she must be sorely disappointed. The painting he’d bought her was a still-life, and could not be to everyone’s taste. It was, at first glance perhaps, a little dark and rather ordinary. But there was something of merit in its subject, Jonathan had thought—admittedly under the influence of grappa—which was that of a plump tabby cat plundering the kitchen table, caught out with a dead mackerel in its mouth.

At length Claire proclaimed, “It’s marvelous!”

Jonathan released the breath he’d been holding. “Truly? You like it?”

“I love it! He looks just like my Kippers!”

“Upon my word, he does!” Noah agreed. “I’ve seen him in just that attitude on numerous occasions.”

“A toast to Kippers…” Jonathan tossed back a draught of eggnog. “Well, how relieved I am! It seemed a mad notion, but I just had a feeling…”

“Mad indeed,” Miss Harris confided to Elizabeth in a carrying whisper. “Who wants to look at a heap of rotting fish?”

Ignoring her, Claire gazed upon her painting fondly. “I admit I might not have picked it out of a gallery, having no eye for such things myself. But I cannot look at it without smiling, just as you said.” Turning to Jonathan, she skimmed back the lock of his hair that was forever falling forward. “You know me better than I know myself.”

“I don’t know about that.” Lowering his voice, Jonathan touched her hand. “But I mean never to disappoint you again.”

“Oh, dear!” Though wearing a smile, she shook her head. “That will not do, my love. I’m afraid we shall disappoint each other many times over the years. Better to vow we’ll never doubt each other again. That, I think, we can carry off splendidly.”

Transfixed by her sparkling eyes and not trusting himself to speak, he settled for raising her hand to his lips. Though he would have liked to say—and do—much more, he would have to wait for privacy.

Her mere nearness was so enchanting, even this small liberty was a risk. For though he’d have sworn his heart was already full, each day he spent with her seemed to increase his love tenfold. The dam was overtaxed, and should it give way, he feared the bounds of propriety insufficient to stem the tide.

So he settled for kissing her hand—a kiss of silent promise—and relinquished it for the time being, banishing such feelings to the recesses of his mind. Then, taking a deep breath, he called for more eggnog to get him through the latest round of gifts.

And for the first time in his life, wished Christmas would come to a very speedy end.