Epilogue
Five Years Later
O utside, St. Pierre’s grounds lay white and silent. Inside the music hall, it was warm and bright. Their holiday houseguests—the Townsends, Wescotts, and Marlows—attempted to corral their offspring, who were uniformly full of punch and candy.
“Hurry, children, come sit down by the tree. Saint Nicholas is coming,” Ophelia said, using her loud singer’s voice. “He’s to give out some special presents for good girls and boys.”
“Saint Nicholas is here?” The Wescotts’ oldest son looked dubious. “In Oxfordshire? Tonight?”
“It is Saint Nicholas Day,” said his mama, arching a brow at him.
Behind the far door, Elizabeth laughed softly, holding her husband’s hand. They watched as the children were finally seated in a ragged semi-circle. Their dark-haired twins, Esther and Bridget, sat on either side of Sylvie, Marlow and Rosalind’s oldest, whom they idolized for her long, white-blonde curls. Their almost-two-year-old son, Henry David, clung to his nurse’s neck as she settled him into her lap. Jane handily broke up a scuffle between her three children, sending the oldest, Charles, to sit near the Wescotts’ boys, and the youngest, Penelope, to perch upon her papa’s knee.
“How do I look?” August whispered.
She grinned as he adjusted his gold-trimmed cloak and tugged at his long, fake beard.
“Your dark hair’s peeking out.” She tucked the errant strands beneath his matching white wig. “That’s better. Is my hair all hidden beneath my wig?”
He nodded, flicking the jolly gold pom-pom hanging from her drooping cap. They’d had a great deal of fun creating their costumes. His fur-trimmed robe had been located at a second-hand shop, while her green-and-red gown had been cobbled together from a couple of last season’s day frocks.
“Have you got your sack of trinkets?” she asked.
He lifted the velvet pouch. “Let’s make our entrance before they start running about again.”
August threw open the door, striding forward with his sack thrown over his shoulder. “Oh, ho, ho, Happy Christmas to all,” he called in a jovial voice. “It is I, good Saint Nicholas, with my wife, er, helper, Mother Christmas.”
“Is it truly Saint Nicholas? And Mother Christmas?” asked little Penelope from her father’s lap.
“It could be Lord and Lady Augustine,” said Wescott’s oldest, looking about. “They’re the only ones not here.”
“Shush now, Alexander,” Elizabeth heard Ophelia whisper. “Let the children have their fun.”
August sat in a sturdy chair before the group, making a great show of twirling his white moustache and setting his velvet pouch upon his lap.
“Have you got presents for us in there?” Sylvie’s little brother Laurence was the picture of his father, Lord Marlow. He popped up, jumping around the circle with delight. “Presents, presents, presents from Saint Nicholas.”
“I have one present for each good child tonight,” August said in his Saint Nicholas voice, as Marlow guided Laurence back to his seat. “And children who are exceptionally good shall receive even more presents on Christmas Day.”
At these words, all the children became very still and good, each trying to be more well-behaved than their neighbor. Elizabeth winked at her wide-eyed twins, who, in the wonder of the moment, seemed to have no inkling these mythical holiday characters were their own mama and papa.
“Now, Mother Christmas shall help me pass out the packages. Once everyone has received theirs, you may open them all at once. Oh, ho, ho,” he added. “Not a moment before.”
He drew out each small, wrapped present and called a child’s name, repeating a hearty oh, ho, ho at regular intervals. Elizabeth feared his moustache was in danger of falling down over his mouth and took a moment to furtively adjust it as she carried the small parcels to each recipient.
Still intent upon being good, the children kept the gifts in their laps as instructed.
“Now,” said August, “as long as you have been a good child this year, you may open your Saint Nicholas Day gift.”
The children ripped ribbons and paper from the parcels, laughing as they realized they were wrapped in numerous layers. At last, the gifts began to reveal themselves. They were small, intricately carved wooden figures, each one different and unique.
Elizabeth had watched August work for hours on the miniatures, ever since they’d volunteered to take their turn hosting the annual holiday house party. Each one was an accurate rendering of its recipient, from height to facial features, to eye color and hair. The children yelped in delight as they realized they were holding tiny models of themselves.
“My word, they’re amazing,” said Townsend.
“That Saint Nicholas is very talented,” Wescott agreed.
Elizabeth was so full of pride, watching her friends and their excited children appreciate August’s handiwork, that she nearly forgot her next task.
“Mother Christmas has one more thing to show you,” said August by way of reminder.
“Oh, yes.” She disguised her voice into a high warble. “There’s one more gift for you wonderful children. Come over by the piano and you’ll see.”
The children followed her and sat where she indicated, around a large, slipcovered surprise.
“What is it?” one of them called.
“Is it a cake?” said another. “A giant pudding?”
Marlow rolled his eyes. “That’s what this lot needs. A giant pudding.”
“It’s not a giant pudding,” said Elizabeth, stifling giggles and nearly forgetting her Mother Christmas voice. She whisked off the white-and-gold slipcover with a flourish.
“Oh,” the children cried. “A castle!”
“A magical one,” said Esther.
“A magical castle,” echoed Bridget. “Look how it glows!”
It most certainly wasn’t glowing, but her twins were prone to saying rather interesting things.
“It’s a miniature castle for all your miniature figures to play in,” she told the group.
There was no need to say it twice. The children converged on the painted wooden structure, a castle of pure fantasy, with numerous rooms, turrets, towers, staircases, and other details.
“It’s astounding, truly,” said Rosalind.
“I’d like to play in there myself.” Townsend turned to August. “Saint Nicholas, can you make me my own carved figure? And perhaps one for my wife?”
“Townsend and I want some, too,” said Jane, grinning. “The ones of the children are adorable. Beyond compare.”
“What do we say to Saint Nicholas and Mother Christmas?” prompted Lord Wescott.
“Thank you,” said the children in chorus.
“Oh, ho, ho,” said August. “You’re very welcome. And you shall all have plenty of time to play with it between now and Christmas, but tonight, it’s nearly time for bed. Let’s gather about and sing a carol together as friends and families do. Mother Christmas shall accompany us upon the piano.”
Elizabeth sat and pushed aside the white wisps of her wig to play several rousing verses of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” August inserted a few “ho ho’s” into the song, drawing laughter from their friends. Just at the end, Elizabeth caught her husband’s gaze and hit a sour note for old times’ sake. Their company sang on, too jubilant to notice the second wrong note she threw in.
“Happy Saint Nicholas Day to all,” said August when she finished. “And now, it’s time for all little ones to go to bed. If you put your miniatures beneath your pillows for safekeeping, you shall have sweet dreams.”
The children went to their parents, sharing their intentions to sleep with their figures beneath their pillows just as Saint Nicholas advised. Their friends waved and called good night, retiring with their families to the guest bedrooms. The nannies brought the twins and little Henry to their parents.
Esther laughed when she and August took off their wigs and caps, and Bridget clapped. “I knew it was you, Papa,” said Bridget.
“Papa is Saint Nicholas,” said Esther in wonder. “And Mama is Mother Christmas.”
“For tonight, yes,” said August, giving each of them a kiss. Elizabeth took sleepy baby Henry in her arms.
“Did you make our gifts special, Papa?” asked Bridget, holding up her figure. “Very special?”
“Yes, for my special girls, because I love you so very much. Give Mama and Henry David a kiss before bed.”
“You were a very good Mother Christmas,” said Bridget, cupping her cheek with slightly sticky fingers. “I believed in you.”
“Thank you, my darling.”
She embraced her three treasured children and sent them off with their nannies, so she and August might have a moment to catch their breath.
“Well.” She faced her husband as the servants collected stray scraps of ribbon and paper from the music room floor. “I call that a successful Saint Nicholas Day.”
“It was, wasn’t it? Oh, ho, ho.”
She gazed into his eyes, this man she loved so much. “Do you know what a wonder you are, darling? The children adored their toys, and they’ll remember that castle when they’re fifty years old.”
“Because you revealed it with such flourish. Saint Nick is nothing without his loyal Mother Christmas.”
She laughed as he pulled her into his arms. The servants discreetly finished their tasks and left, closing the doors behind them.
“Goodness, it’s quiet now after so much activity,” she said between kisses.
“We’re in for a few more busy weeks before Christmas arrives.” He brushed his lips over hers. “Along with our anniversary.”
“It seems only yesterday we were meeting in this music hall for lessons…”
“I heard your wrong, wrong notes.” His grip on her tightened. “You little minx. Haven’t you been practicing?”
“I haven’t. And I’m so ashamed.”
“You’ll make me take off this itchy velvet robe,” he said, to her sudden, helpless laughter. “You’ll make me turn you over my lap and toss up your god-awful red and green patchwork skirts.”
“Spanked by Saint Nicholas?”
“What do you expect to happen when you butcher one of the most dignified and well-loved carols of our time?” He unbuttoned the robe and tossed it over his shoulder, revealing his shirtsleeves, which he promptly rolled up. “Lisbet, darling, you’ll be praying for God to Rest Ye Merry Spanked Arse when I’m done with you.”
Her laughter rose to shrieks when he threw her, ugly dress and all, over his shoulder and carried her to the piano bench. She didn’t resist when he positioned her over his knees.
“Over my skirts?” she asked.
“You wish.”
“But I’m Mother Christmas!”
“You’re a naughty temptress,” he said, baring her bottom and tugging her pantalettes down. “You always were, which is why I suppose things worked out so well for us.”
“I ought to have practiced more. Oww! ” She kicked her legs as the spanking commenced. “But if I had, would we be here now?”
He chuckled at her question but was not distracted from his purpose. Ow. Oww! What was it about this music hall, this piano bench, that made him want to spank her so soundly? She couldn’t have guessed, even with her talents, that they would end up here five years later, a blissfully married couple. That first spanking lived in her memory, but this spanking…
“Ow. Mmm. Ouch! What happened to oh, ho, ho ?” She tried to muffle her protests as her bottom was spanked from warm tingling to fiery hot throbbing. “Saint Nicholas, have mercy!”
He finally relented and righted her. “I suppose that’s enough for now. We can finish this in the dungeon some other day.”
She feigned fear but was secretly thrilled. “The dungeon? For two wrong notes?”
He gave her a stern glare. “They were very wrong notes.”
Wrong notes, perhaps, but her connection to August was so very right. Magically right. She cuddled against him, leaning upon his shoulder. He rubbed her hot backside, his head inclined to hers.
“Yes, darling. I agree. Magically right.”
She had not said it aloud. She was sure of that.
How did he hear…
Oh, well. Goodness. Magical indeed, how these things happened.
She clung to her strong, beloved soul mate as he lifted her in his arms and took her off to bed.
THE END