Page 105 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
Dinah nodded, her lips curving in an involuntary smile. Mrs. Claridge, with her sweet face and silvery gray hair reminded her a bit of a much beloved, now deceased grandmother. “What a lovely shop you have, Mrs. Claridge.”
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Claridge beamed. “I have your music box ready, my lord. I’ll just go fetch it for you, shall I?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Claridge.”
Mrs. Claridge disappeared through a door that led to the back of shop. Dinah wandered around the store, gawking at the bevy of mechanical wonders. There were large boxes and small, and polished wooden music boxes with enameled lids. There were music boxes where one could peek through a small glass window and watch the cylinders inside churn out the tune. There were painted porcelain boxes, gilt and silver boxes, and boxes shaped like all manner of different things. There were birds and dancers, and even one shaped like a harp, and another like a tiny pianoforte.
“Charming, aren’t they?” Oliver murmured, but he wasn’t looking at the music boxes.
He was looking ather.
The shop, the lovely boxes and the tinkling notes all fell away for an endless moment as their gazes held. A thousand unspoken words passed between them until Dinah’s cheeks heated, and she tore her gaze away. “They truly are.”
“Every child born into the Angel family receives the gift of a music box on the day of their birth. William and Penelope asked me to choose one for Baby Angel.”
Dinah couldn’t say whether she was more astonished to find such lovely things existed, or that there were children fortunate enough to have one for themselves. She reached out to trace a spray of vibrant blue cornflowers on the lid of a small, ivory-colored porcelain box which had been put to one side on the display counter. “I can’t imagine anyone not liking one of these.” She opened the lid and gasped when a familiar strain met her ears. “My grandmother used to sing me this song before she died. I was very young at the time, but I’ve always remembered it.”
Oliver leaned closer to listen, then murmured, “Voi Che Sapete, from Mozart’sMarriage of Figaro.”
He lay his fingers on her wrist. Startled, Dinah turned to him, but he didn’t speak. He simply looked down at her with the oddest expression on his face. He seemed to be struggling for words. When they emerged at last, his voice was hoarse. “Dinah, will you let me—”
“Here we are, my lord!” Mrs. Claridge bustled back into the shop, a small box in her hands. “May I show it to you?”
Oliver’s gaze roamed over Dinah’s face before he turned to Mrs. Claridge. “Yes, of course.”
“Suitable for a boy or a girl, just as you asked.”
Mrs. Claridge placed the rectangular box carefully on the glass counter, and Dinah and Oliver leaned over to inspect it. “Oh, it’s perfect,” Dinah breathed, clasping her hands.
It truly was.
It wasn’t as ornate as some of the other boxes in the shop—just a simple dark wood polished to a high gloss, set on four miniature brass feet. One might easily overlook it in favor of its more flamboyant neighbors, unless they paused long enough to study the painting on the lid. It depicted two children, a boy and a girl standing in a garden, surrounded by birds and flowers. The brushwork was exquisite, the flower petals and birds’ plumage accentuated by glimmering pieces of mother-of-pearl.
Oliver carefully raised the lid. On the inside in neat script were the words,From your loving uncle Oliver Angel. Christmas, 1812.“Just as I asked. I couldn’t be more pleased, Mrs. Claridge.”
Mrs. Claridge flushed with pleasure. “I don’t mind saying it’s one of my favorites, my lord. So simple and elegant!”
“Tell me about this box here, Mrs. Claridge. It’s very pretty.” Oliver nodded at the round porcelain box with the cornflowers. “I notice you have it set to one side. Has it already been purchased?”
“Yes…well, no. You see, I made that box for my first grandchild, but I’ve no use for it now.” Mrs. Claridge noticed Dinah’s stricken expression and hastened to clarify. “Oh, no, Miss Bishop. It’s nothing like that. It’s only I was so certain the child would be a girl, but my Sarah gave birth to a healthy, strapping boy.” Mrs. Claridge’s face glowed with pride. “This dainty little box won’t do for a boy, so I’ll find him another.”
Dinah frowned as a shadow passed over Mrs. Claridge’s face. “How old is your grandson, Mrs. Claridge?”
The older woman’s shoulders drooped. “Just five days old. I thought I’d be with my daughter’s family this Christmas, but poor Mr. Edwards—that’s my son-in-law—was taken with the gout in his foot, and he isn’t fit to come and fetch me. So, I’m obliged to spend my Christmas here in Rochester.”
Alone.
Mrs. Claridge didn’t say it, but it was clear enough from her desolate expression.
“Can’t you take the stagecoach?” Oliver asked.
“Oh heavens, no. I’m too old for that nonsense, my lord. The stagecoach isn’t safe for such a one as me, what with the way they crowd the people in these days. Why, some poor older gentleman was thrown off and trampled to death just last week!” Mrs. Claridge shook her head. “I don’t mind telling you I’m heartbroken to miss my grandson’s first Christmas, but I’d just as soon live to see him grow up, you understand.”
“Where does your daughter live, Mrs. Claridge?” Dinah’s stomach was fluttering. Perhaps her luck was turning at last.
“A few miles west of Canvey Island. Too far for an old lady like me to travel alone.”
“Canvey Island? That’s north of here, somewhere between Grays and Southend-on-Sea, I think?”
