Page 123 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
"Well, he says before Diana's death his London activities kept him from home too much. Consequently, he's lost track of the time from when she was an infant until now. She's grown without him noticing. When did she stop being an infant in arms? When did she learn to talk? To walk? he says. He's lost a part of his child's life that he can never recover. It is for Anne that he remains at Bayneville, you know. He doesn't want to miss a moment again."
"Gracious. That sounds rather morbid."
"Hmm, I suppose, but Anne is such a joy one wants to be near her. Still, though I do understand, I fear he is making a grave mistake. He was born and bred to take his place in society. I fear he is using Anne merely as an excuse to shun society."
"The maid who escorted me to my room, she mentioned something about a rocking horse . . . ?" Jocelyn ventured.
Lady Mary nodded. "He's building one for her."
"Building a rocking horse?"
"Yes. And doing much of the work himself."
"Himself?"
"Tarkington says doing the work himself will give the present more meaning. Making the rocking horse will represent his love for her." Lady Mary shook her head. "I asked him for whom, himself or Anne, but he didn't give me an answer."
"Probably didn't dare to! And I suppose that accounts for his work-roughened hands," Jocelyn said, then blushed at the admission she'd noticed his hands.
"True! And though I disagree, I do understand a bit of what he's saying. Christmas at Bayneville has always been a marvelous and extraordinary time. For everyone."
"How do you mean?"
Lady Mary smiled. "The house is a beehive of activity. For two days before Christmas, the smells of baking sweet cakes and breads permeate the kitchens." Her voice increased its speed and enthusiasm. "Throughout the house, everything is dusted and shined. The day before Christmas a Yule log is chosen, and pine, boxwood, holly, and ivy are gathered for garlands to decorate the house lavishly. Afterward, footmen gather mistletoe and—with giggling help from the maids—it is hung from kissing boughs throughout the castle. With the advent of night, candles are lit everywhere until the house is a blaze of light as brilliant and warm as the sun."
She paused and shook her head as she considered the work involved. "They shall probably prepare the entire estate for the holiday better than they do for my wedding! Of course, I cannot say I blame them. Last year's Christmas at Bayneville was bleak. Mama and I were here, and every time one or the other of us would do something that Diana normally did, everyone would burst into tears. Not even our traditional gift line brought laughter."
"Gift line?"
Lady Mary enthusiastically nodded, her color high. "On Christmas Eve, the servants gather and we give them two presents each. The first is useful, like a new pair of boots or a shawl. The second is always fanciful or funny, and the household rings with merry laughter when those are passed out."
"What an enchanting tradition!"
Lady Mary sneezed as she nodded. "Excuse me. . . . It is, isn't it?" she said, her eyes watering. "My grandmother began the tradition. She was the tiniest of creatures, but she possessed the heart of a lion." Sneezing again, she dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief.
"Gracious, Mary, don't say you're becoming sick! It only wants days until Lord Killingham arrives!"
"No, no. . . . It's nothing—a trifle."
"Perhaps, my dear, but one can't be too careful," Lady Maybrey said gravely.
Jocelyn and Lady Mary turned to see Lady Maybrey in the doorway, followed by Lady Tarkington.
"What is this? Is my Mary ill?" Lady Tarkington's naturally high voice shrilled with concern.
Lady Maybrey's skirts softly rustled as she crossed the room. She stopped in front of Lady Mary and laid a cool wrist against her brow. "My dear, this is no trifle. Your brow is warm and damp from fever!"
"No . . . I can't be. . . . I tell you I'm all right!" Lady Mary pulled away, panicked denial in her voice and face.
"Oh, you are! You are ill!" shrilled Lady Tarkington, coming up by her daughter and repeating Lady Maybrey's actions.
"Oh, Mama," Lady Mary protested. She sniffled, then straightened to bestow her sunniest smile upon her mother. "It's nothing," she insisted again until her body betrayed her with an involuntary shiver.
"No!"
The harsh, single word startled the ladies. They turned to see the marquess standing rigidly while myriad emotions chased across his face.
"Tarkington!" exclaimed his mother.
