Page 56 of Unmasking the Silver Heiress
With the family all gathered around the table, ready to begin their Christmas feast, Nell revealed the thing—a thick stump of a candle with a long, twisting wick, which would burn from sunset to dawn.
"You must light it, Nathaniel," she said to him, her voice breathy with anticipation. "And at sunrise tomorrow, only you can extinguish it."
"What will happen if I don't?" he asked, teasing in his tone as he stood and gestured for the footman to bring him a lit taper.
"Ill fortune," Susan said immediately, "for the whole year."
"Death of a family member, according to my grandfather," Nell answered somberly. "It's all quite pagan, isn't it?"
"Now, now," Kit had responded. "Once we steal a tradition, it stays strictly Anglican for the remainder of eternity, my dear."
And so the first course had been served in the light of the flickering yule candle, which seemed to sweeten the wine and inspire the conversation that was held around it.
Nate found himself laughing from sincere amusement more than he could ever remember doing at a gathering of any sort, often catching his wife's eye across the table and holding it until she looked away with a blossoming of pink in her lovely cheeks.
He found himself wishing each course would come and go faster, anticipating the moment she would see the harp this evening. The servants had been told to gather in the ballroom for a special festivity, which would include sweets and wine for all, and perhaps, if anyone was moved to create it, music befitting the occasion.
If the food hadn't been so deliciously diverse, it might have been more difficult to remain patient. As it was, every temptation to hurry things along was soon silenced by the next flavor on offer from colorful plates of lovingly crafted fare.
It occurred to Nate that he had been missing this willingly, for many years. Smiling until his cheeks ached was a thing he could have had. He might have spent those cold holidays alone watching family across the table. The sight of the three of them, merry and familiar, laughing with one another, sharing stories from the past, was just as intoxicating as the wine. Just as potent.
"You cannot know how much I've missed this house," Susan said to him, as though she could hear his thoughts. "How much I've missed you, my darling boy."
He had reached across to squeeze her hand rather than attempt to find the words to respond. After all, how does one even begin to apologize for abandoning such a lovely, giving woman? How does one explain that he did not even consider what he'd done?
The only sincere apology was a lasting improvement, he believed, and so he silently committed to being a better nephew and perhaps, overall, a better man.
When the final bite of dessert had been consumed, and all insisted they could not bear another morsel, they all stood in tandem, playing yet again into those silly superstitions that had somehow survived the centuries.
He offered his wife his arm, and bade them all follow him to the ballroom, to join the staff for a spot of revelry before Christmas Day took each person to his or her private affairs.
"I have a surprise for you," he whispered softly into her ear, delighting in the way she squeezed his arm and stifled a little squeak of anticipation.
"I have one for you too," she said, biting down on her lip. "Well, two, really. I'll give you the other when we’re alone."
"Oh?" he replied, intrigued.
The doors to the ballroom opened to reveal a glittering festivity, just on the cusp of beginning. Candles danced along the walls and the room gleamed like new, dressed in a dazzling glow of festive decor.
Nell gasped in delight, raising her fingers to her lips. She parted from Nathaniel to turn fully around, taking in every inch of the room, until her eyes fell on that harp. She turned back to him, beaming brighter than all the flames in the room combined, and threw herself into his arms for a tight embrace, which seemed to delight the servants assembled to join them.
"Shall I play?" she whispered, as though she could barely believe it. “I had forgotten that you intended to have it repaired.”
"I would love to hear you play," he said, kissing her cheek softly. “We all would. Just give me one moment.
"I wanted to say a few words before we begin our celebration," he announced, leaving a hand on the small of Nell’s back and using his politician's voice to project throughout the room. "So many of you here tonight followed your employer from a townhouse in London to a decaying manor by the sea. You took this adventure with me, and together we have restored this once grand house to its original beauty. I know you are far from home, and eventually, many of us will return to the city, but tonight, please share with me and mine the bounty of a year well lived. Happy Christmas!"
"Happy Christmas!" the room answered in a raucous cheer, laughter and excitement unleashed into the very oxygen with the glimmer of a long-anticipated night.
"One last thing!" Kit called, before everyone could dissolve into their own conversations and joys. "Mrs. Atlas and I have a final item to restore to this ballroom, in honor of those who danced here first, and called this place home."
Nate turned, curious and confused, to see his cousin motion to two of the footmen to carry in a large rectangle covered by a sheet.
"Since you declined a flamboyant reveal," Kit said, with a wink, "I will do the honors."
When he whipped back the covering, revealing the portrait, there was a beat of silence. Nate stood frozen, looking into the faces of the family he'd lost, at the child he had been.
They were posed in this very room, where his father thought the light was best. His mother wore a faint smile, holding a bundled baby close to her heart. His father stood with one hand on her shoulder and the other on young Nathaniel’s. He looked like a serious child, clutching a wooden sailboat and standing responsibly upright with one of his father’s military medals pinned to his chest. Of course, he remembered that his upright demeanor was the constant needling of the adults which had accomplished such an effect, rather than his own maturity at a young age.
