A man looking for his missing
Christmas spirit and, sadly, not finding
it at the bottom of a whiskey glass…
The evening started predictably enough…
Mother sends her third text about tomorrow’s charity luncheon—Please confirm for tomorrow at your earliest convenience, darling. Edward’s receiving the service medal. Your presence is required, Oliver. Not suggested. REQUIRED. And they’ll have Christmas pudding. You love a Christmas pudding—which I ignore while nursing my second Macallan at my usual table.
I needed a night away from it all, and The Crown and Thistle is the perfect place.
It’s quiet, charmingly dilapidated, and far enough from Mayfair that I’m simply “that odd bloke who brings a novel to the pub,” not “the Featherswallow spare.” The regulars are a mixture of geezers who worked at the textile mill before it closed and young professionals raising families in the outrageouslyexpensive flats that now fill the former factories. Both are too well-bred, too drunk, or both to acknowledge that they know exactly who I am.
And my favorite bartender, Reggie, has perfected the art of shooing away the random tourist who’s wandered too far from the city center and starts pestering him about the Viscount in the corner.
I’mnotthe Viscount, of course.
I’m The Honorable Oliver David Dawson Featherswallow, a title befitting a secondborn son. My older brother, Edward, is the Viscount.
He has been since last Christmas, when our father passed away…
I take another slow sip of my whisky, gaze drifting to the holiday lights strung along the stage, where a group of local children are slogging their way through a nativity play rehearsal, overseen by Belinda Moore, supermom, small business boss, and florist to the London elite. The perky piano player in the far corner transitions smoothly from one Christmas classic to another with a skill that would usually warm my cockles.
I’ve always adored the holidays.
Just like my father.
We were the ones who set out at dawn on the first of December each year, tromping through the woods around our country estate until we found the perfect fir for the drawing room. As a boy, I’d watch father chop down our tree and “help” carry it home by riding on his shoulders while he pulled the cart. In later years, our roles reversed. Father would watch, sipping hot tea from a thermos, regaling me with tales of how much he loved hunting these woods withhisfather as a boy, while I took my turn with the axe.
He was ten years older than my mother, seventy at the time he passed, and enjoyed a merry, meaningful life. He adored hiswife, his children, his work, and his hunting dogs, and passed peacefully in his sleep the day after his last happy Christmas.
The people who loved him couldn’t have asked for a better end for the sweet man who glued our quirky, sardonic, often feelings-averse family together.
I miss him like a vital organ, and strongly suspect Christmas will never be half so happy without him.
Still…
My father wouldn’t want me to cringe at the sound of children’s voices lifted in holiday song. He also wouldn’t want me to keep my mother in suspense, even if Ihavealready confirmed my attendance at the luncheon.
Twice.
Fetching my cell from my vest pocket, I tap out a quick text to the Dowager Viscountess Vivian Marie Featherswallow, a well-meaning woman who can’t resist the urge to manage her grown children—Of course, I’ll be there, Mother. Promptly at noon. Wouldn’t miss it. I will, however, be demanding half your pudding as tribute. The pine scent they pipe through the halls at Spencer House makes me hungry.
A moment later, Mother types back—Not a problem at all, dear. You know I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. See you, then, and please shave immediately before you come. You look a bit villainous when the whiskers start to grow in, and we wouldn’t want you to frighten the ladies. There will be so many nice young people in attendance. Including that lovely Kelly Campbell you went with at Oxford. What a handsome young woman she is, Oliver. And so accomplished. I heard she’s a partner now at Frederick and Swan.
I sigh, beginning to rethink the wisdom of texting Mother after five p.m.
She tends to be in a matchmaking mood after dinner. And now that she has Edward happily married off, I’m the sole focusof her efforts to ensure her sons are prepared to continue the family line and fulfill our duty to God and country.
I’m sure, once Edward and Matilda produce an heir, she’ll ease up a bit, but until then…
Well, until then, thanks to a string of abdications and a tragic mountain climbing accident, I am still fifth in line to the throne behind my brother’s fourth. Far enough away that becoming “King Oliver” is about as likely as Swallow House sinking into the sea, but not impossible.
After all, our country estate in East Sussex isn’t far from the shore, and ocean levels rise every year…
With a gentle roll of my eyes, I assure her—Yes, I will be freshly shorn. But I will not be asking for Kelly’s hand in marriage as she’s currently dating Hannah, her old rowing teammate, and is no longer interested in men.
Mother sends back a thumbs up emoji, and—How lovely for her. There are so few men like your father on the market these days. Young women have to find happiness where they can.
