Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
My last year's Christmas story, Silent Night, Lonely Night, was a "missing moment" from Chapters 1 and 2 of The Center of My Heart: Matthew's first Christmas after the war, his bleak future that of a paralyzed invalid; Mary's last Christmas before marrying a man who makes her miserable, in order to protect her secret; their love for each other unspoken. As they look at the tree, Mary tells Matthew how she and her sisters would sneak out of the nursery on Christmas night. Then, Chapter 45 of Center revisits this scene a year later, Christmas 1919: they are married, Matthew is out of his chair, and Mary is due to deliver in the new year. Several readers told me that they looked forward to reading when Matthew and Mary's children are in the gallery, looking down at the tree and their parents.
So. It's a bit unusual, as I haven't quite finished writing Center yet, but rather than a missing moment, this is set at a Christmas several years in the future . . .
Christmas Night, 1918
Matthew wheeled his chair toward Mary, who smiled as she came to him, cocking her head. "I'm not the only one who wanted a last look at the tree, I see."
He nodded, returning her smile. "It's really quite magical, isn't it? I would always wait until Mother and Father had gone to bed on Christmas night, then come back downstairs and sit for a bit, not wanting the day to end."
"Yes, we girls would wait until Nanny was snoring, then we'd sneak out to the gallery and peek through the balustrade, there," and she pointed to the same spot where she had stood and watched him, "looking at the tree. One year, Mama and Papa were standing right where we are now, and they saw us, but pretended they hadn't. We didn't know, until years later, that they had been about to go up, but had waited so we could keep looking." They both gazed up at the gallery, and for an instant, they were the parents whose children were giggling, and whispering, and shushing. They each felt it, mourned it, then pushed it down.
.
Christmas Night, 1919
They gazed at the magnificent tree, the ornaments and tinsel glittering as if enchanted. His arms came around, cradling her belly, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, then murmured, "What a difference a year can make, my love."
She laced her fingers with his. "Do you remember, my telling you about how on Christmas night, after we thought everyone had gone to bed, we girls would get up after Nanny fell asleep and peek through the balustrade," and she pointed up to the gallery rail, "to look at the tree?"
"You said that one time," he nodded, smiling, "your parents were still down here, looking at the tree, and it was only years later that you found out that they knew you were up there but waited to go up, so you could keep looking."
"Well, you see, I looked up there last Christmas, and imagined we were the parents, and it was our children there, just for an instant, but knowing," she said, her throat tight, " . . .knowing, that it would never be."
"Oh, Mary, darling, I did, too," he said huskily.
"And now look at us," she whispered, her face glowing, even as a tear leaked out.
"Now look at us."
.
Christmas Night, 1926
The hardest part was trying not to look, or rather, not to let the children see them look.
Matthew and Mary always lingered at the tree after everyone else had gone up to bed, always enchanted by its beauty, but also remembering that first melancholy Christmas, he confined to his chair, she confined to her resolve to marry a man she didn't love. Remembering how only a month later, their life had been transformed one night that had begun with a confession and ended with a proposal. A night where everything had seemed impossible until anything seemed possible. So this moment, alone at the tree, was always a quiet moment of reflection: so many blessings.
Until the Christmas just before George turned three. They had kissed tenderly, then turned to go upstairs and, looking up at the gallery, saw two round eyes peering through the balustrade.
They both stopped, transfixed, then Mary murmured, "That little monkey."
Matthew chuckled softly. "Wally will have a fit."
As if on cue: "Master George! What are you doing out here? Come on, come on."
George scrambled up, and they could hear him trotting over to where Nurse Wallace was waiting. "What will your parents say?" And they disappeared into the family wing.
Mary looked at Matthew, smiling happily. "The tradition continues!"
"I was hoping it would!" he grinned. "Although I hadn't expected it to begin quite this early."
"We must let Wally know it's all right," Mary observed, as they began to ascend the stairs. "I'm sure she's vexed with herself that he escaped without her knowing."
Ellen Wallace had been with them since the day George was born. Now in her mid-thirties, widowed during the first months of the war, she had started nannying when only 16, and came with excellent references from before her marriage, as well as since she had returned to work after her husband's death. But it was her cheerful demeanor and positive attitude—I've always found that children are happier the more time they spend with their parents.— that convinced Mary and Matthew that she was the right person. And indeed, she was. Firm without being harsh, with a look that quelled any thought of disobedience, she was always loving and kind. The children adored their "Wally."
They entered the family wing, then climbed the few stairs at the end of the corridor to the nursery suite. Quietly opening the night nursery door a crack, they watched as Wally finished tucking George in.
"The tree's like Christmas magic, Wally," George whispered.
"It is that," Wally smiled down at him and brushed a stray blond curl off his forehead, then said firmly, "but you must stay in bed."
"Yes, Wally. I will," he replied gravely, hugging his teddy.
The nurse adjusted the covers of the sleeping Catherine, then straightened up, and seeing Mary and Matthew at the door, she hurried over, joining them in the hallway of the suite.
"M'lady, sir, I am so very sorry that I didn't hear him get up!" she apologized in an anxious hush. "I always hear them stirring, in fact, I woke up because I heard Miss Catherine call out in her sleep, and I got up to check on her, and Master George was gone!" She shook her head. "I'll start sleeping on the bed in the nursery." She slept in the small connecting room, the door always left ajar, using the bed in the nursery only if one of the children was sick.
"You'll do no such thing," Mary said firmly. "The reason we're here is to let you know that it's quite all right for the children to get up. My sisters and I always sneaked out of the nursery on Christmas night to look at the tree."
"And I did, too," Matthew added. "Although, not having a grand gallery view, I would come downstairs, sitting in front of it until I fell asleep, and my father would come collect me and put me back to bed."
Wally looked at them skeptically.
.
And so the sisters' tradition began anew. George, who decided he had only promised he'd stay in bed that particular night, was joined the next year by Catherine, and the following year by Robbie. This year, baby Evaline, at just under a year, was still too young. It took all of Wally's willpower to stay in bed as she heard them tiptoe past her door, but Mary had insisted.
Most years, they were joined by cousins—Edith and Sybil heartily endorsing the continuation of the custom— but this year the Strallens hadn't spent the night—baby Edward was colicky—and the Bransons were spending Christmas in Ireland.
Yes, it was very hard not to look up, once the giggling, and whispering, and shushing began: Stop, Robbie, they'll hear you. It wasn't me, it was Catherine. It was not me, shhh! Shh! Shh!
Matthew and Mary, their lips pressed tight, fought the urge to laugh out loud. His arms came around her, cradling her belly. She leaned back against his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to her temple. "How are you feeling, my love?"
"Very tired, but not sick at all." She had been less and less nauseated with each pregnancy, and this time, at just past three months, she was hardly ever sick, just queasy. "And I think I'm over the worst of it."
"I'm so glad, darling.
They moved slowly around the tree, as if inspecting the ornaments, until they reached a spot where they could be sure they'd be able to shoot a glance up at the gallery without the children realizing. They quickly looked up. Four sets of eyes stared through the balustrade railings. Four?
"Mama! Dadda!" A chorus of shushing followed.
"Good Lord, they've brought Evaline!" Mary hissed to Matthew.
"Those scamps! We'd better head up, then."
They kissed tenderly, as always triggering gasps and giggles, followed by the tumult of running back to the nursery as their parents started for the stairs.
Matthew's gait was a bit slow and stiff, as it often was at the end of a long day. He winced as they started to climb.
Mary frowned. "How's your back?"
"It's fine."
Mary rolled her eyes.
"I'll take some aspirin."
"And use a hot water bottle."
"And use a hot water bottle."
"You've got to learn to say 'no' to being a bucking bronco for your cowboys and cowgirl."
Never. Matthew just smiled.
They reached the top of the stairs and turned down the gallery, stopping short at the sight of Evaline, who was still sitting happily at the railing.
"Oh, for goodness sake!" Mary exclaimed, as they hurried over.
"Mama! Dadda!" She clapped her hands, then started to crawl to them.
"Evie!" Matthew cooed, as he bent down and scooped her up. He tapped her nose. "Did you get left behind?" She began to pat his face, babbling contentedly.
Catherine and George burst from the family wing, freezing, their eyes saucers, as they took in their parents and baby sister.
Matthew inclined his head, an eyebrow shooting up. "So, you lot just discovered you had left the baby?" he asked sternly, trying not to laugh.
Catherine turned and ran back to the nursery, her chestnut plaits flying behind her.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," George whispered.
"Really, George," Mary stated somberly, "you shouldn't have gotten her up in the first place. Why you'll be seven next month! You should know better." She couldn't look at Matthew, or she would have burst out laughing at her son's doleful expression.
"But, Mummy, she wanted to come."
"After you woke her up?" Evie could sleep through an earthquake.
George chewed his lip, then nodded.
Mary shook her head. "You must promise not do that again, if you ever have another baby brother or sister." (They hadn't told the children yet.) "Or a baby cousin," she added.
"I promise," he said solemnly, his blue eyes wide.
"All right, then, time for bed."
They entered the night nursery, and Robbie and Catherine quickly pulled the covers over their heads. George clambered into bed, and Mary tucked him in, then lowered herself next to him, stifling a yawn. Matthew sat down in the rocking chair with Evie, who, although still awake, had become very quiet, her eyes heavy.
"I'm very sorry George forgot Evie," Catherine whispered under the covers.
George pushed up on one arm. "Cathy, you forgot her, too!"
Catherine pulled the covers down. "You're the oldest."
"You're almost five and a half!" he retorted, mimicking his mother.
"Hush," Mary admonished, with a nod toward Wally's door. "You were co-conspirators."
Robbie struggled out from under his covers, his brown eyes serious, his sandy hair disheveled. "Was I one?"
Mary considered. "You're not yet four, so only a little bit."
"What's it mean?" Catherine asked.
Mary raised a brow. "It means you plotted together."
"But what does 'plotted together' mean?" she frowned.
"It means it's both our faults," George stated triumphantly.
"But it was Robbie's idea to wake Evie!"
Mary looked at Robbie, who nodded silently. She shook her finger. "Well, then you are a co-conspirator." She looked from George, to Catherine, to Robbie, and back to George. "So, all of you, here's the rule: anyone joining this party has to be at least a year old and walking. Is that clear?" Three heads nodded in unison. "All right, then. Now be quiet, so Evie will fall asleep, and your father and I can go to bed."
Matthew, rocking Evie, began to hum softly, then sing, just above a whisper, the lullaby that was also a Christmas carol, just as his father had sung to him:
Sleep my child and peace attend thee,
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and vale in slumber steeping,
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night.
Angels watching ever round thee,
All through the night,
In thy slumbers close surround thee,
All through the night.
They will of all fears disarm thee,
No forebodings should alarm thee,
They will let no peril harm thee
All through the night.
After singing it through a second time, all four sets of eyes had closed. Matthew rose, kissed Evaline's forehead, then laid her down in her cot, as Mary adjusted the covers of the other children, and then they stood together, prolonging Christmas a moment longer, finally, with a last loving look, turning to leave.
Wally, in her robe, with a shawl around her shoulders, her hair in a plait down her back, was standing in the doorway to her room. She inclined her head, then lead the way out the door to the hallway of the suite.
"Wally, have you been awake all this time?" Matthew asked.
"Of course, I have. What kind of nurse do you take me for? M'lady, sir, I feel I must say that I know my instructions are to leave them be when they have their Christmas escapade, but look what happened! Miss Evaline is much too young! And they left her there!"
"Yes, yes, we have made it very clear to all of them that they—" Mary began. "Oh, I guess you heard all that," she sighed.
"Yes, I did, and it's a good thing, too, because I would have had to insist, otherwise, and—." Wally stopped her lecture, and began to laugh, shaking her head, her grey-green eyes twinkling merrily. "You should have seen their faces when they ran back in and realized no one had Miss Evaline. I was about to go for her myself, when Master George and Miss Catherine turned and bolted back."
Matthew's brows rose. "You were watching?"
"What kind of nurse do you take me for?" Wally repeated. "I always watch."
"Well, you should have seen their faces when they came back and saw us with Evie," Matthew grinned, and they all laughed.
"Thank you for putting up with their escapade, as you call it," Mary smiled.
"Thank you both for letting me take care of your children," Wally said softly.
"Thank you for taking care of them," Matthew replied fervently. "I don't know where we'd be without you."
"Happy Christmas, m'lady, sir," she smiled and, with a nod, opened the door.
"Happy Christmas," they whispered, then watched her check each child before they left.
.
Christmas Night, 1927
The nursery was quite crowded with Strallen (Gerald, Flora, and Edward) and Branson (Maraid—but always called Sybbie because she looked just like her mother—and Michael) cousins in extra cots and beds.
George peeked into Wally's room, where she was pretending to sleep. "All right, you lot," George whispered. "Don't make a sound." They began to tiptoe silently past Wally's door. It really was remarkable how quiet they could be when they wanted to.
Sybbie brought up the rear with George, who was helping the now-old-enough Edward out of his cot. The now-old-enough Evie took Eddie's hand, and they toddled off.
"What about Joseph?" Sybbie whispered. "I'll hold him."
Too young, George mouthed, shaking his head. He looked down at his sleeping six-month-old brother. "Next year, Joe," he whispered, then hurried to join the others.
You might have noticed that the title of this fic begins A Center Story. Anything that I write going forward in "Center-verse," whether a missing moment from a chapter, or a future moment after the end of the story, I'm going to begin the title with A Center Story. To that end, I've changed the title of last year's Christmas fic to A Center Story: Silent Night, Lonely Night.
Thank you for reading! Reviews are like Christmas!