Mystery of Joy
Chapter 2: Christmas Eve
by Lynn Saunders
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. - Washington Irving, Old Christmas
December 1913
They're crowded together in the servants' hall. A place has been cleared for dancing, the long table pushed against the wall. Others from the village have come for the party, and it's running deep into the night, far after the upstairs merriment has wound down. William moves through the doorway with a large tray of cocoa, and Mr. Bates has to step in front of Anna, out of the way of the swerving footman. He catches his cane in his hand so as not to trip anyone, and he's pushed close to her as the revelers spill out into the hallway. Her hands come to rest on his forearms, steadying him as he ducks into the corner with her. He'd said he wasn't coming.
It's been four months since she told him she loved him. Tonight she's had three cupcakes and two glasses of cider, but there's only one thing she wants. She feels warm and happy, and her face flushes at his proximity as he's pushed into her again. He throws a mild insult over his shoulder, but his protests are lost in the thump of the raucous music. She knows he thinks he's too old for this, that he came here tonight only for her.
Why, her mind dares, why are you sticking so close if you don't love me? But, she remains silent.
He has to stoop down to her, bending to speak into her ear so that he can be heard. She knows he's never been this close to her before. Her eyes flit nervously around the room, but no one is paying attention.
His voice rumbles low in her ear. "I've brought you something."
He must not know what that does to her. He couldn't know, she reasons, or he wouldn't be doing it.
She squeezes his forearm and moves out of the corner, to the door. She hopes he understands to follow, for she dares not take his hand. She worries if she allows their bare skin to meet, she won't be able to stop touching him, and she'll not make a fool of herself over him. Not again, she thinks with a wry smile. The click of his cane follows her down the hall as she leads him to the courtyard, foolishly leaving their overcoats behind so that she won't be tempted to linger with him out of doors.
She steps out into the midnight air. It's been snowing, and the night is bright and crisp. He moves outside behind her, pulling the door closed, and they face each other under the arch of the doorpost. Someone has tacked a bit of mistletoe to the wooden beam above them.
He presses a small book into her palm. "Happy Christmas, Anna."
"Thank you," she replies shyly, thumbing the cover. "I've not read it."
She has something for him, too, tucked away up in her room. She had selected the handkerchiefs proudly, the best she could afford, embroidered them with his initials, and wrapped them with care. But, in the end, she felt conflicted about giving them. He isn't hers.
She shivers, and he sheds his suit jacket, placing it around her shoulders. It's large and warm and smells of him. He catches her staring, admiring him in his shirtsleeves, and she swallows and looks away quickly.
He follows her gaze to the mistletoe. "Hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids," he quotes.
She looks at him then, touched, and his eyes drop to his shoes.
"You think I'm pretty?"
He doesn't answer, but his lips betray him nonetheless, curving up into a small smile. She reaches out into the void between them and takes his hand. He looks at her then, deep into her eyes, and she feels his trepidation. He's trembling inside.
The brush of his fingertips against her cheek is gentle and sweet. Not like what she imagines when she lies awake at night, thinking of his touch. He tugs her against his chest, and she hugs him close easily, as if by habit. His strong arms fold around her, holding her tight against him. They rock back and forth slowly, and their embrace lingers as tiny snowflakes begin to fall once more. He doesn't kiss her.
When they break apart, his fingers stroke her cheekbone one last time before he opens the door. The warm yellow light of the hallway engulfs him, and he disappears back into the crowd, leaving her alone with her thoughts. In a few hours, just before dawn, she will creep downstairs and return his coat, hanging it on the hall tree and slipping his gift into the breast pocket. For now, she brings his jacket sleeve to her nose and smiles in the dark, snow falling all around.
*Bates quotes from Washington Irving's Sketch Book: Christmas Eve. The full text is available free online.