Author: Monica Rowe
Disclaimer: All characters from "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World" are the property of Coote/Hayes, Tribune Entertainment, Over-the-Hill Gang, John Landis, etc. No profit is being made from their use.
Timeframe: Season 4, shortly after Malone's return
Rating: G
~~~~
George Challenger tapped the barometer's glass front and duly noted the result in his log book under the date of December 19, 1922. He stood alone in the Treehouse compound taking his daily meteorological readings; even so, the frustrated oath erupted in barely more than a whisper: "Damn this changeable weather!"
The visionary squinted up into the sky, watching the clouds change their shapes and patterns as the unpredictable winds pushed them across his line of sight. For more than three years now, he'd been trying to read the weather systems that guarded the South American plateau from the rest of the world. So far without success, he'd been searching for an escape route, any way that would allow the explorers' balloon past the updrafts that held them captive in what they now called the 'Lost World'.
And so far, the plateau continued to baffle him, denying him the consistency that he, as a scientist, demanded to formulate his theories. Except those few days every year. Those days when the barometric pressure rose sufficiently for the idea of flying back to civilization, going home, to be more than just a remote possibility. But even on those days, circumstances managed to deny the Challenger Expedition the chance to try. The winds may have been agreeable, but hostile tribes and the still-perplexing energy lines were among the forces that held them here.
Now, for the fourth time, he'd tried to use the winds to his advantage, and had failed yet again. He had hoped the late autumn winds, stronger than in previous years, might prove luckier than the springtime currents, but fortune refused to smile on his band of adventurers.
Neither Marguerite Krux nor Lord Roxton had come right out and said anything about this latest unsuccessful attempt, although the way the heiress had been avoiding him recently left Challenger in no doubt of her feelings. Finn had merely accepted it as another experiment that hadn't quite worked out, keeping her from exploring the world her companions described in reminiscent moments. Although Veronica and Malone commiserated with them, their disappointment didn't seem to run as deep – Veronica refused to leave until she discovered more about her own history and her future as the protector of the plateau, and Malone, having returned from his journey only after the last thwarted attempt, had already confided in the visionary that he planned to stay.
The fact was that the new material he'd developed for the balloon, while being durable and elastic enough, was too thick and heavy to reach the required altitude with the attached payload. Perhaps he'd been a little too cautious, trying to make the material impervious to attack from ancient flying birds and modern weapons. Challenger had insisted that the responsibility for the failure was entirely his own – he'd practically forced the hunter and the heiress to pare their baggage down to bare essentials, and then had taken up almost all of the extra room, and weight, in the balloon for his journals, specimens and instruments. He couldn't blame them for their prickly attitudes.
And now Christmas was almost upon them again. George could barely glance at Veronica's beautifully illustrated calendar without feeling the accusing stare of the big, red 25 she'd drawn for Christmas Day. He'd let them all down so many times. What on earth could he do to redeem himself, just a little? Looking around the green jungle for inspiration, he wished, not for the first time, for Arthur Summerlee's supportive presence. He had always been able to find a bright spot in every discouraging situation, even when the others, Challenger especially, refused to acknowledge it. Lord only knows, George thought, it can't get much more discouraging than this.
Heaving a weary sigh, Challenger closed his notebook, stashed the pencil in his pocket and turned back toward the base of their lofty home, heading for the refuge of his lab. As he neared the elevator, the sounds of good-natured conversation reached him from beyond the huge tree.
"Okay, Roxton, so what did you do on Christmas Day?" Finn asked.
Challenger smiled to himself. Their young companion had obviously not yet satisfied her curiosity about the holiday, having been too young when the nuclear holocaust occurred to have many memories. As much as they had in past years shied away from talking about the celebrations they missed at home, Finn's exuberance proved too much to resist, and Challenger had at one time or another found various of his fellow explorers regaling her with tales of Christmases they'd spent with their families. It seemed this would be another of those occasions as Ned Malone added his voice to hers.
"Yeah, how did you celebrate in 'merry old England'?"
The expedition's leader pulled the lever for the elevator and stood to the side with his ears straining to hear John's response above the noise.
On the other side of the huge tree trunk, Roxton's shoulders slumped slightly as he dredged up a long-buried memory. His hands stilled on the firewood he'd been piling beside the tree and he turned his face toward his companions. Malone felt as if the nobleman were looking right through him as he contemplated his answer, and immediately regretted asking the question.
"Our family spent Christmas Day together, riding in the morning, visiting the estate farms in the afternoon." His eyes closed briefly on the picture and he swallowed the lump of guilt that still came to his throat at the recollection. His fingers tightened on the rough wood of their own accord and his mouth went dry. He had hoped his anguish over William's death, and his father's, would fade after so many years and his final confrontation with Pierson Rice, but he was wrong. It hadn't lessened at all. Forcing himself to breathe normally, he continued. "In the evening, we all sat in the drawing room by a roaring fire and the tree, drinking eggnog made with fine brandy." His voice trailed off again.
"Eggnog? What's that?" Finn's nose wrinkled, as if she'd just tasted sour milk. "Sounds disgusting."
"You've never tried it, Finn," Malone suggested indulgently, recalling the times he'd had the rich drink at home on Christmas and New Year's Day. "Though we made ours with rum…"
At this point, the elevator arrived, and Challenger, still unseen by his housemates, stepped inside. Anyone who might have seen the calculating expression on his face would have wondered just what kind of mischief he was up to.
Roxton hadn't heard the elevator rumble upward. "In the years since Wi…" His eyes were focused on the ground, but his vision was filled with a quiet and lonely drawing room, the Christmas tree that he'd allowed only at his butler's insistence glistening half-heartedly in the firelight, a stark reminder of all he had lost in the moment he'd fired one shot. He shook his head to dispel the images and straightened, putting a hand to his back to stretch the muscles. His lips quirked in a disparaging grin. "I just skipped the eggnog and went straight to the brandy…"
"Why?" Finn asked.
Roxton smiled sadly before turning his attention back to his task. "It's a long and painful story, Finn."
Even she realized that Lord Roxton was through reminiscing for the afternoon. Finn lifted her eyebrows in Malone's direction and encountered his compassionate expression. With a shrug, she strode off toward the enclosure to give Zelda, the doe goat, her afternoon's ration of grass and top up her water supply.
~~~~
Challenger crept quietly out of the lab, headed for the kitchen. He hoped he'd be able to find Abigail Layton's neatly written cookbook before anyone else found him. He was much better at formulating scientific theories than fibs, and he knew he'd have no end of trouble explaining his presence in Veronica's domain. But he couldn't do anything about his Christmas surprise without a recipe…He tiptoed past the table and squinted at the cupboards, trying to remember where the valuable reference was kept.
"George!" Marguerite called from the balcony seat as she watched him steal across the floor. She sat with her mending piled beside her, taking advantage of the mid-afternoon light. "What are you doing in the kitchen?"
"Oh…um…" Completely unprepared and flustered, Challenger's eyes darted nervously from the counter to the table as he searched for an excuse. He leapt at the first one to cross his mind. Diving toward the fruit bowl, he picked up a fist-sized round orangey-yellow specimen. "Hungry," he said, tossing his find up past his head and grabbing it back out of the air as he turned to leave the kitchen. "Could use a little snack."
Marguerite listened to his lame excuse with a growing smile. "That's a lemon, George," she noted, pointing her sewing needle at the object in his hand.
"Oh?" He finally took a closer look. Once again, he'd mistaken the large tropical lemon for a pale-skinned orange. He'd have to be more careful next time. "Oh! So it is!" Smiling sheepishly as a slight flush coloured his high cheekbones, he dropped the lemon back into the bowl and picked up an apple instead. Marguerite made no further comment. Thinking he'd made a fortunate escape, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he took a few more steps toward the staircase.
"So, are you going to tell me what you're up to?"
He realized his short-lived luck had just run out.
~~~~
Veronica's eyes popped open, her hand clenched on the sheet that covered her. Something had awakened her, a noise from somewhere in the Treehouse. Keeping quite still, her breath making almost no sound, the huntress listened intently for the noise to repeat itself. She ruled out Challenger's snoring and Roxton's sneaking back into his own bed – those sounds were already familiar enough that she wasn't disturbed by them, even though they weren't evident at that moment.
Could it be Malone? Since his return, the journalist had often found himself awake and alert in the night, unable to get back to sleep, even in the safety of his Treehouse bed. Veronica had found him sitting in the great room on more than one occasion and had finally convinced him to confide in her. They both knew it was the lingering wariness from nights spent alone in a dangerous jungle that kept him from his sleep. Malone hoped it would fade soon; Veronica hoped it might last a little longer, as she relished the uninterrupted time they had when everyone else was asleep.
Veronica allowed herself a tender smile as she relaxed. Maybe it is Ned, she thought as she threw off the cover and rose, eager to share a few more quiet moments with him, to learn more about where he'd been and what he'd done, getting to know him all over again.
She hadn't yet told him that she'd been wrong, thinking they could only be friends. Any time she'd wanted to, she found herself tongue-tied, unable to get the words out, all because of what she'd discovered about her heritage. How could she tell him she wanted more than friendship, and then in the same breath tell him she couldn't leave the plateau? It wouldn't be fair! It wasn't fair! Veronica's brow creased in undeserved resentment toward her parents, but only for a moment. It wasn't their fault; they'd made the best of Abigail's responsibilities. Tom Layton had left the civilized world behind for her – Veronica didn't think she had the right to ask anyone to do the same.
Taking a deep breath to push those gloomy thoughts aside, she wandered quietly up the stairs, looking for the young American's familiar figure in the nighttime shadows.
Her smile faded in disappointment when she didn't find Ned sitting in his favourite chair. But Veronica was kept from turning back toward her room by a soft noise she did hear close by. She tiptoed on, careful to make no sound. As the last barrier to her view of the kitchen disappeared, she put a hand to her mouth to contain a surprised gasp. All thoughts of Malone flew from her mind as she found Marguerite, clad in her silk robe, candle-lit lamp in hand, rummaging through one of the cupboards.
"Marguerite!" she whispered, her curiosity getting the better of her.
The secretive heiress jumped at the sudden noise and whirled to face its source. "Veronica!" she shrieked, "Don't scare me like that!" Covering her shock as quickly as she could, she put up a hand to quiet her racing heart.
"It's the middle of the night! What are you doing here?"
Marguerite felt like a trapped animal - never a comfortable sensation with Veronica around. She spat out the excuse she'd prepared for just this possibility. "I was thirsty! It is all right to get a drink of water, isn't it?" She was glad her body blocked her lamp's light. The frustration she felt at being discovered was probably written all over her face – seeing that would only arouse Veronica's suspicions all the more.
"Of course, but…"
"But what?" Marguerite unerringly found the cabinet that held the glasses and the mugs – not the one she'd been searching through earlier - took one, and picked up the water jug to pour her drink. She glanced back at her hostess. "Care to join me?"
Veronica shook her head, still wondering just what her companion was trying to hide. Before she could utter another question, Marguerite pushed past her, glass in one hand and candle in the other.
"Well, I'm going back to bed." As she reached the stairs, she whispered back with a hint of mockery, "Sweet dreams, Veronica. See you in the morning."
"You can bet on it," the huntress replied to the empty room as she took one last look around before heading back to her own bed.
~~~~
"Look, George, we have to work together here!" Marguerite pulled at Challenger's sleeve to get his attention. She'd been following him around the lab, whispering the details of her late-night encounter with Veronica. Other than the odd distracted hum, he'd so far made no useful reply.
Planting herself in front of him, Marguerite stared the scientist down, daring him to avoid her again. She watched his eyes intently, waiting until he had her fully in focus before she said any more. "You asked for my help, remember? Would it be too difficult to come up with some excuse to get them all out of here for an hour or so?"
He mulled the request over silently for a moment. They'd done their trading at the Zanga village only a few days before, the larder and the ice box were full, and Roxton and Malone had taken care of the firewood for the kitchen. Roxton had even gone so far as to roast enough coffee beans to last Marguerite a full month! Even the lab was well-stocked for his own planned experiments. Everyone looked forward to a relaxing day before they began preparations for a Christmas feast.
He shook his head as he turned an apologetic face back to her. "Are you sure you don't know how to make it?"
She almost goggled at him. Didn't Challenger remember she was so completely inept in the kitchen that the only time she was allowed in was to do the dishes? No, Marguerite reflected, Christmas and all of its customs were things she took part in, but only for appearances' sake. She had spent so many lonely holidays, as a child, and even when she was married – not necessarily alone, but sorely lacking in true deep affection, and most times any affection at all – that she'd never concerned herself with the preparations. Fortunately, there had always been a cook or two available to take care of the traditional food and beverages…until now. She wondered how she'd let herself be talked into the whole Christmas thing at all.
"My expertise lies in drinking eggnog, George, not preparing it!" Marguerite cursed mildly under her breath, then glared back at him. "How about you? Didn't you ever help Jessie?"
"Me?" Closing his eyes to escape Marguerite's green stare, he did his best to visualize past Christmases at home with his wife – and found they were only vague recollections. Brightly decorated Christmas trees; lengths of greenery looped along the staircase banister; Jessie, sitting alone by the parlour fire, two small glasses of eggnog beside her, raising sad, disappointed eyes to his as he entered the room. The same scene played over and over, but each time Jessie wore a different gown…The despair he'd never noticed on her face at the time now hit him like a blow. He'd never been there, to help her trim the tree, to make the traditional eggnog, to celebrate with friends. Now he didn't know if he'd ever have the chance again.
"George?" Marguerite grabbed hold of Challenger's arms as his face paled. "Are you all right?"
"I…I…" He shook himself out of his reverie and found her still staring at him, but now with concern. He smiled and shook his arms lightly out of her grasp. "I'm fine, Marguerite." The sadness didn't leave his face, though, when he answered her earlier question, "No, I can't say I ever helped Jessie make eggnog."
"So that leaves us back at square one." She leaned back against the lab table with a hopeless sigh, but kept an eye on his face. His colouring was slowly returning to normal. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked quietly, still wondering how talking of Jessie and eggnog had prompted such a strong emotional reaction.
"Yes!" There was no hesitation in the scientist's voice; he shot a determined glance at his helper. "Absolutely." He turned his attention to the test tube in his hand and peered through the glass. "I'll leave the details to you, then, Marguerite…"
She followed his absorbed progress across the lab with an astounded expression on her face – didn't he hear a word I just said? – then pushed herself away from the table and stomped up the stairs. "I'll leave the details to you, Marguerite…" she muttered under her breath. "It would serve you right if I just left you to fend for yourself…" But there was no time for that now. Now she had to figure out how to get her hands on that recipe. Carefully schooling her face into its normal expression of bored disinterest, she walked into the great room.
"Challenger giving you trouble again, Marguerite?" Roxton asked with a smile at his lovely lady. Out of all of them, only she had the patience to work with their resident scientific genius for any length of time. But it seemed from the sound of her boots and the vague grumbling he had heard that even she had reached the limits of her endurance.
Marguerite opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it closed again when she realized the secret would be out if she said anything at all. She shrugged instead. "He's being pig-headed as usual. Nothing I can't handle."
Roxton nodded and finished polishing the last pistol. He got up from his seat at the table to replace the prepared firearms in the rack, and dropped a kiss on her cheek as he passed. Marguerite, ready to huff indignantly at him, took a quick look and realized that no one had noticed his gesture. Or at least, if they had, no one was admitting it. She was still wary of their acceptance of this changed relationship between herself and Lord Roxton; waiting for someone to use it against her. So far, no one had. But that didn't mean John could run around advertising it - not that he ever paid much attention to that request. With a resigned sigh, she watched his progress as he dropped into one of the comfortable chairs, grinning.
"Marguerite," Finn called over her shoulder, "what else do we need for decorations?"
"Decorations?"
"And what about dinner?" Veronica asked, picking up another piece of paper. "Should we add anything to the menu?"
"Hey, what about that eggnog stuff Roxton and Malone were talking about?" Finn turned her gaze toward both men. "Are we having that?"
"Eggnog?" Veronica's face lit up. "I haven't had that since my mother –" She stopped suddenly, a frown creasing her forehead. One of her fondest Christmas memories had been helping her mother make the creamy, sweet drink – in huge quantities to share among all of the members of the Layton expedition. But her own batch had always been special. Instead of the liquor Abigail mixed into the adults' portion, they'd added sweet syrup to Veronica's glass. She remembered how it always made her feel so grown-up to participate in the Christmas toast…Her eyes misted over and the corners of her mouth began to twitch.
"Forget it, Vee." Finn recognized the expression. "It was just a thought."
"No, Finn," Veronica took a deep breath to still the trembling and smiled at her young friend. "It's a good idea. Really." Her frown reappeared, but this time she was trying to recall the last time she'd watched her mother prepare the Christmas beverage. "If only I could remember what was in it…"
"Eggs and milk," Malone offered.
"Brandy and a dash of nutmeg," Roxton added. "I remember that."
"In America, we always used rum instead of brandy," Ned explained. "And we'd have eggnog on New Year's Day, too, when the young men," he tugged at the points of his shirt collar for humorous emphasis, "went visiting all their friends." He grinned and shook his head at the memory of one increasingly jubilant group of revelers with whom he'd celebrated. "You don't want to know the condition we were in when we got home."
"I didn't think you were old enough to drink then, Neddy boy," Marguerite commented on her way to the stairs, claiming Roxton's pet name for the journalist. Doing her best to make an unhurried exit, she tossed her hair back over her shoulders and added, "I'd better check on George before he blows something up." As soon as she was out of sight, she ran lightly into her quarters and straight to her paper and pen.
~~~~
George Challenger pulled his backpack over his shoulder and picked up his rifle. "We should be back by late afternoon, Marguerite." He stuck his hat on his head with a quick pat and turned toward the elevator. "You should be able to keep everyone busy until then." Not that she'd have to worry: Roxton, Malone and Finn had already left, scouting for the perfect Christmas tree.
"As long as Zelda cooperates, I won't need that long." Visions of last time she'd had the misfortune to draw goat-milking duty danced before her eyes. Her lips twisted wryly as she recalled being upended from the milking stool by an irate goat just as Roxton and Finn wandered by. It was only days later that she'd finally recovered from the bruising – to both her body and her ego. She turned her gaze back at Challenger. "But that might be a little too much to ask."
"The trip to the Inland Sea should only take about two hours; another hour or so to collect the Pterodactylus eggs, and we'll be on our way back before you know it." He smiled at his confidante and patted the hand-drawn sketch map in his jacket pocket. Veronica had supplied the map and then had graciously offered to accompany him on this quest for dinosaur eggs. Except this time they weren't specimens – they were needed to restock the kitchen supply. They had discovered, with the help of their jungle-born hostess, that this small version of the Pterodactyl had the eggs most resembling, and tasting like, the chicken eggs the explorers were accustomed to in Europe and America, if they were harvested at a young enough stage.
Challenger hit the lever for the elevator and disappeared from Marguerite's sight with a smile and a tip of his hand to his hat brim.
The expedition financier turned back into the kitchen and grabbed the milk pail. "This had just better be worth it, Challenger," she muttered, not looking in the least forward to her upcoming session with the goat.
George had sent the elevator back up for her. After a quick look over the balcony to see that he and Veronica had indeed left the compound, she stepped into the cage herself and descended to the jungle floor.
~~~~
"Now what does that recipe say?" Challenger asked his aide, who squinted tiredly at the notes in front of her.
Marguerite tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, and held the page closer to the light. "You dragged me out of bed at this ungodly hour to read you a recipe?"
"I need your tasting expertise, my dear Marguerite. After all, we do want to make the perfect eggnog." His attention was fully focused on the table in front of him, laden as it was with an odd collection of scientific instruments and cooking utensils. His hands hovered busily as he made sure everything he needed was within arm's reach.
Suddenly realizing George had cast her in the role of guinea pig for his little test, Marguerite slowly began to shuffle toward the stairs. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, George, but all the same…"
Challenger had already prepared a large beaker and his ingredients. The hand-held blending machine that he'd developed while working on a previous experiment with food lay nearby. "Come, now, Marguerite. It'll be perfectly safe," he commented as he lit a burner, then picked up the beaker and broke a Pterodactylus egg into it. "First, we'll follow the Pasteur method of killing the dangerous bacteria," he explained as he placed the partially filled beaker over the flame and reached for a thermometer, "then we can get down to business."
The twinkle in his eye disappeared in puzzlement as he turned to find Marguerite standing at the bottom of the staircase, looking as though she wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. "Come on, Marguerite! Don't you want to be part of a new tradition?" He stirred the thick yellow mixture and dipped the thermometer into it.
"I've never been big on traditions. You know that."
The faint note of wistfulness in her voice caused George to glance over his shoulder, his eyes unknowingly full of empathy and compassion. The adventuress suddenly realized that she was not the only one to have avoided traditions; Challenger had probably done the same, to the detriment of his own family. Now aware of another connection between them, she wandered slowly back toward the table, unable to abandon him and the Christmas project that seemed to mean so much to him. The self-absorbed scientist really was trying his best to bring a fond Christmas memory back into their lives. And she had been treating him a bit unkindly of late. She had some making-up to do, too.
She dropped a hand on his shoulder and peered into the warming glass jar. "But for you…" They grinned at each other for a second. "And on one condition…"
"What's that?"
"That you try it first!"
~~~~
With Christmas Eve dinner done and cleared away, the explorers gathered around the Christmas tree in the great room. The tree Roxton and Malone had finally found looked very much like a fir, although the branches were sparse and the needles widely spaced. Veronica and Finn had spent the afternoon decorating it with baubles from the huntress' childhood that they'd found stored away as well as new ornaments they'd made – paper snowflakes, bunches of berries, and slices of candied fruit. Marguerite had even allowed them to tie some of her scarves into bows to lend their colour to the festive atmosphere.
Challenger watched everyone settle into their favourite seats, barely able to contain his excitement. Catching Marguerite's eye, he nodded almost imperceptibly.
"And now, my friends, since you've worked so hard to create Christmas for us, Marguerite and I have a surprise for you!"
"Now George," Marguerite said, rising from her place beside Roxton, "this was your idea. You deserve all the credit."
Their companions watched in awe as George brought a large cloth-covered bowl out of the ice box and placed it on the dining table. Veronica recognized it as the one that had suddenly appeared early in the morning, with a note pinned to it: 'DO NOT OPEN 'TIL XMAS'. Heeding the warning and Challenger's whispered admonishment, she'd stayed away from it all day, even though her curiosity was overwhelming.
The expedition leader pulled the towel away with a flourish and exposed a glass bowl filled with pale yellow liquid. His grin stretched ear-to-ear as his eyes took in everyone's wide-eyed reactions.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Eggnog!"
"That's eggnog??"
Marguerite appeared with a tray of glasses and two bottles of amber liquid. Roxton jumped to his feet to take the tray from her, setting it beside Challenger's concoction.
"You and George, eh?" he whispered to his lady, a teasing twinkle in his eye. "You're sure its safe to drink?"
"John!" The amused grin she turned on him belied the elbow she poked at his ribs.
Challenger turned a pointed glance in their direction. "If I could have everyone's attention for just a moment…" The couple grinned sheepishly like a pair of schoolchildren, then fought to put duly serious expressions back on their faces.
"Christmas celebrations are filled with traditions –
decorated trees, decorated homes," he lifted a hand to acknowledge each as
he spoke, "and, no matter if we're from England or America, eggnog. Now, with our fourth Christmas on the
plateau at hand, I think it might be appropriate to rekindle a tradition that
has been important to each of us in one way or another. May this help us heal our past wounds, give
us hope for the future and a return to those we miss, and especially to realize
what we have together today."
Only a slight sniffle was heard once George's voice faded. He looked around to identify its source, to no avail. Everyone's expressions had become so pensive that he thought he might have made an enormous mistake. Moving uncomfortably toward the bowl, he picked up the towel to cover it up again.
"Now that you've made all this fuss, don't we get to try it?" Finn asked, her voice breaking the thick silence.
Challenger's hand jerked away from the bowl. His head popped up suddenly, puzzlement written all over his face at the change he saw in their expressions as everyone added their requests for a taste.
Roxton was the first to understand Challenger's consternation. He had needed a moment to make peace with his memories before he could respond to George's surprise. "Needed to lay a few old ghosts to rest, George." His glance took in all of their companions before he turned back to Challenger with a smile, passing him the ladle. "I think we all did."
The scientist, relieved that he hadn't miscalculated the effect that his Christmas surprise might have on everyone, grinned widely as he accepted the kisses from the ladies of the group and the hearty claps on his back from the gentlemen. He raised the ladle to signal for silence once again.
"As you all know, eggnog requires a touch of liquor to mellow the taste…" Everyone laughed. "So, in deference to our limited resources and in the hopes that we'll soon have Arthur Summerlee back in our midst, we offer a choice of our finest brandy and Arthur's special Amontillado sherry."
Controlled chaos reigned as generous servings were poured – the overwhelming favourite being the Amontillado, proving just how sorely Summerlee was missed by his adopted Treehouse family.
Everyone stood, filled glasses in hand, waiting for George, their elder statesman and provider of the seasonal elixir, to make the first toast.
"To Jessie," he intoned quietly, a melancholy expression crossing his face as he lifted the glass.
Roxton followed suit, raising his hand high. "To William."
"To Mother and Daddy," Veronica's hand wasn't quite steady as she toasted both her missing parent and the one she'd lost forever.
Ned, standing beside their hostess, gave her free hand a quick squeeze. Then he looked around at his friends. "To Mom, Dad and the rest of the family, wherever they are."
No one noticed Marguerite slip out of sight, glass in hand.
"To all you guys." Finn grinned. "Thanks for letting me stay." She looked askance at the yellowy stuff in her glass as she raised her own toast. Challenger said he and Marguerite had tasted it, and they were still alive – maybe it wouldn't be all that bad.
When Marguerite didn't add her own toast, they all looked around to find an empty spot where she'd been standing. Roxton looked out toward the balcony. His face softened when his eyes fell on her lonely figure. Nodding his head briefly to his companions, he strode quietly out to join her.
He found her staring expressionlessly out at the late evening sky, idly tracing the pattern on the glass with her fingers.
"Marguerite?" She didn't so much as turn to acknowledge him. "No toast you'd like to make?" Still not looking at him, she shook her head.
"Then may I suggest one?" Roxton asked quietly, taking her arm in a gentle grasp and turning her to face him. He didn't miss the sadness in her eyes. "To us," he said, touching his glass to hers. "And our new traditions."
As he spoke, Marguerite saw on his face the reflection of emotions they'd finally admitted to each other only a few months before. Even though she was still hesitant about the future, especially if they returned to England, she couldn't deny the love he'd shown her she truly did hold inside. A tremulous smile took hold. "To us," she repeated on the slightest whisper.
They each took a sip to seal their toast, then Roxton wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Unable to resist, he dropped a kiss on her temple.
"Roxton! You don't have to get it in my hair!" she protested with a smiling voice.
Pulling back, he grinned at her in agreement. "No, I don't." And he leaned closer, finally meeting her lips in a tender kiss that tasted vaguely of cinnamon, nutmeg and a hint of Amontillado. A taste that he committed to memory, just as he would always know how it felt to hold her.
"Another new tradition?" he asked, brushing her cheek with his palm as he drew away, conscious that their housemates waited for them to continue the celebration.
"We can but hope…" she replied as he turned her toward the great room and guided her back inside. She knew it wasn't what John wanted to hear, but she also knew he understood. He understood the complications she'd left behind when they'd started out on this expedition. He even understood the reasons why she'd shut herself away emotionally for so long. And yet, he was still there, beside her. Maybe this was the year she'd finally feel that elusive deep affection that had defined Christmas to her for so much of her life.
Veronica, Ned, George and Finn all stood near the tree, waiting for Marguerite's toast. Smiling at Roxton, who had dropped his arm lightly around her waist, she raised her own shimmering glass of eggnog.
"To family – lost and found. And merely misplaced. To all of you," she acknowledged each of her companions in her smile, "and the family we have become." Roxton's hand tightened ever so slightly on her waist; she dropped her free hand to cover it and in an instant found her fingers entwined with his.
"Hear, hear!" Challenger responded.
They all touched their glasses together, and, in concert, lifted them to their lips.
"Hey!" Finn remarked after taking a second long sip. "This stuff is pretty good!"
"I should hope so, Finn!" George said. "There's a lot of tradition, old and new, in that cup!"
And the explorers settled in to establish a Christmas tradition all their own.
Merry Christmas – Happy Holidays
December 2003