The Evening Before Christmas

By Tintinnabula

Chapter 3

Thursday, December 25, 1851. 1 p.m.

The light streaming into Margaret's bedroom was quite intense, and different from the soft, gray light that met her every other morning. She sat up with difficulty and peered through the window close to her bed. The brightness was due to snow, she saw. A tall cap of the stuff sat atop the lamp post across the street and covered the sills of the windows opposite her own.

Margaret was confused for a moment, as she'd remembered her father closing the heavy drapes before leaving her the night before. It seemed unlike him to disturb her privacy by adjusting the room's light so. Especially since he had been adamant that she rest.

A strident voice immediately made things clear.

"Good morning, Miss Hale! Or should I say, good afternoon? You certainly slept well!"

"Miss Thornton?" Margaret turned toward the familiar voice. The young woman had installed herself on the small slipper chair that usually sat by Margaret's bed. The chair now stood by the door, well away from the room's invalid. But perhaps that was by necessity. Fanny's voluminous skirts spread out from her in an avalanche of ruffles. Margaret counted at least ten layers of fabric. What a pretty penny that must have cost Mr. Thornton.

"John thought you might need a nurse." The blonde smiled, and strangely, it was not the tight, strained expression Margaret has seen every other time they'd been together.

"Thank you to you both," Margaret said politely. "Do you happen to know the time?"

Fanny checked the small, gold watch suspended from her chatelaine.

"It is one o'clock. You must have had a very late night."

Margaret nodded. "I did. And then I could not sleep. It's not like me to lie abed for so long." The date suddenly struck her, and she attempted to rise. "There is much I have to do today. Papa must be wondering what has become of me."

"He asked me not to awaken you. I've been here since eleven. But it is time you were up, don't you think?"

Margaret was groggy after a restless night, and wondered if she were experiencing some kind of waking dream. But Dr. Donaldson had not given her a sleeping draught, nor had Papa given her any of her mother's remaining laudanum. This strange appearance in her bedroom of Miss Fanny Thornton must therefore be very real, and not some Christmas apparition from a Dickens novella.

It was so very odd that Fanny was here. The last time they'd spoken, the woman could not have made her dislike more apparent. She had not cut Margaret dead, but had come quite close, ignoring the customary politeness that would require introducing Margaret to the young women she'd strolled with. And then there had been the conspiratorial giggling as Fanny and her friends had walked away.

"I have some experience with sprains and other bodily ailments," Fanny explained as she rose from her perch. "May I take a look?"

"Actually, I need to…" Margaret's voice trailed off.

"Oh, of course you do! Silly me. I see your family owns a commode. That is good. I am not fond of carrying chamber pots."

Margaret nearly laughed. That would be one of the very last things she could imagine of the spoiled Thornton daughter.

Fanny fetched a pair of wooden crutches from the place near the door where they leaned. She returned to Margaret, and was quite solicitous in her actions.

"Please sit up slowly. Carefully. Take a moment to get your bearing. There." She extended an arm, which Margaret gladly took, and then Fanny helped place the crutches appropriately.

"They will take a bit of getting used to, but I think they are the right height," Fanny said. "I will stay by your side so you do not fall."

"Really," Margaret said. "I appreciate your kindness, but this is unnecessary. Might you leave me for a moment so that I might have some privacy?"

Fanny wrinkled her brow. "If you insist. But really, I am a very good nursemaid. I have lots of experience at this kind of thing. Although, to be fair, my experience has usually been on the receiving end. Still, I have learned a thing or two." She left Margaret's bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her, but reappeared moments after Margaret returned to the bed. She must have been listening outside.

The youngest member of the Thornton family asked once again to see Margaret's ankle.

Margaret obliged, and Fanny fussed with the bandage that seemed a bit looser than it had been the night before.

"Just as I expected!" the young woman crowed. "The swelling seems to have abated. We will need to rewrap your ankle, firmly but not too firm. We can't have your toes turning blue." She carefully unwrapped the ankle, and Margaret was both surprised and impressed at the girl's skill in doing so.

Fanny moved to the washstand that stood close to the room's fireplace and poured out water onto a cloth. "I am just going to wipe your foot down, as you must have stepped in something yesterday." She wrinkled her nose and Margaret fleetingly wondered if she'd slid into one of the piles of horse droppings that were abundant on Milton streets, and somehow not noted the smell. She lifted her foot for a quick inspection while Fanny's back was turned. But it was as Margaret assumed. Her foot was as clean as one might expect after a day spent sweeping and walking. It seemed that Fanny was commenting on Margaret's personal cleanliness.

"Now we'll wrap you up again." Fanny hummed as she saw to the task, and Margaret did notice how much better her ankle felt with the return of some support.

Then Margaret realized the reason for Fanny's unnecessary attentions and unwanted comments. She was playing dolls, and had invented extra tasks to prolong her enjoyment.

Job finally complete, Fanny reinstalled herself on the small upholstered chair, and Margaret was exceedingly puzzled by her continued presence. When she'd seen the blonde with her brother, Fanny often seemed annoyed, and had even made remarks that expressed her disdain for the man. The two had seemed like oil and water to Margaret. So why would she do now something that was clearly her brother's bidding?

It was a bit rude, but Margaret felt she needed to ask. But before she was able to, Fanny spoke up.

"I must apologize, Miss Hale. Since I have been married to Mr. Watson I have learned much."

Mr. Watson? Margaret noticed the lace cap Fanny wore and wondered at her own poor observational skills. The lace crown and lappets were an obvious sign that a woman was married. Yet she hadn't noticed. Had she also hit her head yesterday?

"I have not offered you felicitations, Mrs. Watson. Is your mother much pleased?"

Fanny laughed. "I suppose so. She wanted me to stay in Milton, and has won that battle. But she is concerned about Watson's age, and has been since we first announced our engagement. Initially I thought it was just she and I butting heads, as usual. But more lately I realized she had a point. Watson is nearly her age, and it is likely that he will die well before I do."

She called her husband "Watson" as though she were a teenage boy and she was a school friend. Margaret hoped that when she married—if she ever married—that she and her mate would be on a first name basis.

John.

She nearly said his name aloud as she wondered what it might have been like to be his wife.

Margaret forced herself to focus on the rather surreal present. This meeting was so strange. Margaret had no idea why Fanny—Mrs. Watson- was telling her such things. The blonde's words meandered in various directions, but seemingly not to a specific destination.

"But Watson is a perfect match for me," she continued. "I will be well-provided for when he passes, and I can tell he will be a good father for the time he is here." She smiled. "I do have some news for you. I am with child these past few months." She pointed to an abdomen. "Can you tell?"

That would not be possible, given the volume of fabric that covered her from the waist down. And the stylish jacket she wore accentuated a still-narrow waist.

"How happy you must be," Margaret said, instead. "I am glad that I can offer my felicitations properly this time."

"Miss Hale, you are probably wondering why I am telling you all this. John says I never get to the point. And perhaps he is right, sometimes. But there is a reason to this telling: Mother's words about Watson caused me to think. About death, and about how fleeting our time on Earth is. And about the world I want my child to live in. I was blessed to grow up in a house where all my needs were met, and then some. But somehow I turned out a spoiled brat. I have resented my brother, and all of the things with which he was associated. So of course that included you."

"I realized I had offered you no condolences on your own mother's death. You would think I would know better. Even though I was quite young when he passed, I do remember my father. Perhaps that is why I have resented John so."

"Mrs. Watson, there is no need for you to apologize. Please desist."

But the young wife continued as though Margaret had not spoken.

"In fact, I have been unkind to you in so many ways. I assumed you were putting on airs when you came to our house to get a reference for a doctor. And I assumed the same of your mother. You were so different from us that I could not think otherwise. And then—"

"Yes, Mrs. Watson?" Margaret frowned. She had an inkling of where this conversation was heading and was angered that Mr. Thornton would betray her father's confidence.

"During the riot it had seemed to me that you threw yourself in John's way to take advantage of his insufferable need to do the right thing at all times. But a day later, you refused him! I was completely flabbergasted by this. Do you know how many of my acquaintances would have given their eyeteeth to have been in your position?"

Margaret did not want to think about her behavior the day after the riot, and she certainly did not want to hear about Mr. Thornton's other prospects. Yet as she was a captive audience, it seemed she had no choice in the matter.

"I liked you a bit better after that, you know. It was clear you were not after our—I mean, John's—money. But I will confess, I thought you a bit simple." Fanny paused, and seemed to be choosing her next words quite carefully. "And then there were those rumors."

"Rumors? You mean when I was seen with my brother?"

"Your brother?" Fanny's eyes widened. "You have a brother? But where has he been all of this time?"

"In Spain," Margaret replied forcing her voice to maintain a civilized volume. "In Spain, with his wife. He came back to England to see my mother."

"I see." The gears were turning in the woman's head. And much more slowly than her brother's did, Margaret noted.

"That was just gossip, then. That you—"

Margaret nearly bolted from the bed, ankle be damned.

"Mrs. Watson, I thank you for your visit. But I must dress and attend to my father. I am sure he needs me." The delightful smell of roasting goose had wafted up from the kitchen and Margaret realized her father must be preparing dinner. That could be quite dangerous. The fire brigade might need to be sent for. "My father is not skilled at cookery. He will need my help. Will you excuse me, please?"

Belatedly Margaret realized she had not ordered a goose from the butcher this year. It was an expense they could ill afford. A stewing hen was what hung in the larder. But stew was not what she smelled.

Again Margaret felt the world was canted 10 or 15 degrees off square.

"Oh, I will help you dress. And style your hair. You must let me do this for you." The incorrigible woman sauntered over to the armoire wedged tightly into the corner of the room. Margaret sighed. Perhaps this was the woman's way of proving the heartfulness of her apology.

"Christmas dinner requires finery. Do you agree?"

She rummaged through the neat bundles stacked in the closet, tearing back the paper wrapping each to peer at the garment within.

"No, I don't think pink is your color," Fanny said, as she appraised Margaret's second-best gown. "It's just not appropriate for a brunette. It should be reserved for blondes." She shook her blonde ringlets for emphasis.

Margaret shook her own head at Fanny's impertinence. Perhaps it was a result of the stress of the prior's day's events, but Margaret patience had all but disappeared. She fired a warning shot. "I am fully capable of dressing myself, Mrs. Watson. Shouldn't you be celebrating Christmas with your own family?"

"Oh, mother doesn't approve of modern Christmas festivities. She says they are pagan. Saturn-something."

"Saturnalia?" Margaret queried. Her father had spoken of the Roman feast.

"Or maybe John said that. Although he likes the holiday better than Mother does. He has always given each of us a present, over Mother's objections. And in recent years I have done the same. Luckily Watson feels differently from Mother. We had quite a celebration this morning, before going over to Marlborough Mills for breakfast. And Watson and I will dine well tonight. Never you worry about that!" She turned back to the task of disorganizing Margaret's clothing.

"Oh, this will do. I remember this from John's dinner." The agent of entropy pulled skirt and bodice from individual wrappers and held them up for Margaret to view. Then she blushed. "That was another unkindness on my part, I'm afraid. I shouldn't have brought up your visit to Princeton at John's dinner." Fanny smiled sheepishly. "I was just needling him. Did you do the same to your brother?"

This was just too much. Margaret attempted to walk across the room to stop the girl's deconstruction of clothing that would take hours to refold. But it was hard work to make her way across a floor littered with shirtwaists and skirts.

She nearly shouted. "That is an evening ensemble! It is hardly appropriate for a mid-afternoon dinner. Please, Mrs. Watson—"

"Oh, and here is the other bodice. This will certainly work. It's completely appropriate for daytime. Mr. Thornton's sister held up a bodice in the same aqua blue silk, but cut much more reservedly. It had modest half-sleeves, and enough lace to cover her décolletage completely.

Fanny was right, Margaret realized, and was even more frustrated by the realization. How could the girl be correct when her thoughts moved in all directions at once? But she was. It might seem shallow, but clothing oneself in finery would help to make the day special. And more importantly, doing so might nudge Papa out of the unending doldrums he had endured these past months.

Margaret reluctantly nodded her approval of Fanny's choice, and that woman began to remove the many crumpled pieces of paper stuffed into the garments to prevent wrinkling during storage. More paper landed on the floor, to Margaret's dismay. Next Fanny rummaged through a bureau to find the many items that made up the attire of a lady.

Yes, Margaret confirmed, Fanny was playing dolls. It was good that she was with child. She'd soon have a small body to clothe any way she desired, and to reclothe at least thrice daily, given an infant's tendency to spit up on or otherwise soil garments.

"That is perfect," Fanny said some time later, as it did take some time to clothe a person who had the use of only one leg. "Now let's do your hair. What style would you favor?"

"Something simple, please." Anything to finish this ordeal, Margaret thought.

Mrs. Watson frowned in annoyance, but complied. Soon Margaret's curly brown hair was pulled into an attractive, braided bun, although small, unruly wisps remained uncaptured by the many pins securing it.

"Jewelry?" Fanny asked expectantly.

"I am wearing my only pair of earrings, Mrs. Watson. They will have to do." Noting the acute look of disappointment on her caretaker's face, she added. "If you look in that box you'll find a bracelet."

Fanny bounded over to the jewel box like an overgrown puppy. "Oh, yes. This is quite lovely. And quite you, I might add. Simple, but elegant."

A compliment from Fanny? Would the day's wonders never cease? Again, Margaret wondered if she were trapped in a fever dream.

A soft, thudding noise emanated from the street below. It was the sound of a team of horses on snowy ground, Margaret realized.

Fanny hurried to the window and craned her neck to view the street below.

"It's Watson come to collect me!" She turned to Margaret with a wide smile on her face. "Come, let's get you downstairs. I'm sure your father is missing you, and I must be off!"

It was hard work to walk with crutches when wearing several layers of petticoats and a stiff taffeta skirt. It would be easy to fall while simply walking, let alone navigating a curving staircase.

"It is not as difficult as it seems, Miss Hale," the young wife said, seemingly reading her mind. "You will just need to make sure your skirts do not get entangled. Let me show you." She led Margaret to the railing overlooking the foyer below. Margaret clung to the polished walnut railing as Fanny demonstrated how to navigate a staircase while lame.

"Have no fear, Miss Hale. I will stand two steps below you, and will catch you if you might fall. She returned to Margaret's side, and once again helped her with the crutches.

Margaret took a deep breath, and began the journey down the curving staircase. It took quite a while, as it was hard to grasp the handgrip of each crutch while lifting her skirts just high enough to avoid tripping. Clearly whoever had designed the wooden devices had not considered a woman's needs.

For the first time that afternoon, Margaret was glad of Fanny's presence. She was a much steadier person than Margaret had ever realized, and her words of encouragement allayed the frustration Margaret felt at the snail-like pace of her journey downstairs. Margaret directed her gaze at each step before she advanced, focused fully on the task at hand. Finally she descended to the final step. Fanny quickly moved aside to allow Margaret access to the floor. Journey complete and moist with perspiration, Margaret looked up.

Mr. Watson, she noted, stood just a few feet ahead of her, with Fanny by his side. And to their right, standing next to Papa, was Mr. Thornton.

It had been a very busy day for John. He planned the day with clockwork precision, as there had been a multitude of things to do to pull off the event he'd planned.

First and foremost was tackling Fanny. John had noted that his sister had matured slightly since marrying Watson, but he'd doubted she would gladly do as he asked. He was surprised, however, after they exchanged presents. Perhaps it was John's gift of a petite gold watch, or perhaps it was impending motherhood, but Fan had readily agreed to look after Miss Hale for a while, so that John might carry out the several other tasks that must be done to his satisfaction. In fact, she seemed quite happy to do it. Maybe she had grown up, at last.

Mr. Hale was a bit more difficult, but after a very long conversation about John's intentions, he'd readily agreed to have his kitchen taken over by John's cook and several other servants. That team had been up since before dawn preparing a meal John hoped would please Miss Hale. When they arrived at the Hale residence servants had only needed to roast the goose and to warm up a few dishes that had grown cold on the journey over.

That had left only a few other tasks for John to complete before early afternoon, including a visit to the new botanical garden. Luckily he was on the board of that organization, and its head gardener was more than willing to loan him a specimen from their orangerie. All in all, John had been remarkably successful in meeting his goals. He hoped Miss Hale would be pleased.

John couldn't help but smile as he watched his love carefully, but successfully descend the stairs. She was a fighter, he had no doubt of this. He hoped, though, that she would set that fighting spirit aside for a while, to give him a chance to set things right. It was time to make amends, and he dearly hoped she would forgive him.

"Mr. Thornton!" Miss Hale exclaimed when her eyes lit on him. She seemed tired, but not angry. That was a promising sign. And despite her tiredness she looked beautiful, indeed. How clever of Fanny to convince her to wear the dress he remembered so well, although it did seem somewhat revised. He nodded to his sister in appreciation, and she and her husband silently took their leave.

Miss Hale did not seem to notice his sister's exit. The young lady blinked several times in astonishment, her brow furrowed and then relaxed, and she gazed at him with a look that suggested she was fitting together the final, missing pieces of a dissected puzzle.

John stepped forward and slid open the sitting room's pocket doors, exposing the room to the hall. The draperies were closed but, still, the room was quite bright. This was due to an abundance of candles. John earlier has pushed some of the room's furnishing's closer to the walls, and with Mr. Hale's permission had removed other pieces entirely to accommodate the large evergreen tree that now dominated the room.

Miss Hale gasped in shock and delight as she viewed the decoration, and John smiled.

"A Christmas tree," she breathed. The light from its many candles reflected in eyes that were equally bright. "Edith wrote that they would get one this year. But this is even more lovely than I imagined one would be."

The tree was trimmed abundantly with tinsel, garlands of dried fruit, and small, shining baubles. John had spent several early morning hours locating a landowner on Milton's outskirts who was willing to cut down a tree for him. And John had spent even more effort to find a vendor willing to open his store to him so that he and his servants could find materials to trim the evergreen. The roof of his brougham was now covered in tree sap and needles, but the end result was worth it. Twice the effort would have been small payment for this moment.

Miss Hale's lips parted as though she had wanted to speak, but had become lost in thought, instead. John watched intently as her gaze moved from the tree, then to him, and then all around the room.

"You did this?" she asked in a very quiet voice. She smiled in a way he'd never seen from her before, and then she looked down as embarrassment began to color her face. "I should have realized. Your sister was acting so strangely."

"Will you sit down, Miss Hale?" John directed her to the settee where he'd deposited her the night before, and stepped aside as her father settled her with a pillow under her ankle and a blanket to warm her.

"I should check on dinner," Mr. Hale said, with a quick wink to John.

"It is strange that I cannot help him," Miss Hale murmured as her father left the room. "I am the cook of this house, and have been for a while now."

John took the liberty of pulling a cane-backed chair closer to the settee, and leaned close as he spoke to her.

"I am sorry for that," he began. "It is my fault."

"But why would you say that?" she queried. "It was my actions that kept you from your lessons."

"Not at all. It was my obstinacy. I might have listened when you said there was a secret that was not yours to share."

Miss Hale smiled. "Clearly you did listen. You have just repeated me word for word."

"You know what I mean."

She nodded. "I think I do. And all of this," her hand traced an arc around the room, "is an apology?"

"Yes. I should have trusted you, Miss Hale. The person you are has been plain to me since we met. I let disappointment and jealousy to get the better of me."

"As you said before, let us no longer speak of those days. As you said last night, mere words do not mitigate past actions."

"Those were indeed my words. You have listened quite carefully, too."

"Yes, of course I did. But is it true that you think new actions can mitigate the actions of the past?"

"I do."

"I think so, too." She was quiet for a while, as she admired the tree, but after some time she began to notice the other items in the room.

"What is that?" Miss Hale pointed to an object in the far corner of the room. She angled herself to get a better view, and then attempted to rise from the settee. John was happy to assist. He crossed the room with her and watched as she carefully inspected an overloaded basket of perfect, large pears he'd placed in front of a terracotta pot. That held a small, flowering tree.

"Is that for me?"

"The fruit is for your father, as you said he had desired it."

"I meant the tree. It is a pear tree, is it not?"

"It might be," John replied. "But I think that depends."

"On what?" She turned with difficulty to face him.

"Come back to the settee and I will tell you."

She chose to sit quite close to him, and this encouraged him. John took her hand in his and prepared to recite the words he had written out hours before, and studiously memorized. But her bracelet slid down her arm to her rest on her small, taper hand and he was quite distracted by the memory of a much earlier encounter.

"On what does it depend?" Margaret asked again.

"On whether or not I am your true love."

Tears wet her eyes, but she held his gaze steadily.

"You are indeed," she replied. "And am I yours?"

"You have been for a very long time."

They kissed, and it was as sweet as John had imagined. It would be hard to wait, he realized, for what would come eventually.

"So where is the partridge?" she asked when they finally parted.

"Silly. It's in the oven."

"I see," laughed Margaret as the pair rose to find her father. He would be so happy to hear the news, although to be fair, John had already apprised him of his plan. "So no partridge, then. Will I be getting five gold rings in a few days' time?"

"I thought just one would suffice. But if you insist, dear Margaret, I will oblige."

Her crutches clattered to the ground as he picked her up and held her close.

"For you, my love, I will do anything."

The End

Author notes:

It's a few hours before Christmas 2021, exactly one hundred seventy years after this story takes place, but as I have finished a bit before schedule, I am also posting a little bit early.

First, to those of you who have taken the time to review, thank you for the Christmas present! Your words mean a lot to me. One of the reasons I am enjoying writing again is due to your words of encouragement.

I truly hope you have enjoyed this short story about our dear Margaret and John. I also hope you did not find Fanny too much out of character. She is a comic foil in the BBC telling of North and South, and as such does not exhibit much growth. She is not meant to. But I wanted to show that she could indeed change, if not as much as others might hope.

As I mentioned before, I will be posting the next chapter of The Lace Curtain this Sunday, December 26, and the next chapter of Not a Gentleman two weeks after that. Please take a peek if you are unfamiliar with them.

Thank you for reading, and for any reviews you might leave. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Merry Christmas!

Historical notes:

Fanny refers to another bodice, different from the one Margaret wore to John's annual dinner. As gowns of the time were made of separate skirt and bodice, an ensemble often was made up to have a low-cut bodice that was appropriate as elegant evening wear and a more modest bodice that could be worn during the day.

A goose is indeed roasting in the Hale's kitchen (not a partridge). At the time, either turkey or goose was the Christmas dinner of choice, for those who could afford either. If you search "The Christmas Hamper, 1850 by Robert Braithwaite Martineau" you can see a typical Christmas scene for an upper middle class family like the Hales, complete with what appears to be a goose, ready for plucking. Can you see why Margaret might be worried about her father making dinner? I imagine Mr. Hale had very soft hands and was not used to any type of labor, including work of the domestic kind.

Quite a few sites on the internet give Queen Victoria's husband credit for bringing the Christmas tree to England in the 1850s, but I have also read that Queen Charlotte was the first royal to display a decorated tree, years before. However, it does seem that Victoria popularized the Christmas tree, just as she popularized the white wedding dress. Victoria's cousin-husband, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha was from what are now known as the states of Thuringia and Bavaria in Germany, and it seems he brought the custom with him to England upon his marriage to the queen. Due to her influence on all levels of society, the Christmas tree quickly became popular after its display in the palace during Christmas of 1841 was noted in newspapers. This new English tradition was also described by Dickens in his short story, "A Christmas Tree" in 1850. In that story, a tree he refers to as "German" is set on a table, and it is clear from the description of the room's furniture that the tree belongs to a family of means. I therefore do not think a Christmas tree would have been a part of Margaret's Helstone childhood, and I have chosen not to make it a part of Edith's' traditions.

During the Victorian era (and before) Christmas trees were loaded with garlands of dried fruit and hung with detailed ornaments and a form of tinsel that is very different from the mylar stuff we use today. Tinsel was originally individual strands of beaten silver metal either hung individually from branches or held together with string and used as garland. However, as silver is quite expensive and tarnishes quickly, cheaper, but still shiny metals were eventually used in its place. Along with the plated candle holders that were clipped to the tree branches, the tinsel reflected much of the light illuminating the tree. Christmas trees were something only very well-off families were able to afford, at first, and their shape differed a bit from modern trees, as branches were removed to allow space for ornaments to be seen. If you search "Victoria_and_Albert-Christmas_ " you can see an image from the Illustrated London News showing the 1848 Christmas tree for the royal family.

The first jigsaw puzzles were invented in 1762 in London. They would have been fairly popular in Victorian England, but at that time they were called dissected puzzles. It was not until the invention of the jig saw in the 1880s that they acquired the name we know today. Also unlike today's puzzles, dissected puzzles were made of wood overlaid with paper, and because it would have been very difficult to cut detailed shapes cheaply, the pieces did not always have typical, interlocking shape that may have popped into your mind as you read this. Instead, the same shape might be cut again and again, making the puzzle harder to solve. My child is home for Christmas break and as part of turning off the TV to enjoy each other's company our family has been working on a puzzle that has given me a taste of the difficulty of 1850s puzzles. This one is truly a jigsaw but the shapes repeat themself. It was easy to solve the parts with lots of contrast, but now that we are getting to the more subtle shadings of the picture it is much slower going.

You may be familiar with the Christmas carol, "A Partridge in a Pear Tree." Apparently it started off as a recitation game. The children in a family would take turns reciting the growing list of presents received by one lucky, much-loved person each day from Christmas to Epiphany, on January 6. Eventually the words were set to music, several times. The music we are familiar with today is from the early 20th century.

It is possible to "force" trees and shrubs to flower by growing them in pots and taking them inside to a warm greenhouse, conservatory or the fancier orangerie John mentions, but one can also cut branches that are in bud and set them in a water-filled vase inside one's home. The usual suspects are hyacinth, willow, and quince. With the right touch, they will bloom magnificently. It is unlikely that a botanical garden would be forcing a pear to bloom, although it is a close relative of quince and has equally lovely flowers. Victorian gardeners lucky to have the use of a heated, glassed-in orangerie would probably have used the limited space to grow… oranges. These were very rare to find during Victorian winters, and were a delight to receive as a gift. I hope you'll allow me a little bit of embroidery on Victorian horticulture by including a flowering pear tree, as I wanted to link together the pears John notes in the BBC version to the pears in this story, as well as the unabashed generosity of the Christmas song.

Thank you again for reading!