Expecting Christmas
— Chapter 3 —
Midnight Waltz
ELIZABETH STARED, BREATHING SHALLOWLY.
The black velvet box. . . so diminutive in the strong expanse of Nathan's open palm. . .
"Happy Anniversary, Elizabeth. Thank you for your sacrifices and never failing love. To me, you are the gift; one I still don't know what I did to deserve." Discreetly, he snapped open the box's hinged lid.
Silver glistened and sparkled against the lush blackness of velvet.
Elizabeth inhaled shakily, surprised delight fluttering her lungs. "This. . . this is a work of art, Nathan."
"You're the work of art." His words were simple as her fingertips reverently explored the exquisitely feminine gift. "You deserve so much more than this."
Cheeks flushed with emotion, she dipped her head to hide her tears and lifted her hair out of the way as he moved behind her to fasten his gift around her neck.
The dainty necklace, with five tiny, delicate snowflakes that glimmered in the hollow of her throat, was exquisite.
Ethereal. Celestial. It hearkened of dark starry nights and the tranquil purity in a fall of snow. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she'd seen in ages and, if her throbbing heart was any indication, the perfect gift for a Christmas Eve anniversary.
"One more," Nathan whispered, ducking to retrieve a shallow rectangular gift box a little longer than his hand from under the tree before returning to her.
Elizabeth undid the thick twist of gold cord holding the box together and, still not recovered from the marvel of the necklace, lifted the top of the embossed box to reveal, nestled in burgundy velvet—
Gloves. Sleek, dressy.
Fur-lined with grey that dipped to her wrist, the black cashmere gloves fit her slender fingers in a whisper of luxury; impossibly soft, endlessly chic.
She raised gloved hands to Nathan's cheeks, giving a watery laugh as he rubbed his face against them like a cat.
"You like them?"
She stroked his cheek with the back of one buttery glove. "I love them," she managed, hardly trusting her voice. "I feel so spoiled."
Her gloved fingertips brushed the snowflakes catching firelight at the base of her throat as her breath snagged. "And this. . . one snowflake for each year we've been married, it's just—I can't—oh, I'm going to cry, aren't I?" And she threw arms around his neck, leaving helpless tears on his skin.
Warm arms enveloped her instantly, strong hands sheltering her back. "Elizabeth. Sweetheart."
With gentling back rubs and even gentler whispers Nathan slowly soothed away her tearfulness, drying her tears with the pad of his thumb, kissing away every damp trace of lingering trails below her closed lashes and down her cheeks.
Wobbly, she sniffled, drawing back at length, face cast downward. "I don't know why I'm crying, my emotions are all over the place these days. I am happy; I'm so happy."
"Cry as many tears as you wish, sweetheart. They're a release. Just please promise me"—a gentle finger coaxed her face up—"you'll always let me dry them."
Throat tight, she managed, "I do promise."
He touched an escaped tendril of hair alongside her cheek. "Deal."
"Now, my turn," she whispered, gathering his hands in hers and drawing him with her as she walked backwards to the tree. "Now, I may only have one anniversary gift for you under the tree, but"—she sent up a smile through long lashes—"I am already giving you this." She placed his hands on either side of her rounded midsection.
Blue embers lit throughout his eyes. "Best gift ever, excepting you," he vowed in a thickened voice and lowered his head to brush a testifying kiss across her uptilted smile, one which affirmed the truth of his words more clearly than a thousand syllables.
Elizabeth's heart sang against her ribs. Five years they had waited and prayed for this gift of a babe and she could feel every aching bit of that hope and agony and yearning and gratitude in his love.
But there was a special gift still calling.
Over Nathan's protests, she teasingly escaped his reach—"Nathan, I have to get your gift!"—to move around the tree and retrieve the package that resembled a smaller version of the one that had housed her gloves, but square where it had been rectangular.
He turned it over in his hand when she pressed it there, glanced at her. "Beautiful wrapping, honey."
She'd wrapped it in a scrap of lush cinnamon suede and tied it with a black suede string whose ends she'd attached bitty, tinkling balls to. Nathan shook it, eyes smiling at the musical notes that resulted. He slowly untied the string, peeled back the wrapping, and removed the lid of the flat box.
"St. Christopher!" he exclaimed, eyes richly alight as he carefully dislodged the medal from its snug niche.
Bronze, sturdily forged, and etched with rare clarity, it gleamed mutedly under their gazes. He turned it over, tilting it toward the firelight to read the inscription covering the back.
Christmas Eve, 1898—Christmas Eve, 1903
Five years wed, five years under St. Christopher's protection;
five years he's returned My Traveler to me.
Nathan, heart's beloved, may he always bring you home;
May I always be your home.
Till my last breath, I am. . .
Your Elizabeth
"Half a decade I've had him watching over you, half a decade he's been safely returning you to me—I thought I should make it official," Elizabeth murmured, holding Nathan's gaze in hers. "Having one more heavenly friend is another arrow in your spiritual arsenal, especially one who is patron of those who travel as you do."
"I'll carry it with me always," he said huskily, "and ask its patron to return this traveler to you without fail. You will always be my home."
"I didn't think it was quite time for St. Anthony." She dimpled at him with merry mischief. "Maybe next year."
He threw his head back with a shout of laughter. "Patron of lost thing, eh? I'm not that bad yet."
Her dimples deepened. "Noooo, not yet." Then the lines of her lips grew serious, and she settled her hands on his chest, stable and grave. "Happy Christmanniversary, Nathan."
He brushed his nose along hers, looking into her eyes. "You've made marriage a joy. I find myself pitying men who don't have an Elizabeth in their heart and home." He kissed the same nose, voice turning low. "You are something else, Elizabeth Thatcher Grant. The most powerful force in my life after God in His heavens. Happy anniversary, sweetheart."
Then he dropped his arms and it was her turn to protest. "Oh, but Nathan. . ."
"Just for one brief moment." His smile glimmered in the softly lit room as he moved to the gramophone stand in the corner. "And then I fully intend to have you back in my arms."
His hands moved efficiently, and just like magic, the soft strands of an old Christmas waltz began to trail through the room.
Nathan was already on his way back to her, moving towards her with his hand outstretched. "Dance with me, Elizabeth. May I have the honor of a Christmas Eve waltz?"
With a smile effervescent with happiness, she placed her hand in his and moved into the circle of his arms, feeling the cambric of his shirt, smooth under her fingertips at his shoulders. The warmth of his hand along her thickened waist made her sigh contentedly; a sound she tried to swallow back. In the stillness and half-light, it seemed too loud, too dreamy.
If the look in Nathan's eyes was anything to go by, he found it just perfect.
She snuggled forward under his chin, headiness warming her from the winter outdoors scents clinging to him, enjoying the cool fabric of his shirt against her cheek. The warmth of blood and skin beneath seeped through gradually and she closed her eyes.
She could feel the softness of his breathing, smell the hint of pine and snow that clung to his skin and hair. . .
His scent was a natural complement to the woodiness of the fire and the aromatic waft of cinnamon sticks, woven into boughs of fir about the room, liberally decorated with pine cones and the shimmer of a scarlet ribbon.
As they moved slowly to the rhythm of the dance, an ease to their movements that spoke of long familiarity, Elizabeth slipped her hands down his shoulders to rest softly against the thickness of his upper arms, the position a natural home for her posture, allowing her to lean and rest her weight into his more than capable frame.
The fire burned soft and low in the hearth, creating an ambiance of cozy dimness. Golden and winter-scented, the air floated around them; a dreamy, drugging swirl.
Nathan spun her in a slow circle under his arm, then pulled her back in, their eyes catching. Swiveling her around in his arms till her back rested against his chest, he reached around from behind and softly lifted the weight of her expectant midsection, easing the bulk of the weight.
She sagged back into the cradle of his waiting chest with an exhale of slow relief.
"Better?" he murmured, drifting his head lower till his voice was gentle across her cheek.
"Much." Her head lolled back into the cup of his shoulder as she relaxed. Her muscles went lax, her whole being melting into his support.
She loved when he did this; loved the alleviation it gave her aching back. The first time he'd done it, she'd laughingly protested, pushing his hands away, insisting it really wouldn't do anything and would probably feel odd.
She'd never protested again—and it had felt anything but odd.
The hum of snowy wind outside the windows and the occasional pop of a burning log were the only sounds accompanying their breathing. Beyond their front door, nature slept.
Elizabeth found her eyes drifting shut.
"Can we just stay like this for the rest of the night?" she finally whispered around a slow yawn. The idyllic moment had turned her blood languid in her veins.
"No," Nathan laughed softly in her ear. "But you can stay here while I build up the fire in our room. I don't want it or the bed cold when I take you in."
He steered her back to the fireside armchair where first he'd found her, settling her into it over her faint mumbles of opposition. She knew he was right, but oh, if they could have stayed as they were. . .
Her head tilted into the brocade-covered wing of the chair as again she yawned heavily.
She didn't know how long he was gone, for the next thing she knew, her eyes were opening to the sight of him going to his knees before her. His forearms slid onto the arms of the chair as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. She stirred, turning her face, drowsily shifting his cheek buss around to where she wished it to be. He laughed quietly and she smiled against his chuckle.
"Love you," she mumbled sleepily—then ruined the romantic moment with yet another massive yawn.
She was too tired to even cover her mouth.
Nathan snorted softly, mouth pulling wide in a silent grin, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her drowsy form to bed. In the faint flicker of firelight, the silvery fir draped in a graceful garland over their headboard was a dark shadow and the blue winter berries clustered against its bark were greying smudges.
The bedroom was warm now, as were the sheets he eased her between.
She roused as he settled in behind her, the top sheet and blanket a cozy whisper as he drew them up over their prone figures. She nestled into their softness. At her feet, she could feel the hot water bottles he'd placed there and her toes curled appreciatively.
"I'm sorry I caused you worry tonight." His whisper was quiet in her ear.
She stilled. "You know you hold my heart between your hands," she said, rolling over and framing his cheeks in her palms. "It just squeezes a little harder when you're out there late in the dark."
He sighed. "You hold my heart, too." He pulled her hands down over his heart. "I wish—"
"No." Her fingers stopped his words. "None of that. I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to your courtship, and I've never regretted that for one instant." Then fiercely, "I never could."
Cotton rustled as his head moved across the pillow till his forehead pressed against hers for a long moment that needed no words.
His mouth finally lifted ruefully. "I'm going to get us a dedicated carrier pigeon and carry it with me at all times, so I can contact you whenever I'm out late or far away."
"Don't pigeons sleep at night?"
"We'll put it through sleep training."
"Sleep training? For pigeons?"
"Uh-huh."
Helpless giggles were his only response. She caught her breath after a minute. "Oh, if only I knew how much laughter marriage to you would bring into my life."
"What would you have done differently?"
"I would have married you sooner."
His eyebrow cocked. "But honey, we married a bare year after we met."
"I know. But I would've married you just as soon as the banns could be read."
His brow relaxed. She could see the hint of a satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Shall we arrange a do over?"
"No." She drew a breath. "Because then we'd miss out on the five years we did get, and perhaps miss out on this." She touched her extended stomach.
His face sobered. "I'd never want that. I love our five years, and I can't wait to meet our little girl." He placed his hand alongside hers.
A throaty laugh burbled up. "You're really determined it's a girl, aren't you?"
His grin twinkled, then his face grew serious again as he cradled her bump in both hands, its fullness filling the space between them. "I know it is." He twisted down and placed a slow kiss along the crest of her belly. "I just have a feeling."
Catching his cheek in her hand, she drew his face back up, meeting him in a gaze of mutual tenderness. "She'll be the most blessed little girl ever born then."
"We could name her. . . Livia Joy."
She chuckled, burying her face in his neck, her laugh warm against his skin. "Let's just hope no one decides to call her LJ."
His chest rumbled with an answering laugh. "They'll have to answer to me if they do."
"And no one wants that, Mr. Big Bad Sheriff," she teased.
He pulled back to look at her. "No one's going to call our girl LJ in my earshot and get away with it." He glowered theatrically.
"Definitely not, sweetheart." She patted his cotton-covered chest. "No one would dare risk your wrath."
"Durn straight, Mrs. Sheriff." He dropped a trio of kisses across the tip of her nose. "But back to the topic at hand, doesn't Livia Joy Grant have a certain ring to it?"
"It does. I love it, Nathan." She snuggled closer. "We could call her Livie as a nickname."
"Or leave it as Livia."
"How about we debate their merits after she's born and we get a look at her. Maybe she won't fit one or the other."
"Hmm."
"Or. . . we could call her Alice. Or Alexandra. Allie for short."
He buried his face in her hair. "Let's save that for baby number two," he whispered in a husky suggestion.
"You really want a nursery full of girls, don't you?"
"I do," he confessed without preamble. "This world needs more Thatcher-Grant women in it. And"—he traced the soft line of her jaw, voice getting raspier—"I rather love the idea of seeing our house fill with a bunch of mini you lookalikes."
She was at a loss for words, tender tears brimming in the darkness. He seemed to sense her overwhelm and lightened the moment.
"So, LJ and Allie, huh?"
"Oh, Nathan." She smiled, teary. Bless his giving heart, always so sensitive to her needs. She matched his lightness. "You can call her Livia; I'll call her Livie. How's that?"
He was an inch away from her now. "How about we argue about it when she's born?"
"Yes, just like I suggested! Deal." She tipped forward and closed the distance between them.
After a moment: "But Nathan, what if it's a boy?" She scooched back to see his face.
He smoothed his thumbs across the corners of her eyes. "It isn't," he said with husky certitude. "But I'll love any child of ours, with every last bit of my heart."
She knew. Didn't mean she didn't thrill to hear it.
"Or you know, there's always Ethel or Brunhilde or Ursula as a compromise," he suggested and she could practically hear the grin in his voice.
She burst into laughter and rolled into him on their bed, giving him a push. "Stop it! Nathan, those are awful names. Our baby girl is not going to be named any one of those monstrosities."
He just laughed and tugged her close. "Our baby girl, huh?" he whispered. "Sounds like you're convinced."
She always had been, but she couldn't admit that. She'd have missed out on these bantering sessions, and that was something she hadn't been willing to part with.
"There's always Baby Girl Grant until we decide."
"Oh, horrors." He groaned. "We'd best decide quickly then because you better believe I am not calling my little girl that."
She kept a straight face. "BGG for short."
"Wife," he growled in mock menace, "that'd better be a joke."
A dainty snicker escaped her, then another, and the next thing she knew, they were holding onto each other to keep from rolling off the shaking bed from the force of their laughter.
"Ah, honey," Nathan tucked her back against him as they settled, laughter still warm in his voice, "thank God He gives us so much laughter together."
"Told you." Complacent with love and soft smugness and sweet cuddling, she pulled his arm over her midsection to cradle her through the night. "It's a gift."
"So you did, wise wife."
She turned her head and wriggled into position to press a kiss to the side of his jaw before snuggling into her pillow, sated breath escaping her in a tired but fulfilled sigh. "Tonight was wonderful, Nathan. Our best Christmas Eve yet."
His hand settled over the swell of their child. "They're only going to get better from here," he whispered a low-toned promise. "Merry Christmas, my heart."
"Merry Christmas, Nathan." Beloved.
And as she drifted off, she could have sworn she heard, afar off, the strains of a piercingly sweet old carol, calling her to the folds of slumber. . .
O holy night, the stars are brightly shining; it is the night of the dear Savior's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!
Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born! O night divine! O night, O night divine!
Then sleep took her, and she knew no more. For Elizabeth Grant, the curtains of Christmas Eve drew closed.
·oOo·
NATHAN WOKE IN THE early hours of the morning, dreaming of a cold night, lone bright star crisp in its expanse, and somewhere, the haunting cry of a newborn baby. . .
Elizabeth shifted minutely, face burrowing deeper into his chest in a rustle of warm bedsheets. In sleep, she had turned and pressed against his frame, seeking the safety and shelter of his arms. One of his arms still slung loosely around her waist, hand splayed to the curve of her belly, taut and full beneath his palm.
He did not move, cherishing the quiet of the night and the warm lavender and rose scent of her hair, allowing the peace of holding her—holding them—to ebb and crest inside his chest.
He prayed silently, from his heart.
Heavenly Father, I know first labors can be lengthy and arduous, but I ask Thee to allow Elizabeth's labor to be as quick and painless as possible. Send me the excess. I cannot take the heavy burden of childbirth from her, but I wish to take at least take some of her pain upon myself.
Keep her safe. I could not bear for anything to happen to her. Please deliver her safely of our tiny miracle we waited a half-decade for. May this child be born to us healthy, and thrive. I entrust them both to Thy provenance and for myself ask only that I be of comfort to Elizabeth in her travail, and Thou mold me into the best husband and father I can be. Amen.
Under his palm, there came a brush as their baby moved, seeming to sense—as so many times before—his thoughts.
With a pang, the invisible cord between their hearts, that he'd felt from the instant he learned of his baby's existence, tightened. He followed the pull without question, curving to rest his head near Elizabeth's stomach.
In hushed tones, barely more than a breath, he sang to his wide-awake baby; words of love, words that made sense only between them. He told her—for a her he knew she was—how impatient he was to hold her in his arms—nine months was long enough to be separated—and asked her please not to cause her mama one more ounce of pain that absolutely necessary.
Already, he did not know how he would get through seeing Elizabeth, his beloved among women, in the extremis he knew was coming.
The baby fluttered against his hand as his song tapered off; softly, once, twice, thrice, as if trying to reassure him, then gentled into quiet.
"Night, princess," he whispered. "Sleep tight; daddy's here."
He closed his eyes, rested his cheek on Elizabeth's head, so dark in the night room, and allowed himself to drift away as the peace of Christmas worked its soothing magic on his slumber.
·oOo·
A/N: This concludes our two domestic Christmas Eve chapters—just the two (er, three) of them snug inside their home. Next chapter, it's Christmas Day and we're out and about in HV w/lots of familiar faces. TY so much for reading; hopefully their domesticity—gifts and dance and baby naming banter—struck a cord with you! XOXO, Paths
* "O Holy Night" (original title: Cantique de Noël) is a sacred song/Christmas carol about the night of Christ's birth. Originally based on a French-language poem written in 1843 by poet Placide Cappeau, it was set to music by composer Adolphe Adam in 1847. The English version is by John Sullivan Dwight." (cr: Wikipedia.)