Christmas Eve

1937

Henry adjusted his tie in the looking-glass and attempted to quell the old, anxious fluttering that had preceded moderate to large gatherings since he was a small child. It was no small consolation – he supposed – that the gathering was here – in his mother's home – and if push came to shove, he could retreat to his childhood bedroom – as he had been wont to do as a boy – and his father would not be around to prevent it. Sufficiently satisfied that his tie was centered; the knot was correct; and there were no stains that only his mother's discerning eye could detect, Henry took a step back and gave his surroundings a long look at the bedroom that was largely unchanged from his boyhood:

A four-poster bed was still made up of navy-blue and gray; a world map still hung behind the headboard – marked with pins of places Henry had only dreamt of visiting as a child (he had visited nearly all of them as an adult); the walls were still papered in navy above the ivory baseboard; and his writing desk which still bore scars from pens that had pressed through paper of angsty missives past. Henry was sure that if he pressed the hidden button beneath the top, a drawer would pop out and reveal his old diaries – he had no burning desire to revisit those; Christmas was a time for cheer, and a vast majority of the entries referenced Reginald Higgins sr., who had been the very antithesis of warmth and goodwill.

Henry's gloomy thoughts were broken by the sound of someone calling his name from just beyond the door to his balconet, and a smile broke across his features – Eliza's room was adjacent to his. He stepped out into the waning daylight, and turned to his left to see her standing in front of the door to her room; she was in the process of securing a pearl to one earlobe, which gave him an enticing view of the curve of her neck. She grinned over at him with crimson lips, and dark, sparkling eyes.

"How do I look?" Eliza inquired sweetly, as she smoothed her curls.

Multitudinous descriptions of her physical beauty, all existing in varying degrees of purplish prose flooded Henry's brain, unbidden. He thought he had been quite used to her looks, at that point in their acquaintance, but her appearance that evening had him completely bowled over: The dress was a cobalt-blue velvet bias-cut affair with capped sleeves and a floor-length skirt. The fabric skimmed and hugged curves while maintaining a fairly modest neckline; the cowl back of the dress revealed a lovely expanse of creamy flesh. Henry felt his mouth go dry, so he closed it at once. Words, you dunce; tell her something – anything, shrieked his inner voice.

"If you show much more of your back, you might incite a riot – aren't you afraid of catching a cold out here?"

Eliza rolled her eyes at his statement, but did not appear overly offended. "You look very handsome too."

"Thanks. I hope you weren't expecting a verse extolling the divinity of your charms."

"Not at all; I'm very good at managing expectations," Eliza teased. "I'm sure I'll get my fill of sentimental claptrap with Freddy tonight."

"What?" Henry felt an almost-forgotten, ugly feeling twine around his heart.

Eliza shrugged and made a casual humming sound. "Your mother invited the Hills, didn't you know?"

Henry felt like stamping his foot; he settled for the much more dignified choice of crossing his arms in front of his chest and glaring. "Oh, she did, did she?"

"She thought young people in the house might make things more cheerful."

"Bah! So I'm ancient, eh?"

Eliza perched herself on the railing of the balconet and leaned sideways towards where Henry sulked and stated, with a tremendous amount of confidence::

"Hardly; but you are jealous."

"I feel as though this was well-established the last time that boy was sniffing around near you – and take yourself off of that railing before you plunge to your death."

"Don't be ridiculous." She did not remove herself from the railing, and she looked entirely too smug for Henry's liking. His annoyance deepened.

"About my feelings, or your safety? I'll be as ridiculous as I like about both, thank you very much." He resented, for a moment, how easily she could rattle him; how pleased she looked with his reaction, as she hopped from her perch, and stood safely on her own side of the world.

"It's ridiculous to be jealous of Freddy."

Henry snorted. "The boy who wrote to you three times a day? Yes, quite."

"I wasn't writing back, you know!" Eliza snapped back, her hands on her hips.

"As this is the very first time I'm hearing this information; no, I did not know!" Henry thundered as he stepped forward so his hips were flush against the railing. "How does that signify?"

"Obviously, you're in no immediate danger of losing me to men I've no interest in, as you are the only man I'm interested in."

Henry's foul mood was sufficiently doused at Eliza's achingly earnest confession. He dropped his arms to his sides and softened his expression as they regarded each other in silence. The urge to cross the gap between them and spirit her off to Scotland overcame him like a thunderclap, and he had to grip the railing until his knuckles went white to keep himself from doing just that – it could be so simple: They'd get on the train, wearing exactly what they were wearing; he'd marry her, and get the fine honor of removing the twinkling, star-studded hair pins from her curls and placing them on their bedside table before he made her a proper wife.

"Are you going to say anything?" Eliza asked, her tone full of cautious hope. She was rubbing her upper arms and shivering.

"Go inside at once, and warm yourself." Marry her at once, and warm yourself.

In addition to Hills, it was discovered – by Eliza as she headed down the front staircase to begin receiving guests with Mrs. Higgins and Lillian – that Eliza's father and stepmother were on the guest list. Alfred Doolittle and his wife Grace were the first to arrive; were – in fact – standing at the bottom of the landing as Eliza descended. The pair – to Eliza's astonishment – were not as garishly appointed as she imagined they would have been. Alfred looked almost dapper in his hunter-green suit coat, and matching trousers that complemented Grace's pale red hair, and amber-colored silk dress. The next most astonishing thing – after their appearance at the party, and their appearances in general – was that Grace was visibly pregnant. Eliza paused on the bottommost stair as she processed the abundance of new information presented before her.

"Eliza, aren't you going to wish your father a happy Christmas?" Mrs. Higgins inquired. "He's already said it to you twice – are you unwell?"

Eliza shook her head and approached the couple with a wry smile. "Sorry, Dad – happy Christmas." She allowed them both to embrace her – though she did not put much reciprocal energy into the act; before leading them to the drawing room – her whole body rigid with astonishment.

"Sorry 'bout not keepin' ya on the up and up about–" here, Alfred waved vaguely at Grace's midsection "- we're a bit on edge with her age and all. Didn't wanna jinx it."

"That's alright then, Dad - Grace. "Congratulations." Eliza did not break her stride while she spoke, and she nearly sighed her relief when they reached the drawing-room, and she was able to catch Henry's attention – he had been reading at one far corner, and she had to clear her throat to get him to look up – so she could gesture with her eyes is xl

5o she's up the duff!" He exclaimed, to Eliza's complete and utter mortification. Henriette and Lucille – who had been up to that point, playing a game of "What's the Time, Mister Wolf with their father – paused in their play. Lucille turned to her uncle and asked:

"What does up the duff mean?"

Robert made a panicked noise and intervened: "Nothing my darling; Uncle Henry is just talking nonsense.-"

"It means she's got a baby in her tummy," Henrietta interjected, with all the solemn gravity only a five-year-old can possess.

"Too right, little one."

"Dad!" Eliza scolded with a sharp burst of anger. She took a few deep breaths to bring herself back to calm; before smiling and introducing him to the Bennets and Nanny Forsyth. Niceties dispensed with; she went to join Henry in the corner.

"Are you going to behave yourself at all tonight?" Eliza asked as she leaned against the overstuffed armchair where he was seated.

"I usually don't."

"Well, do please try – if not for your mother, then for me."

Their eyes met, and Eliza tried to smile but failed about a quarter of the way.

"Are you alright?" Henry inquired, his voice tinged with distress.

"Whatever could you mean?" Eliza asked innocently, as she blinked back confounding tears. Henry looked for a moment as though he wanted to press on with his line of questioning, as his perceptive eyes looked her over. She watched as hesitancy reigned supreme on his features before he replied:

"Nothing; well, I suppose I ought to say hello to your father. I've never met your stepmother, though."

"You've been blessed to have been ignorant of her existence thus far; are you sure you want to be introduced?"

"Well, I should like to find out where she's from–"

"Hell," Eliza replied quickly.

"-and maybe hear a bit about where your father is lecturing these days."

Eliza sighed and waved her arms in a sweeping motion, signaling for Henry to get to his feet and follow her to the fireplace, where her father and Grace were stationed. She introduced Henry to Grace and then excused herself to continue greeting guests in the foyer. She was delighted to see Pickering was just arriving, along with the Eynsford-Hills.

Clara was a great deal more chatty than she had been when Eliza first met her, at that disastrous tea party months ago; Freddy – indefatigably cheerful as ever – bounded up to Eliza, and took her hand to kiss it; Mrs. Eynsford-Hill – possibly holding a grudge over Eliza's gentle dismissal of her son – was reserved as ever.

Eliza led the four to the drawing room, along with several other guests. Clara let out a pleased squeak when she spied the grand piano in one corner of the room. "Oh, how beautiful! Do we know anyone who might play?"

"Eliza can!" Henry shouted from clear across the room. "Eliza; play us some Liszt."

Clara wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Liszt? The very idea – no, Eliza, you must play some carols for us all. Freddy has a lovely voice, he can start us off – go on, you two!"

Eliza nodded with a nervous smile. She had only ever played for a select few, and she had not so much as touched a Middle C since her disastrous final lesson with Mr. Burns. Still, she reasoned, it might be considered rude to refuse. She took her place at the bench, and grinned up at Freddy when he joined her – she didn't have to cast a sideways glance at Henry to know the man was fuming; she could hear him loudly discuss – or rather vent about – the insipid nature of Christmas carols to her father. Lillian had placed several pieces of holiday sheet music on the stand, and Freddy browsed until he selected a fresh sheet, containing a song by Irving Berlin she had never heard of in her life. Eliza's eyes scanned the notes; beats, measures, and key changes; and the little music box in her head replicated them to the point where she could confidently say:.

"Right then." She began to play, and Freddy's very serviceable voice began to croon about love keeping him warm.

"Ghastly song," Henry muttered, before taking a pull from the tumbler of whiskey Alfred had pushed into his hands moments before. Eliza had joined Freddy in singing some silly little thing called "Jingle Bells"; he cringed when the children began chorusing along. The growing number of guests, Pickering included, were beginning to gather around the piano, while Henry and Alfred remained by the fire.

"Too right, guv'nor." Alfred took a long pause before adding, "I'm in no position to pass judgment, but I ain't a fan of that boy 'overin' 'round Eliza."

Henry pressed his mouth into a fine line and turned to Alfred with wide, astonished eyes.

"Oh?"

"Reminds me of a bloke her mum was takin' up with before I come 'round; poor chap was pos-i-tively out 'o his depth with 'er. Nah, that ain't gonna work out."

"They aren't courting, at any rate," Henry informed with no small amount of smugness.

"That's a relief, though I'm not sure that 'e know that."

Henry felt the tips of his ears begin to burn when he looked over and noted that Freddy had a hand on Eliza's shoulder. The expression the boy was giving her could only be described as lovesick.

"Per'aps you'd better intervene with a duet of your own, Professor."

"I don't know any duets," Henry replied bitterly. It was true, that his musical ear was purely for listening and enjoying; he had not been blessed with any innate ability to play.

"Right."

Alfred crossed the room to the piano, waving away the crowd that had formed. The music stopped as he made his way over to Freddy, and gestured for the boy to move out of the way – curious about the new development, Henry approached the piano but stopped short of mingling with the crush of people.

"'Liza; come on, old girl. Let's give 'em a few songs from the old days."

Eliza went pale and she shook her head. "Dad; there are children."

"Well, where's their nanny, then? It's late enough that they need to be gettin' to bed or Father Christmas won't come." Henrietta and Lucille gave tortured cries at this information; Nanny Forsyth acted quickly and led them from the room.

"There, that's better." Alfred addressed the crowd. "Now, me Eliza used to be a bit 'o an East End sensation when she was a lil slip; she always had an ear for the voices on the radio and stage – used to travel from pub- er - from venue to venue singin' songs and doin' impersonations. 'Ere, Eliza, what should we do?"

Eliza, Henry noted, flatly refused song suggestion after song suggestion (he assumed she was being mindful of content, judging by some of the titles) until she and Alfred settled on "My Wild Irish Rose", which her father loudly dedicated to her dead mother. Henry drew closer at the sound of Eliza's sweet, mournful tones as they blended harmoniously with Alfred's – and ended up standing near Pickering, who was dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Henry felt an odd tugging sensation at his heart when he noticed the tears were shining in Eliza's eyes. The song ended with Alfred pressing a kiss to the top of his daughter's expertly coiffed head.

"Could someone else take over?" Eliza inquired as she stood. "I think I need to take a little bit of air." She headed out of the drawing room. Henry slowly counted to twenty and followed her.

Though he had set off quite a few paces behind, Henry surmised correctly that Eliza had taken refuge in the library; where the room was illuminated by the fire and dimmed lights, in case guests were to trickle in for a bit of quiet. Eliza was hugging her knees to her chest as she sat at the sofa facing the fire.

"So…" Henry trailed off, catching Eliza's attention; her cheeks were stained with tears.

"So."

Henry sat on the opposite end of the sofa, unsure of how to proceed. "What was your act called?"

Eliza snorted and rubbed the corners of her eyes with the back of her hands. Henry immediately produced a handkerchief from his front pocket.

"Little Liza and her Lyrical something-or-other, I can't fully remember. I was very young – about four – and I did not enjoy it. Dad almost secured our big break into music halls by the time I was starting school. I told him I was done."

Henry nodded and avoided the urge to ask any further questions. It seemed to him as though this were a moment where Eliza ought to be allowed to volunteer only the information she wanted to volunteer.

"I wasn't aware someone else had already discovered your knack for languages," he stated.

Eliza gave a watery chuckle before she blew her nose. "His interest was clearly exploitative. He threatened to withhold meals if I refused to keep going; so I kept going but refused to eat. My aunt Millie had been a suffragette, you see, and her stories inspired me."

Henry found himself laughing, despite himself; he moved closer to her side and leaned over with a delighted grin. "You held a hunger strike?"

"I did. I also had a kindly teacher intervene on my behalf, and that put an end to that, as they say."

Henry came closer, and put an arm over Eliza's shoulder. She leaned against his side in response; her head coming to rest against his chest, where he was sure she could hear the rapid hammering of his heart.

"Strange to think of you singing in pubs at the age of four."

"Why?" Eliza asked with a sniffle.

"Well, apart from it being absolutely not the setting for a child, I suppose it made me think of being four years old. That's when I started speaking, you know."

Eliza lifted her head and blinked. "I did not know."

Henry shrugged. "Yes, it was quite a scandal in the Higgins household. Father was furious that his second son was defective, and Mother dragged me around Europe to clinics, psychiatrists, and linguists – which became a bit influential, as you see. Anyway, Father would have been happy to quietly send me away; but Mother was determined to reach me, and you can't tell her anything once she's got a mind to accomplish something."

He had never spoken aloud the origins of his fascination with languages, and the act left him feeling curiously light and unburdened. He felt Eliza tighten her arms about him in an embrace.

"People will begin to notice our mutual absence," Eliza noted after several minutes of staring wordlessly into the fire. Henry was idly stroking the curve of her neck with the back of his fingertips as she rested her head on a pillow in his lap.

"Are you that eager to go back? I daresay people will be debating appeasement and the German Chancellor by now."

"Very regular Christmas conversation, that."

Henry snorted. "Mother must be positively desperate to put an announcement in the paper by now."

Eliza sighed and turned onto her back so she could look up at him. "Yes, but you're not the marrying sort."

"I could be, for the right woman."

Eliza straightened so they could be at eye level. "I'm not sure that I am the–"

Henry felt another lecture about distraction and focus coming on, so he laughed to cut her off. "I think you're absolutely right; we ought to return to the drawing room at once – you go first, and I'll be just behind."

Eliza walked back to the drawing room in a daze; the room was packed, and appropriately merry – Lillian, long relieved from her receiving duties, was playing carols at the piano with Freddy and Robert while everyone else was either engaged in listening or their own side conversations.

"Oh; there you are!" Mrs. Higgins announced as she approached with Colonel Pickering at her side. "I hope you're feeling refreshed, my dear." the older woman handed Eliza a glass of red wine.

"Very," Eliza murmured, accepting the glass. Her experiences with alcohol were mostly limited to being a spectator to the intoxicated, but she took a generous pull of the sweet, bold liquid, and was shocked to find it to be almost pleasant. A bloom of warmth began to spread through her veins with every sip.

Henry, she noted, arrived at the drawing room a full five minutes after her reappearance, and he studiously avoided joining her; his mother; and Colonel Pickering – opting to instead go back to his corner; settle into the unoccupied armchair, and revisit his book.

"I wish you'd go back to the piano, Miss Doolittle – there's no better musician in this entire room, I daresay," Freddy announced, as he approached. Eliza had already finished her glass of wine and was seeking out another. She laughed wryly, in response to his compliment.

"I've no problem letting others take a bit of the limelight."

Freddy gave Eliza an adorably childish pout. "Alright then," she relented. "Only if you fetch me another drink." She turned to see Henry, staring across the room from his perch. The man glowered when Freddy placed a fresh glass of wine in her hands and led her to the piano with a guiding hand in the middle of her back. When Eliza settled back onto the bench and looked over to Henry's corner of the room, she noted that he had disappeared entirely, and was – in fact – not in the drawing room at all.

Eliza did not have a third glass of wine. Between being pushed into the role of party entertainment, and the strong current of emotion that still surged through her veins after her interlude with Henry, she felt the edges of her vision begin to blur by the time the second glass was emptied. She excused herself to bed, claiming to be feeling unwell; Mrs. Higgins did not pressure her to stay.

Henry had not wished to linger and witness Freddy Eynsford-Hill's attempt to simper his way back into Eliza's good graces, so he retired to bed where he could sulk in peace. It stung - he had to admit - to pour out his soul and secret shame to Eliza, only to have her - was it a rejection? He hadn't really let her finish her thoughts in the library - no matter; Henry felt the keen ache of a rejection that may or may not have actually occurred. He settled in with his book, and did not process a single line of text, as he paged through and waited for the party to die down, and for silence to fall.

After a few hours; Henry heard the soft click of the door in the room beside his – Eliza's room – and soft footsteps. He closed his book, donned his dressing gown, and headed onto the balconet so he could witness the soft glow of light from within her room, just beyond the drapes. He imagined Eliza was deep in bedtime preparations, but he held a wild hope that she could grace his presence. He stood in the cold for what felt like an eternity before the light in her room went out; with a sigh, he turned and returned back to his own sanctuary.

Eliza was standing by his bed. She was not wearing a dressing gown; instead opting for a peignoir that was diaphanous and pale blue, which matched her long, chemise-style nightgown. Her party curls had been brushed into soft, glossy waves, and her feet were bare. Henry had quite forgotten how to breathe as he slowly approached.

"Eliza–"

"I have been trying and failing to make it clear to you that I am not interested in becoming Mrs. Freddy Eynsford-Hill. I am beginning to realize that perhaps my words are just half-measures."

She closed the distance between them and brought her hands up to rest on the sides of his neck, stroking the soft skin with her fingertips. If Henry had been a weaker man, he might have purred at the exquisite sensation.

"What do you suggest?" he inquired, shakily.

"Something more tactile," she replied before licking her bottom lip. He acted before she could, and no more was said between the two.