44
Twas the night before Christmas, and the only creature stirring was Victor. The baby was asleep on his chest. Slowly and gently he rocked in Victoria's rocker by the fireplace. The only sounds were the baby's slow breaths and the tiny squeak of the floorboards under the rocker's movement.
The older children had retired early so that Christmas Day would come more quickly. Victoria, still recovering from the baby, had also gone to bed early. The night nurse was due any moment. Victor felt like Scrooge, asking Mrs. Weary to work on Christmas Eve and into the day, but she'd said she didn't mind. Her nephew was grown and she had insomnia, so it worked out well. All the same, he and Victoria had a hamper for her in the kitchen along with her pay envelope.
Victor rocked. The baby breathed. The parlor was dim. Most of the light came from the fireplace, with the fire kept up for the baby's sake. Victor patted her tiny back, all wrapped up in a soft knitted blanket.
The little tree was in its pot on the table in front of the window seat. It was draped with strings of dried orange slices, small paper chains the girls had made, and the set of glass baubles he and Victoria had bought for their first Christmas in this house. A tin star sat crookedly on top. Before she'd gone to bed Victoria had hung net bags of sweets and nuts for the children, and those branches drooped low over the tabletop. Parcels in brown paper were set on the table at the base of the tree.
Victor hoped Victoria liked the new sewing kit and novel that he'd found for her. He'd made small drawings for the children. The older girls had worked together to make a rag doll for the baby. She sat looking at him now from beneath the tree with glinting pearl button eyes, a large satin bow wrapped about her middle. They'd been thrilled with their work, and more thrilled at the prospect of bestowing the gift on the baby.
Beneath the table was a full pail of water Victor had put there when they'd had the small candles lit earlier for the children. He'd leave it for tomorrow. They'd probably want to see it all lit up again before the day was over. And he'd of course light it for them. It would be a good day. He felt it. A good Christmas. Little Mary's first one.
Victor, gazing at the tree, didn't realize that he'd stopped rocking until Mary began to wriggle and fidget. She always had to be in motion, even while asleep. This was a big part of the reason they'd hired a night nurse this time around.
Gently Victor shifted the baby from his chest to the crook of his arm and set to rocking again. She whimpered and mewled and blinked her eyes. Those enormous eyes. He adjusted her little cap and she fixed her eyes on his, and his insides turned into warm custard. Once he'd wondered how he'd have enough love for anyone besides Victoria. Then he'd wondered how he could possibly have enough for anyone besides Lydia. But he did. He'd found his heart big enough for each one of them, equally and deeply.
As Victor stared down into his baby daughter's face, as he thought of his beloved wife and cherished older children upstairs, safe and dreaming, with the tree and and the gifts and the fire, he thought he'd never felt so Christmassy in his life as he did in this moment.
Footsteps made him look up. He cleared his throat, embarrassed to realize that his eyes were a little wet. Quickly he swiped at them before he said, "Ah, Mrs. Weary, Merry Christmas."
The nurse, dressed neatly in her cap and apron, bobbed at the knee just a little. The gesture made him feel so strange. He'd known Mrs. Weary since he was tiny. She was a village fixture. And now he was paying her and she was making respectful gestures at him. On Christmas. So odd.
She stepped into the room and approached with arms out for the baby. "I'll take her from here, Mr. Van Dort. You shan't hear from us until she needs to eat."
Victor did not hand the baby over. Mary was such a warm little bundle in his arms, against his heart. Somehow he couldn't bear the thought of giving her up. The moment stretched and Mrs. Weary's arms wilted, her smile drooped, confused.
"Oh, I'll sit a bit longer," Victor told her at last. "Do take a seat. There are walnuts just there."
Slowly, puzzled, Mrs. Weary sat on the very edge of the armchair beside the rocker. She did not touch the walnuts on the small table between them. "As you like," she said eventually.
"I do," he told her happily.
And Victor rocked, gently, the floor softly creaking. The baby drifted off once more. The firelight glinted on the baubles and gave the orange slices a warm glow. Victor wished he could capture this moment, this feeling, this night before Christmas, and keep it always.