A Christmas Homecoming: A Novel

oshua spent the afternoon attempting to rewrite at least some of the major outline of the play. It was a difficult work for an amateur to adapt, particularly because, like many novels, much of the tension came from the characters’ inner thoughts, and was impossible to dramatize without creating scenes that did not exist in the original book. There were also a great many letters in it, impossible to translate into action.

Alice had done a good job of cutting the story to exclude these while still keeping the story intact, but there were many awkward transitions that needed quite a lot of work.

The weather became worse, the wind rising so that the snow drifted, piling up into banks and leaving the lee side almost bare. Trees leaned dangerously, cracking under the weight. Some lighter branches broke.

Joshua barely noticed, but Caroline, staring out of the windows at the leaden sky late in the afternoon, realized that there was a great likelihood of them being snowed in, perhaps for several days. Though they had intended to be there until well after Christmas, she still found the notion curiously imprisoning.

It was almost evening and already dark when the doorbell rang. It was so startling, considering the weather, that Caroline stopped where she was at the bottom of the stairs, watching as the footman appeared to answer it. He pulled the door wide open, peering forward a little as if he expected to see no one on the step.

He was mistaken, and Caroline heard his gasp from twenty feet away. She, too, stared at the man who stood silhouetted against the snow-whirled darkness. He was of at least average height, his hair smooth and black, and the shoulders of his cloak were covered in pale, glistening snow. The lamplight from inside made his cheeks hollow, his eyes under the dark brows so black as to seem without pupils.

“Good evening,” he said softly, but his voice carried with startling clarity, his diction perfect. “I apologize for disturbing you on such a night, but circumstances have forced me to seek your help. My name is Anton Ballin, and my carriage has broken down in a drift some way from here. I have left my coachman at the wheelwright’s, but I must ask for shelter for myself.”

The footman had no civilized alternative but to ask the man in.

“Please step inside, Mr. Ballin. Give me your cloak, sir, and warm yourself by the fire. I shall inform my master of your situation.”

“You are most kind.” Ballin came inside, as requested. As he crossed the light it was possible to see that he was carrying a small case, such as one might have for a single night’s stay somewhere. He looked at Caroline.

“Madame,” he inclined his head. He was striking in appearance. He would have been handsome were his cheekbones not a little too prominent and his skin unnaturally pale. “I regret imposing on your hospitality,” he added with a very slight shrug. “The weather is far worse than I had anticipated.”

She realized that he spoke with a very faint accent. It was more a precision of diction than any alteration of vowels.

She came forward. “I am Caroline Fielding, another guest, but I am sure Mrs. Netheridge will make you welcome for as long as this weather lasts.” She offered her hand.

He took it gently. His hands were gloved, and freezing. He raised hers to his lips in the gesture of a kiss, then let it fall. He regarded her curiously. Even inside, under the lights of the hall, his eyes were as black as they had seemed in the shadows.

“Not another orphan of the storm, I hope?” he asked curiously.

“Not at all, Mr. Ballin. My husband and I are here as Mr. Netheridge’s guests, with a very small company of actors, who are to perform a play for such friends and neighbors as are able to come, on Boxing Day.”

“Fielding,” he rolled the name on his tongue. “Mr. Joshua Fielding?”

She felt a distinct flush of pleasure, even of pride. “Yes. Do you know him?”

“Of course.” He smiled. He had excellent teeth, even and very white. They gave his face a power she had not appreciated before because it was so dominated by his eyes. “A fine actor,” he went on. “He has the ability to convey many moods, many types of people, and carry you with him while doing so. It is a rare gift. What are you to perform for these fortunate guests of Mr. Netheridge’s?”

Now she was not so certain that telling him about the play had been a good idea, although if he were to be islanded here by the storm, as seemed inevitable, then he would know soon enough. Still, she felt self-conscious in answering.

“An adaptation of Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula,” she replied, wishing she could have said it was a few scenes from Shakespeare, or even a reading from Mr. Dickens’s works.

“Really?” His voice held no incredulity, and certainly no suggestion of disappointment. “I did not know such a thing had been written. That interests me greatly.”

She felt even more embarrassed, but there was no way to avoid answering him.

“Miss Netheridge has made an adaptation,” she said with as little hesitation as she could. “The work is not complete yet, but we are progressing quite well.” That was a massive overstatement. She knew that Joshua’s afternoon had been frustrating. He had said he felt even less hopeful now than he had when he made his promises to Charles Netheridge, and by implication to Alice, the evening before.

She was saved from Ballin’s reply by the appearance of Netheridge himself. He introduced himself to Ballin and made him welcome, offering him hospitality for as long as he should need it. This included a change of clothes from those he was wearing, which were obviously soaked through. Small pools of water glistened at Ballin’s feet in the light from the chandeliers.

Caroline excused herself and went to tell Joshua of Ballin’s arrival, and that he knew of Joshua and admired him.