A Christmas Homecoming: A Novel

aroline slept well, too tired to even move. Even when she heard Joshua’s voice speaking her name, and felt his hand on her shoulder, she had to battle to the surface of consciousness. She opened her eyes to sharp, white winter daylight, and it took a moment or two for her to remember where she was.

Joshua was smiling. “Sorry,” he said gently. “Have I landed you with a wretched Christmas?”

“Probably,” she replied. “But listening to Eliza Netheridge in that awful drawing room yesterday evening, I thought of my mother-in-law, and blessed your name for having rescued me from her.”

“Oh, Grandmama.” He rolled his eyes. “I was just doing my impersonation of St. George, rescuing the maiden from the dragon. Was she pretty awful, old Mrs. Netheridge? I believe she died over ten years ago.”

“She’s still around in spirit,” Caroline said, sitting up in bed and pushing her long hair out of the way. It was soft and shining, and still mostly dark brown. She rinsed it in a solution of cold tea and iron filings, but she would rather that Joshua did not know that. “She designed the décor, and it has remained untouched since then,” she went on.

“It must have been redecorated in ten years!” he protested.

“Certainly, but not changed.” She looked at him. “It’s awful, isn’t it!”

“Ghastly.” He leaned forward and kissed her softly, intimately, then stood up. “After breakfast I have to read through this play again. I don’t know what on earth I’m going to do with it to make it work. It’s bad on the page, and I’ve an awful fear it’s going to be even worse when it’s read.”

“We have a week to work on it.” She pushed the bedclothes away and swung her feet out. “Let’s at least enjoy breakfast. I shall probably eat far too much while I’m here. Judging from dinner last night, they have an excellent cook, and nothing in the kitchen is my responsibility. That in itself makes it all taste better.”

The meal lived up to her every expectation. The sideboard groaned under the weight of chafing dishes of kidneys; bacon; sausages; potatoes; and eggs boiled, scrambled, poached, and fried. There was porridge for those who wished it, and racks of toast with butter, jam, and marmalade, and pots of tea. It was only the temper of the guests that was sour.

Vincent barely spoke, but that was usual for him in the mornings. Lydia was cheerful, but for some reason, this irritated Mercy.

“I don’t know why we are bothering,” she said for the third time. “Look at the weather. Nobody’s going to be able to come for the performance, even if they wish to.” She reached for the marmalade.

“Why wouldn’t they wish to?” Lydia asked with exaggerated innocence. “Dracula is all the rage in London. Everyone is reading it, if only to not be left out. It will be enormous fun. Don’t you want to be Mina, and fall into the arms of the vampire, become one of the ‘children of the night’?” She sipped her tea delicately.

Mercy glared at her. “All I can say is thank God you die near the beginning!”

“But then I am ‘undead’!” Lydia said with a grin. “It isn’t until much later that I can go into the audience and watch all the rest of you without having to worry about remembering any more lines.”

“That’s if we can make it workable in the first place,” James said darkly. He had taken a liberal breakfast and was still eating it: kidneys, bacon, eggs, and sausage.

“We must,” Joshua reminded them. “A good deal of our company’s survival next year depends on it. And I suggest that next time you find a line difficult or an entry or exit clumsy, you remember that, and try a bit harder to make do.”

At that moment, Alice appeared. The conversation instantly became polite and trivial.