Anne Perry: A Christmas Homecoming

“I imagine she still gave a great deal of pleasure.” Caroline tried to imagine the frustration of the young woman she had never known, and wondered if Alice had actually known her well, or whether she was simply projecting her own frustrations into her aunt’s story.

Alice did not reply.

“She married very happily and had several children,” Douglas put in, catching up with Caroline and walking beside her. “There is no need whatsoever to feel sorry for her. She was an excellent woman.”

Alice turned around to face him, stopping so abruptly that he very nearly walked into her.

Caroline thought of her own second daughter, Charlotte, who was willful, full of spirit and fire like Alice, and impossible to deter from following her own path, however awkward the path may be. She had married far beneath herself socially, but since the marriage, her husband, Thomas, had risen spectacularly. Charlotte had always been happy: in her own way, perhaps the happiest of all Caroline’s daughters.

Caroline looked at Alice facing her fiancé, head high, eyes blazing, and felt a protective warmth toward her. It was as if she had for an instant seen her own Charlotte as a young woman again, struggling to defy the rules and follow her own dream. She longed to be able to help Alice, but knew that to interfere would be disastrous. She did not know the girl. All kinds of arrogant mistakes could spring from even the most well-meaning intentions.

“Excellent?” Alice challenged. “What does that mean? That she did her duty, as her husband saw it?”

Douglas kept his temper with an effort that even Caroline could easily see, and she did not know him. To Alice it must have been as clear as daylight.

“As she saw it herself, Alice,” he said. “I met her, if you remember? She was gracious, composed, a good wife, and a loving mother. You should not forget that. Playing the viola, like any other pastime, is a fine thing to do, in its place. Aunt Delia knew what that place was, and she still played occasionally at dinner parties and was much admired.”

“For what? Playing well, or having given up being brilliant in order to be dutiful?” Alice challenged him again.

“Living a life of love and generosity mixed with duty, rather than chasing after self-indulgence and an illusion of fame,” he told her. “Only to end up old, lonely, and probably destitute among strangers.”

“Lie to yourself that you are happy, when what you really mean is that you are safe,” she interpreted. “If you take risks then of course they may turn out badly. But if you marry that can turn out badly, too.” She glanced at him, her lips closed tightly as if to stop them from trembling. “And so can having children. Not all children grow up to be charming and obedient. They can be anything: wanton, spiteful, spendthrift; they can drink too much, even steal. Nothing is certain in life, except that you should not be too afraid of it to accept its challenges.”

“You are very young, Alice.” He still kept his voice under weary control, but Caroline could see the edge of fear in him now. He did not understand her, and mastery of the situation was slipping out of his grasp. She felt a twinge of pity for him, even though it was Alice she was able to relate to, to understand.

“I am working on getting older!” Alice snapped, and swung around again to continue on toward the theater.

Douglas reached out to grasp Alice’s arm, but Caroline prevented him. She stepped a yard or so in front of the path he would have to take, making it impossible for him to catch hold of Alice.

“Don’t,” she said quietly enough that Alice would not hear her. Her own footsteps and the rustle of her skirts drowned it out. “We probably none of us know whether Aunt Delia was happy or not. The point is that Alice imagines herself in Delia’s place, and feels trapped for her. You see her as gracefully letting go of an unreality and embracing a better path.”

He looked at her with surprise. “Of course I do. Wouldn’t anyone, if they thought about it without theater footlights in their eyes?”

Caroline smiled at him; it was almost a laugh. “Perhaps. But then I can’t say; I have the same lights in my eyes. Or had you not noticed?”

“Oh.” He blinked. For a moment he looked far younger, and not at all unattractive. “I’m so sorry … I …”

“Think nothing of it,” she said cheerfully. “Let us allow Alice to show us the stage, and all its charms and limitations. She will do it anyway. We may as well be gracious about it.”

He did not move. “Do you think this … play … will come to anything?” There was a real anxiety in his eyes. “Is she … talented?”

Caroline read a world of fear behind the words. What he was really asking was, was Alice bored with Whitby, even with Douglas himself? To him the theater was a tawdry world of make-believe, while to her it was the gateway to freedom of the mind, the wings to carry her to an inner life far brighter than any outer clay could be.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, remembering that Joshua had said the play was desperately amateur, close to unworkable. “But if she has the courage to put it to the test, you will win nothing at all by preventing her from finding out.”

The flicker crossed his face again. “She may be hurt. It’s my place to try to save her from that.”

“You can’t,” she said simply. “All you can do is comfort her if she fails. You will learn that when you have children. Nothing in the world hurts quite like seeing your child fail, and then watching as they try to face the pain of it. But you must not prevent them from following their hearts, just because there is the possibility of failure. All that shows is that you don’t believe in either their ability, or their courage. Believe me, Mr. Paterson, I have daughters just as willful as Alice, if not more so.”

He looked startled. “Did they want to write plays?”

“No, but one of them wanted to marry a policeman, and live on a pittance.”

He swallowed. “What did you do?”

“I let her. Not that I imagine I could have stopped her,” she admitted. “It was a matter of doing it graciously, or ungraciously. I am delighted to say that she is very happy indeed.”

He was clearly not sure whether to believe her or not.

“Let us join Alice, and be shown the theater.” She took his arm, so he was obliged to leave the subject and do as she commanded.

fter seeing the stage, which was unexpectedly impressive, Caroline returned along the series of corridors to the main part of the house. She found that Joshua had apparently gone to discuss the following day’s arrangements with the rest of the players. Only Mr. and Mrs. Netheridge were in the large withdrawing room. Caroline hadn’t had time to really notice the décor earlier, as they had actually approached the dining room from the other side, and so had glimpsed this room only through its open double doors.

Inside it was awe-inspiring, certainly the central room of the house. The ceiling was unusually high and ornate. She tried to imagine how long the scrolled and curlicued plasterwork must have taken, and gave up before her staring became too obvious to be good-mannered. The walls were separated into panels, but the most remarkable feature of the room was an enormous window of almost cathedral-like proportions with panes of delicate leaded glass, most of it in rich autumnal colors. It was clearly seen because the curtains on either side of it were drawn back and held by thick silk ropes. Lanterns outside the window shone through the colored glass.