The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,1
complained about it. “Well, you tell me, Jane.”
Jane studied the watch, her little face screwed up in concentration. “The big hand is on the six and the little hand is on the eight.”
“And so?” Livvy pressed.
“Half-past eight?”
“Clever girl!”
Jane beamed at the praise. “And we’ve had breakfast and we’re all dressed, even George.”
Livvy gave the children a nod of approval, astonished to discover that George, who was not quite three years old, was indeed dressed in a rather worn skeleton suit, but it was clothes, and he was wearing them. Quite an accomplishment. Livvy cast a critical eye over the children. Harry, at fourteen, was the eldest: all legs and arms that never seemed to be quite where he expected them. He was gangly and clumsy, like a newborn colt, and very aware of the fact he was becoming a young man. That his shirt cuffs were fraying and his cravat not properly starched were all minor miseries that wore upon him with greater force as the weeks and months passed. However, he was a good-hearted lad, and kind to his siblings. Today he carried Birdie, who was not yet a year old, her chubby arms looped about his neck. The older girls, Susan, Lydia, Rebecca and Jane, were thirteen, eleven, nine, and seven respectively.
“Well then, I should say it was certainly time. Susan fetch the currants and raisins. Lydia, you get the suet and the treacle. I shall fetch the ginger and nutmeg. Rebecca, can you measure out the flour? We shall need a pound.”
Rebecca gave a stern nod, adjusted her spectacles, and went to the large flour jar. Jane bounced with impatience, waiting for her task.
“Eight eggs, Jane,” Livvy said. “Take the basket, and be careful not to break them this time.”
Jane gave a little squeak, grabbed a shawl and the basket, and ran out into the garden towards the hen house, letting in a blast of cold, damp air as she went.
“S’pose I’d best fetch the charms, then,” Gelly said with a wink.
Livvy smiled. Despite the constant worrying that made her feel as frayed and worn as poor Harry’s cuffs, she enjoyed Christmas and all the preparations. Stir It Up Sunday had been a favourite time ever since she was a little girl and Charlie had needed to help her carefully stir the thick, dark pudding mixture from east to west, like the journey the magi had taken. The carved wooden spoon sat over the kitchen mantel all year, only coming down to be washed and oiled and used to stir the pudding. It felt like magic, or at least it had when Livvy was a child. The tradition was ancient and adding the thirteen ingredients, representing Christ and his disciples, had always seemed like alchemy, especially the charms. Yet it had been a long time since she had believed in magic, or believed in anything except trying to keep stockings darned, the chimney from smoking, and the pantry stocked. Her greatest challenge, however, was getting her brother, Viscount Boscawen, to understand that the worthless investments he’d made would never bring more than the pitiful amount that barely kept all their heads above water. Heads he kept adding to because he couldn’t keep his blasted fall buttoned for above five minutes.
Livvy sucked in a deep breath and let it out again in a slow exhalation. She would not spoil this for the children, for they still felt the magic. It was in their eyes, their blue eyes, all varying shades from the most delicate duck egg to the deep indigo of her own. Even Harry, struggling to become the young man he was destined to be, still felt it. She recognised the tremor of anticipation, of hope for a season of goodwill and roaring fires, of yule logs and gifts tied with bows, and mantels decorated with evergreen and prickly holly, stabbing soft fingers and drawing shiny drops of blood like berries. The traditions resonated through her, through the walls of the ancient house, down to the soil, connecting past and present, the long dead and the yet to be born.
With a sigh, she remembered the new life Ceci would bring squalling into the world, whether or not they could afford it, and returned her attention to the Christmas pudding.
By dinner time, the house was full of the perfumed spices of the pudding, lingering like an exotic taunt beside the more prosaic scent of boiled mutton and cabbage. Charlie would complain. If he arrived in time to eat,