I had written out all the names on pieces of paper, and placed them on the appropriate platters.
Those who had difficulty in reading, or who could not read at all, had neighbors who could do so.
There were three tables.
I was to head one, with Rachel at the further end.
The second was headed by Billy Rowe from the Barton, and the third by Peter Johns, from Coombe.
The custom was for all the company to be assembled in the long room, ready seated, soon after five; and when everyone was in place we would walk into the room.
When dinner was over, Ambrose and I used to give the people their presents from the tree, always money for the men, and new shawls for the women, and hampers of food for all of them.
The presents never varied.
Any change of routine would have shocked them, every one.
This Christmas, though, I had asked Rachel to give out the presents with me.
Before dressing for dinner, I had sent along to Rachel’s room the collar of pearls. I had left it in its wrappings, but had placed a note inside.
On the note I had written these words,
“My mother wore this last.
Now it belongs to you.
I want you to wear it tonight, and always.
Philip.”
I had my bath, and dressed, and was ready before a quarter to five.
The Kendalls and the Pascoes would not call for us at the house; the custom was for them to go straight to the long room, where they chatted with the tenants and helped to break the ice.
Ambrose had always considered this a sound idea.
The servants would be in the long room also, and Ambrose and I used to walk through the stone passages at the back of the house, and across the court, and out and up the flight of steps to the long room above the coach-houses.
Tonight, Rachel and I would walk the passages alone.
I came downstairs and waited in the drawing room. I felt some trepidation, as I stood there, for never in my life had I given a present to a woman.
It might be that it was a breach of etiquette, that flowers only were acceptable, or books, or pictures.
What if she should be angry, as she had been over that business of the quarterly allowance, and should imagine, in some queer fashion, that I did this to insult her?
It was a desperate thought. The passing minutes were slow torture.
At last I heard her footstep on the stairs.
No dogs preceded her tonight.
They had all been locked early in their kennels.
She came slowly; the familiar rustle of her gown drew near.
The door was open, and she came into the room and stood before me.
She wore deep black, as I had expected, but I had not seen the gown before. It stood out, away from her, clinging only about the bodice and the waist, and the stuff had a sheen to it as though the light was upon it.
Her shoulders were bare.
She had dressed her hair higher than usual, the roll of it was looped up and drawn back, showing her ears.
Around her neck was the collar of pearls. It was the only piece of jewelry upon her person.
It glowed soft and white against her skin.
I had never seen her look so radiant, or so happy.
Louise and the Pascoes had been right after all.
Rachel was beautiful.
She stood there a moment watching me, and then she put out her hands to me and said,
“Philip.” I walked towards her.
I stood in front of her.
She put her arms about me and held me to her.
There were tears in her eyes, but tonight I did not mind.
She took her arms from my shoulders, and raised them to the back of my head, and touched my hair.
Then she kissed me.
Not as she had done before.
And as I stood there, holding her, I thought to myself, “It was not yearning for home, nor sickness of the blood, nor fever of the brain—but for this, that Ambrose died.”
I kissed her in return.
In the belfry the clock struck five.
She said nothing to me, nor I to her.