The Christmas Card: The perfect heartwarming novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller. Dilly CourtЧитать онлайн книгу.
all strange and new,’ Beth said softly. ‘Jane is a worthy woman, and we must be grateful to her for putting a roof over our heads. It was good of her to think of finding you a suitable position. Teaching drawing is a ladylike occupation.’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Alice could see that her mother was having difficulty walking and she held out her hand. ‘Let me help you upstairs.’
‘Thank you, dear. It’s these silly legs of mine. They’re aching miserably this evening, but once I get going I’m quite all right.’
After seeing her mother settled for the night, although it was only seven o’clock, Alice did not fancy an evening of Bible study with Aunt Jane and she went to her room. She lit the single candle provided and went to draw the curtains, pausing for a moment to watch the large feathery snowflakes whirling and dancing as they fluttered slowly to the pavement and lay there like a white fleecy blanket. A man wearing a greatcoat with his collar pulled up to his ears trudged past the house, leaving a trail of stark black footprints in his wake. Alice sighed. The pristine beauty of the fallen snow was despoiled and ruined forever. She pulled the curtains together, shutting out the harsh reality of the world before going to sit on the bed. In her reticule was her most prized possession and she took it out carefully. The paper was yellowed with age and slightly dog-eared, but the picture on the Christmas card was of a family gathering at yuletide, and it had always seemed to her to be imbued with the true spirit of the season. It was the first such card to have been produced commercially, and her father had bought it in the year she had been born. He had kept it for her until she was old enough to appreciate the message of peace and goodwill that it contained. Sadly, so Pa had told her, the first cards had not been a huge success. In fact he had invested money in their production, losing heavily, as so often happened on the rare occasions when he had ventured into the business world.
Alice held the hand-coloured lithograph to her bosom with a whisper of a sigh. ‘Poor Papa,’ she said softly. ‘I’m glad you’re not here to see us in such a pickle, but I promise you I’ll do everything I can to make things better for Mama. I won’t let you down.’ She rose to her feet and stowed the precious card out of sight of prying eyes in the chest of drawers.
At first when she opened her eyes to darkness she thought it was the middle of the night, but Aunt Jane was shaking her by the shoulder and she was fully dressed.
‘Get up, you idle child. It’s nearly six o’clock and you have to be at the Dearborns’ establishment in Russell Square at half-past seven sharp.’ She tugged the coverlet off the bed, leaving Alice curled up in a ball, shivering. ‘I expect you to be washed, dressed and in the dining room in ten minutes.’ Jane marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her as if to ensure that Alice remained wide awake.
Stiff and cold, with no inclination to remain in the uncomfortable bed any longer than necessary, Alice did not hesitate. She padded barefoot to the washstand only to find that the water in the jug had frozen. After some difficulty she managed to crack the ice and had a cat’s lick of a wash before throwing on her clothes. Her numbed fingers made it difficult to do up the buttons on her bodice and even harder to tidy her mouse-brown hair into a chignon. Without the aid of a mirror it was impossible to see the end result and she tucked a stray strand behind her ear, hoping that Aunt Jane would not notice.
When she reached the dining room she found that Jane had already eaten and was sitting at the head of the table, sipping a cup of tea. The sight of steam rising was encouraging, but Alice experienced a feeling of acute disappointment when she realised that there was neither milk nor sugar to make the strong brew more palatable. Breakfast consisted of a slice of bread, thinly spread with butter, and that was all. There was an eerie silence as she ate her frugal meal, broken only by the sound of Jane’s cup being replaced on its saucer.
Without bothering to see if Alice had finished, Jane rose to her feet. ‘Come along. I’ll take you to Russell Square as it’s your first morning, but in future you will get yourself up and out in good time. I’m not going to pamper you as your mother has done since you were born. You’re a child no longer, Alice. You are plain and penniless and you will have to get used to earning your keep.’ She reached for her bonnet and rammed it on top of her lace cap. ‘Hurry up, girl. We’ll stop at the church on the way to ask God’s blessing in the hope that he will save you from your profligate ways.’
There appeared to be no answer to this. Alice stuffed the last crust into her mouth, washing it down with a mouthful of tea. She followed her aunt from the room, stopping only to snatch her bonnet and cape from the hallstand as they left the house.
It was getting light as they made their way carefully along snow-covered pavements to the church on the west side of the square. Candles blazed on the altar and the smell of hot wax and musty hymnals filled the still air. Following Jane’s example Alice dutifully went down on her knees beside her. Jane’s lips moved in silent prayer, but Alice’s mind was elsewhere. Her fingers were itching to draw the scene outside. The bare branches of the plane trees were dusted with snow, and the pools of yellow light created by the gas lamps sparkled with frost crystals. The piles of straw and horse dung on the cobblestones were concealed beneath several inches of virgin snow, but as the day progressed and traffic began to move it would all vanish into a mess of slush. The outside world had a fleeting fairy-tale appearance too beautiful to ignore, but she would have to commit it to memory until, at some time in the future, she could replicate the scene in pen and ink or delicate watercolour.
She rose to her feet automatically when Jane finished her prayer, and followed her aunt as they set off once again with Jane in the lead, using her black umbrella as if she were a lancer at the head of a cavalry charge. Luckily it was not far to Russell Square and they arrived without any unwary passer-by sustaining a serious injury.
Jane marched up the steps to the front door and hammered on the knocker. Moments later a stern-faced butler answered the summons. He glared at Jane, eyebrows raised. ‘Might I be of assistance, madam?’
Jane tapped the ground with the ferule of her umbrella. ‘I wish to see Mrs Dearborn. Tell her that Mrs Jane Radcliffe is here with her niece, Alice Radcliffe. Mrs Dearborn is expecting me.’
‘I doubt if the mistress will be receiving this early in the morning, but if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll return.’ He shut the door without giving Jane the chance to step over the threshold.
She bridled visibly. ‘Such bad form. I’ll report him to Mrs Dearborn, you see if I don’t.’ She kept prodding the step with her umbrella, tapping her foot to the same beat until the door opened once again. ‘I should think so too.’ She stepped inside without waiting to be invited. ‘Come along, girl,’ she snapped, beckoning to Alice.
‘Mrs Dearborn is not ready to receive visitors.’ The butler took a step backwards, eyeing Jane’s umbrella nervously. ‘But the housekeeper, Mrs Upton, will see you in the morning room. This way, please.’
He stalked off across the highly polished floor, which was as slippery as a frozen pond. Jane trod carefully and Alice had to curb a sudden childish desire to run and slide. Boughs of holly intertwined with fronds of ivy were strung from the banisters on the galleried landing, and bowls of hothouse flowers provided splashes of bright colour against the wainscoted walls. The air was warm and redolent with their scent.
‘Mrs Upton will be with you shortly,’ the butler said as he ushered them into the morning room.
Jane walked over to the fireplace, holding her hands out to the blaze. ‘Such extravagance. No wonder the world is in a parlous state.’
Alice did not offer an opinion. She moved as close as she dared to the fire, revelling in the luxury of warmth, and her spirits rose as she looked round the comfortably furnished room. The walls were lined with framed watercolours of flowers, birds and country scenes, and the mantelshelf was cluttered with ornaments, spill vases and a large gilt clock with a garniture of candelabra supported by smiling cherubs. Her feet sank into the thick pile of the carpet and she was tempted to take a seat in one of the velvet-upholstered, button-back armchairs, but did not dare take liberties. Jane, as expected, was unimpressed. She sniffed. ‘Vulgar display. Ostentatious and decadent.’