said. “They took a horseshoe from the stable and made reindeer tracks in the snow. So they’ve all been outdoors this morning to see them. And imagine, just beyond the big red oak in our back garden, the tracks stopped.”
“Where the reindeer flew off into the sky, of course,” Mrs. Jameson said.
Mary laughed. “And the little ones stared upwards as if they might still spot those coursers going back to the Northland.”
“It’s all so much happier than when I was a child,” Mrs. Jameson said, “and the mummers appeared at the front door in strange disguises—I remember monsters and devils—and scared my sisters and me with intrusive questions about our behaviour during the year. My answers were never good enough to satisfy them.”
There was a clatter of footsteps on the staircase, and the children reappeared, each with a bulging red felt stocking. They emptied out the contents onto the floor. Each stocking had an orange which Mary had bought from Mr. Wood’s store. Then a packet of shortbread—“I gave the recipe to St. Nicholas,” Sam’s mother said to the guests—then a small box of candied ginger, walnut halves, and dried sweet apples and dates. Finally, on top, the wrapped wooden gifts made by Mr. Ross, carpenter and undertaker. This year, Mary had ordered a box for Sam Jr.’s treasures, and wagons, marionettes and dollies for the younger children.
“Miss Siddons has a party for you all in the nursery now,” Sam said. “Off you go and enjoy it while we have dinner.”
“Oh Papa, Miss Siddons has a puzzle for us, too,” Ellen said. “It’s General Washington on his white stallion, and if Emily and I can put it together in an hour, she’ll give us a prize.”
The dinner gong sounded then, and the adults went into the dining room, where Cook and her helper had set out the roast goose, cranberry-orange relish, brussels sprouts and whipped potatoes. Sam carved, and Mrs. Powell spooned liberal portions of bread sauce onto everyone’s plates, whether they wanted it or not. The manservant James poured the wine.
Sam sat down. “It’s a happy day for me, too. Sir Francis Bond Head told me yesterday that I am the new Superintendent of Indian Affairs.”
“Bravo, Jarvis,” Widmer said.
Jameson raised his glass. “Well done.”
“More money, I take it,” Mrs. Widmer said. “It will be welcome with all those children.”
Mary’s mother set down her knife and fork and picked up the monocle she brought to parties. It dangled on a chain around her neck. Conversation stopped while she affixed the glass to her right eye and stared at Mrs. Widmer as though she were some strange beetle that had taken up residence under the carpet. “Mr. Jarvis’s finances are surely his private concern, ma’am.”
Sam downed his wine in a gulp, and James, who hovered by the sideboard, refilled his glass. Sam smiled at his mother-in-law. “As you undoubtedly know, ma’am, Dr. Widmer has for many years held the mortgages on my properties. My improved finances may indeed be of interest to him.”
Beneath the starched linen tablecloth—as he said this—he felt a gentle pressure on his left foot. Certainly not Mary. She was at the other end of the table. It was, of course, the Widmer woman. He leapt to his feet and picked up the large spoon beside the goose. “Did I remember to give everyone stuffing?”
“Are you too hot, Sam?” Mary said. “Your face is very red.”
“My son is an excellent choice for the post,” his mother was saying in her gentle voice. “He even has an Indian name, you know, given to him by his friend, grandson of a Chippewa chieftain, whom my dear late husband and I knew when we lived at Niagara.”
Mrs. Jameson leaned forward. “How wonderful! Oh, Mr. Jarvis, I hope you will introduce me to some Indians. It would be a welcome diversion. But much more than that. It would provide material for my book on Upper Canada.”
Mrs. Widmer giggled. “I’d better behave, or I’ll find myself described in Chapter One: ‘Indians and Other Savages in the New World’.”
No one laughed.
The ceremony of the plum pudding came next. James brought it in, alight in the blue flame of the whiskey which Cook had drizzled over it. Mary cut substantial pieces for everyone, pouring the rum sauce liberally over each serving.
“How many sides has a plum pudding?” Dr. Widmer asked. No one pretended to know, though the joke was an old one.
“Two: inside and outside.” In the polite laughter that followed, Sam was able to move his foot well out of reach of Mrs. Widmer’s.
After dinner, the cloth was whisked away, and Dr. Widmer, the Attorney-General and Sam filled their glasses with port and passed round the walnuts and nutcracker while the ladies retired to the drawing room. Soon Sam could hear Eliza at the pianoforte banging out something from Mozart. She had the touch of a cow moose.
“Mary has taken a liking to your good wife, Jameson.”
“Ah yes, I had hoped that Anna would make friends. I have not been much in society myself, as you may know, but she has taken me in hand and pushes me here and there.” Jameson poured another glass of port, downed it in a gulp, and having made this effort at conversation, slumped in his chair and closed his eyes.
The doctor cracked a nut and popped the meat into his mouth. “It is kind of you to invite us to Christmas each year, Jarvis. These feast days are dull when you have no children around to brighten them.”
“You’ve done me many a good turn over the years, Widmer.” Sam looked over at Jameson. His head was tilted, and his mouth had fallen slightly open. In a softer voice, he added, “I have not forgotten your help when I needed it.”
A slight frown deepened the wrinkles of Widmer’s pale forehead. “I sometimes think of that poor young man. But I know he instigated the whole thing.” Widmer cracked open another nut. “Whatever happened, Jarvis, it’s water under the bridge.”
Water under the bridge, yes, but Sam would never forget that bloody corpse. Or his subsequent lie in the courtroom when he’d stated that Ridout had lived long enough to offer his forgiveness. Widmer, who’d been the coroner, had said it was possible the death had not been instant.
Sam poured himself another glass of port and avoided the doctor’s gaze. They sat for a while in silence. Then Sam looked at his pocket watch. “Time to join the ladies. Shall we take our port and see what they’re up to?”
The scraping of their chairs awoke Jameson. “Sorry, gentlemen. Worked too late last night.”
Eliza was still at the pianoforte. Sam’s mother and mother-in-law sat at opposite ends of the settee where they were intent on their embroidery, Mary and Mrs. Jameson played cribbage, and Mrs. Widmer had positioned herself in the hallway under the mistletoe. She smiled at the men as they came from the dining room.
“Which of you will be the lucky man?” She looked at Sam. Her bodice had slipped down on one side, exposing an expanse of plump white shoulder.
“I am the lucky person, of course, my dear,” Widmer said as Sam and Jameson hurried by her. Jameson joined the cribbage players, and Sam took a seat between the old ladies. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the perfunctory kiss was already over. Widmer plucked a berry from the mistletoe.
Miss Siddons appeared in the archway of the drawing room with Caroline, Charlotte, Charlie and the older girls. “The little ones want to go out and look at the reindeer tracks again,” she said. “I shall take them, and Emily and Ellen will finish their puzzle upstairs.”
“I have a small gift for your schoolroom,” Mrs. Jameson said, rising from the cribbage table and making her way over to the governess. From her reticule, she brought out a small book.
“A dictionary?” Miss Siddons looked at the cover and turned the pages. “And written by you, ma’am?”
“It was my first book—I was twenty-one