Work Text:
London, Christmas 1758
Grey manor never was a quiet one, but it also never during the year was as lively as at Christmas Eve. Leaning against the door of his room, Lord John heard his mother laugh downstairs, his cousin Olivia jingling away at the piano, her son continuously interrupting – or joining – her play with his awkward little fingers. He heard his brother Hal complementing his wife on her dress for what surely was the twelfth time that night – Lord John had to admit, Minnie did look amazing in blue velvet – and Hal’s sons slaying a dragon that sounded remarkably like Olivia’s husband Malcolm Stubbs. From all the places he had been at this evening, Lord John liked being home for Christmas best. Still, in all this mayhem, he sometimes needed a moment in solitude. His wounds from battle had long healed, even last one of the last shrapnel that had left his body a mere months ago, and the scars the events had left on his soul also had become faint and barely noticeable anymore. However, his whole family had readily accepted this as an excuse when he had left the dinner table.
Now here he stood, in his darkened room, surrounded by the smell and sounds of Christmas, watching the snowflakes dancing their fleet-footed dance down to earth, and thought of the Christmases he had spend with other people, other men, some of whom had been closer to him than all those loving family members feasting downstairs.
There had been Hector.
Christmas with Hector had been… harmonious.
He remembered accompanying the older boy to his house for their Christmas dinner. He remembered one year, when he had been presented with a pair of beautiful gloves by Hector’s mother. He was nearly sure he still kept them around here somewhere.
He also remembered the Christmas nights, with their bodies pressed together under the covers, their ever-touching lips flavoured of mulled wine, shining in the soft glow of the slowly dying fire.
He had often thought of these Christmas nights in the years after Hector’s death. Had longed for his warm hands when the chill of December slowly crept in. Had longed for his soft voice softly humming Christmas carols. Had hardly been able to keep himself from crying on many Christmas nights.
Lord John shook his head and crossed over to the window. The snowing had become even heavier and he allowed himself a quick un-festive thought about the unlikelihood of him being able to use the coach the next morning to call on some friends from the regiment. Somewhere a bell was sounding. Downstairs, young Malcolm had obviously become tired of playing the piano. His protesting scream seemed to resound in the whole house. Lord John smiled. It was fascinating how strong-willed this infant already was.
Strong-willed… the thought touched something within him. Another Christmas memory.
“I’m not gonna dine with you tonight, Sir”, Fraser had said and Lord John had been startled at first, before he had remembered the date. Days in Ardsmuir had felt so much alike, especially in winter, when the snowstorm lashed against walls and windows night after night, that he had almost forgotten it was Christmas Eve. “Why not?” he had replied. “No matter how scarce the stocks here are, the Christmas dinner you will get in my quarters will surely be better than anything else that will be served downstairs.” Fraser had just bowed his head in a mock apology and Lord John was sure he had heard a little bit of edge in the other man’s voice. “I said I’m not gonna dine with ye tonight. I’d rather be down with me men.” I don’t expect ye to understand was what resonated beneath the words. Ye don’t see this night as I do. Which, most likely, was correct. Lord John wanted company, but not so much spiritual guidance. So he had just smiled generously. “Do as you wish, Mr. Fraser. I would like you, however, to join me for dinner tomorrow night. You will be finished by your duties by then, will you?” It had sounded like an order and Lord John had regretted it the instant he saw the other man’s eyes grow hard. It had been a lonely Christmas in Ardsmuir. Lonely in body. Not that lonely in mind…
Down on the street a coal-seller wheeled by his barrow, his breathe puffing in white clouds in front of his face. He should be thankful, Lord John thought, that he had the privilege to be in here and not travelling, as he had been the year before. Stephan von Namtzen had invited him for Christmas, and the wedding that had been set for the second day of Christmas, as the Germans put it. “I will marry Princess Louisa if I’m still alive by Christmas”, von Namtzen had told him back when he had been with his regiment, and he had followed through with it. Princess Louisa von Loewenstein was a lucky woman.
Lord John had arrived the morning of the 24th, wet, achingly tired and nearly frozen to death after more than a week of travelling due to heavy snow.
“My dear friend!” von Namtzen had greeted him, “I am so glad you have arrived. Come, come, have some wine. Wilhelm!” He had not seen much of Louisa this day, with her being completely engaged in the wedding preparations, and he had not been able to say that he was unhappy about it.
He and von Namtzen had sat together in the parlour later, while servants fussed around them, fixing the last decorations. “So you actually will marry her.”
Von Namtzen had laughed at the remark, then had buried his face in his massive hands. “Obviously, I will. I cannot really believe it, either, my friend. I thought I would not even by alive by now. And now I’m not only alive, I am going to bind this life to this woman. In two days time.”
“Very poetically spoken.”
“Maybe. Maybe it is just the fear talking. My children need a mother, that is for sure. But does that naturally mean I need a wife?”
“Wer weiß? Möglicherweise”, Lord John had replied at this, barely suppressing a sigh. If one was to ask him, a wife was never necessary, but that was not the question. He reached over to put a hand on von Namtzen’s arm. “It is the right decision, my friend. Don’t you worry. It will all be good.”
Lord John did not remember much about the celebrations that evening, save for the enormous tree, decorated with dozens of silver-coloured apples, garlands and what ever else had been available at the time (or so it seemed), and safe for the fact that it had seemed strange to him that the 24th, not the 25th was the most important day of the festivities. The more he did remember the ceremony two days later, with von Namtzen in full dress, with Louisa shining at sparkling by his side almost like the Christmas tree. He had caught von Namtzen’s eye a moment before the ceremony began. Was mache ich hier?, the gaze had asked. And Lord John had just forced a smile. Das Richtige, he had replied with a smile that was just partially forced. The right thing.
For Stephan von Namtzen, it had surely been the right thing. The topic of marriage had come up a few times in the last days for himself as well, has he was the last bachelor left in the house, with his mother now remarried. He had waved the discussion off, as he always did, but he had the feeling that his mother’s gaze had lingered a little longer on him than it usually did. Lord John let out a sigh. One day.
One day.
He went to his dresser and pulled open the top drawer. The sketch lay on top, neatly wrapped in tissue paper. Softly, Lord John touched the surface, thought of the hands that had drawn the fine lines. Wondered what those hands were doing now. Wondered how Christmas was like in Rome.
“John?” His mother was standing in the doorframe, smiling softly at him. “Don’t you think it is time to come down again?”
With a last glance at the sketch, he closed the drawer.
“Yes, mother. I do.”