Page 11 of A Christmas Love Redeemed

The warm glow of a thousand candles, mingled with the sound of happy chatter and dance music, flowed out on to the damp London street, as Lord and Lady Easterbrook’s coach drew up to the door of the French Ambassador’s residence.

The Christmas Eve ball thrown by the new Ambassador was the talk of the season.

A liveried servant was at the door of the carriage to hand Lady Easterbrook safely down on to carpet-covered hessian to save the ladies shoes from being spoiled by the mud and slush.

Sophie, Lady Easterbrook turned to look at her husband as he dismounted, straightening his cravat and running his finger around the high neckline.

‘Do hurry,’ she said. ‘We are late.’

‘I thought it was fashionable to be late,’ he grumbled. ‘Besides, we wouldn’t be late if you hadn’t taken so damn long with your hair.’

But his wife ignored him. Laying her hand on his as they mounted the stairs to be greeted by more liveried footmen eager to divest them of their outer layers.

Sophie, took time for a quick glance in the mirror, patting her curls back into place and straightening her headdress, before rejoining her husband.

At the entrance to the ballroom, they paused. Sophie straightened, fixed a smile to her face, and placed her hand on her husband’s.

Annoyingly, there was a queue to be greeted by their hosts, and Sophie could not make out any details of the new Ambassador and his wife, except that he was tall and dark-haired and his wife, slight, with a pair of magnificent grey ostrich feathers adorning her fashionable hairstyle.

Her head was bent to the elderly lady before her, and she gave the impression that the woman was the most interesting person in the room.

Sophie sniffed. The dowager Lady Brixton was hardly the most interesting woman in the room.

She, Sophie, Lady Easterbrook, intended to impress this Frenchwoman with her English charm.

They would become the best of friends, and she, Sophie, would rise in the social standings as she was seen in the company of the one woman all of London was talking about.

‘Lord and Lady Easterbrook,’ the footman intoned, and Sophie turned to greet the Ambassador and his wife with her most radiant smile fixed to her face.

The smile remained fixed, but her eyes widened in horror.

‘Lady Easterbrook, how lovely to make your acquaintance again,’ the Comtesse de Mont Clair said with a perfect English accent, holding out her hand.

‘Han… Lady Max… what a delight,’ Sophie stammered, ignoring the outstretched hand.

‘It has been many years, Easterbrook,’ the Comte, standing beside his wife, addressed Sophie’s husband.

‘Jolly good to see you again,’ Easterbrook replied, shaking the Ambassador’s hand fulsomely. ‘And you, madame.’ He gave the comtesse a polite bow.

‘Please,’ the Ambassador swept an expansive hand toward the ballroom. ‘Enjoy. It is a great pleasure to once again celebrate an English Christmas. We have such happy memories of our last Christmas in London. Perhaps you recall that night, Lady Easterbrook?’

Sophie had not spared her former chaperone a thought since that Christmas Eve nine years ago when Hannah Maxwell had scandalised society by dancing with the Comte de Mont Clair at the Christmas Eve ball.

The talk it had provoked as the handsome and eligible Comte de Mont Clair had swept into Lady Darlington’s ballroom with the little nobody on his arm.

Lady Hannah Maxwell… the person of no consequence, that she, Sophie had dismissed from her service only that afternoon.

The couple had danced together all night and married in the new year, only to leave for France.

It had been a story that had kept the social gatherings delighted for that entire season.

Everyone had said she was just another dalliance on his part, and she would end up ruined, but everyone had been wrong. Now they had returned and were the talk of the town again. It was galling.

‘Come, my dear.’

Easterbrook tugged at his wife’s arm, and she let herself be led away into the throng, although she kept glancing back at the couple by the door.

The Mont Clairs stood watching the throng, glasses of champagne in their hands. They had been joined by three children, a girl of about eight, a younger boy and a small child who cuddled in her nursemaid’s arms, her thumb in her mouth.

Everyone turned to look at the picture of familial bliss and Sophie thought of her two children.

She didn’t actively dislike them. She just didn’t think about them very often and was quite content to keep them in the country with their nursemaids.

Easterbrook was more sentimental and seemed to delight in their company.

The Comte de Mont Clair held up his hand and the room fell silent.

“My apologies, but we promised our children they could see our small fete.”

Small fete indeed, Sophie thought. There must have been over two hundred guests.

Hannah Maxwell (Sophie could only think of her in those terms) propelled the two eldest children to the front of the steps, and her husband laid a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“They have been practicing a short French Christmas carol. I hope you do not mind if they sing it for you?” he said.

A murmur of appreciation and scattered applause ran around the room, and the musician on the piano forte struck up. With surprising confidence for their young ages, the two young voices rang out clear and strong.

Entre le b?uf et l’ane gris

Dort, dort, dort le petit fils

Mille anges divins, mille séraphins

Volent à l’entour de ce grand dieu d’amour….

As it concluded the two children bowed and curtsied in response to the rapturous ovation.

“Joyeux Noel, messieurs et madames,” the girl said, and in in reply, a chorus of ‘Happy Christmas’ ran around the room.

The smallest child waved a chubby hand at the assembly, producing a collective sigh from the matrons and the children left with their nursemaid.

The orchestra struck up a waltz and the Comte de Mont Clair bent his head to his wife and whispered something.

She smiled and held out her hand, allowing him to lead her out on to the floor.

The couple moved in perfect harmony, their eyes only for each other as other couples joined them on the dance floor.

Sophie looked around for Easterbrook, but he was in a corner deep in conversation with a group of other men.

With a sigh, Sophie subsided onto a gilded chair beside the other matrons and fanned herself in frustration, knowing there would be no dancing for her and all the talk would be of the dazzling Mont Clairs.

Never had she felt more like a person of no consequence.