December 1883

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The cold night air whipped outside Nathan’s stately bedroom window. With the curtains drawn back, he watched flecks of snow whirl by on the wind. Only a week into December, it was unseasonably early for snow, more especially so here at the summer home. He pulled his robes around himself tightly. Keeping warm was a losing fight, and he hated the winter months for it. The cold was already beginning to settle into his bones.

 

The candlelight of the bedroom flickered in his periphery. Shadows danced on the walls around him, and from the corner of his eye, Nathan could see that their movements were not in sync with the rhythm of the candles. They moved on their own accord and, in momentary flashes, appeared to take the shape of people standing in the room with him. But he paid them no attention. Outside, a small cluster of snowflakes swirled in front of the window for just a moment too long, suspended in midair, as if slowing themselves to peer in at him before they continued on their way.

 

There was a hum in the air tonight, a vibration that filled Nathan’s senses. He tried to ignore it, as he did with many things in life, but it wasn’t easy. All throughout the house there was a quiet symphony playing only for those who knew how to listen—creaking boards and popping joints and groaning supports.

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He heard the floorboards whisper to the walls, relaying a conversation from elsewhere in the house:

 

The Estate Manager confessed to the Housekeeper that he can no longer care for the grounds at his old age. They need a groundskeeper, someone new, to help during spring.

 

Nathan sighed and drew the curtains. His father—Viscount Hambleton — sent him away from their London home to live here nearly two months ago, but he still felt as though he were only vacationing, just as he had every summer as a boy with his family. Of course, his family wasn’t with him now, and he wouldn’t be returning to the city until he was welcomed back.

 

It was strange seeing the house during this time of year. Christmas was two weeks away, and the staff had begun decorating with greenery and ribbon. Nathan imagined that this was the first time in many decades this house had seen decorations like these. It was usually vacant during the holidays save for the staff that maintained the estate year ‘round.

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This would be his first Christmas apart from his family. Even when attending university, he’d always gone home for the winter holiday. It pained him a bit to imagine Christmas morning without his mother. Her unaffected enthusiasm for the holiday had always been infectious, and without her company, he could hardly muster any excitement at all. He had hoped that she would come to visit—without his father—but she mentioned nothing of the sort in her last letter.

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After blowing out the last candle in the room, Nathan settled into bed. In the dark, he thought about his mother’s letters, how grateful he was for them. They were a light in the winter darkness. It terrified him to think what he might do if they one day stopped arriving.

 

——

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The house was like a vast, empty cave on Christmas Day. Every minuscule sound reverberated through the halls unceasingly, unperceived by everyone but Nathan. It had given him a terrible migraine. He felt as though a large thumbscrew had been placed around his temples and gradually tightened. The endless, looping echoes throughout the home built on each other, pulling at the threads of his already frayed nerves.

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He spent most of the day in his bed and refused both breakfast and lunch. He knew, however, that his lack of appetite made the staff nervous— not only for his health but also for any consequences that could arise if Nathan’s mother or father discovered that he hadn’t eaten on Christmas. It may reflect poorly on the cook and kitchen staff.

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Mrs. Fairchild, the summer home’s housekeeper, had been in several times to check to see if he needed anything. He could tell that she was growing increasingly concerned about his state, and in the afternoon, among the incessant echoing, he heard a whisper carried from somewhere far away within the house:

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“Perhaps we should send a telegram to Lord Hambleton. His mother will certainly want to know if he is ill.”

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Despite his aching head, Nathan decided to dress and make an appearance at dinner. Contending with his migraine was preferable to having his father become involved.

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“Master Nathan,” Mrs. Fairchild said in surprise when he entered the sitting room. “Are you feeling well, sir?”

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Her concern put him at ease. He had always liked Mrs. Fairchild. She was a remarkably sensible and decisive woman, tending to the matters of the estate with deft efficiency and a bright disposition. Now, her keen brown eyes watched him worriedly as rogue strands of copper-red hair, having escaped the tidy knot she always wore, danced around her freckled face.

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“I am. Thank you.” If she noticed the tension in his voice, she didn’t say anything. Not that she would. ‘Servants should never offer any opinion to their employers, not even to say good morning or good night except in reply to salutation.’ House rules. His father’s rules, rather.

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Nathan could remember being a boy of four or five in their London home, watching his father from around a corner as he towered over a recently hired footman and berated him for wishing him a good morning without him saying so first. The young man’s employment was subsequently ended.

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“Will you be dining tonight, sir?” she asked.

“I will, yes. I’m glad to report that my appetite has returned with a vengeance,” he lied through a smile.

 

“The cook will be pleased to hear it.”

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She turned to leave the room but before she could, Nathan spoke. “Um, Mrs. Fairchild?”

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“Sir?”

“Will you join me? For dinner, I mean. I understand that it isn’t customary for you to dine with me, but it is Christmas after all, and I—” He fidgeted with a cuff link. “I’d prefer not to eat alone on Christmas.”

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For the first time in his many years of knowing her, Mrs. Fairchild looked unsure of herself. “Sir, while I’m honored that you’d ask me to join you, I feel I must object on behalf of Lord Hambleton. He wouldn’t approve of such informality.”

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Nathan’s composure faltered. He pulled at his fingers and took a step toward her. “No, I know, and you certainly don’t have to. But I’m not asking as your employer’s son. Rather, as one soul to another. Please dine with me.” He couldn’t bear to be alone with the unrelenting susurrus any longer.

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Though she was unaware of the whispers that plagued him, Nathan’s eyes revealed his quiet desperation to her. She regarded him sympathetically. “Master Nathan, if it’s what you wish, I shall dine with you.”

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He relaxed his shoulders and smiled honestly for the first time all day. “Thank you. Really, thank you.”

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“I’ll ensure that the table is set appropriately. Excuse me, sir.” With a sweeping tug on her dress, she turned and left him to his thoughts. The echoes were quieter.