“Go to hell, Byrony,” he said, rigid with fury, both at himself and at her.
“I’m already there,” she said, and turned to walk across the sand to her mare.
ELEVEN
“It’s beautiful, Ira. Thank you.”
Byrony lifted the thick chignon at the nape of her neck to allow her husband to fasten the exquisite pearl-and-diamond necklace about her throat.
He kissed her gently on the forehead and said, “Merry Christmas, Byrony. You look lovely indeed.”
Byrony wanted to laugh when Ira presented Irene with a very similar necklace, one of sapphires and diamonds. Poor man. He tried so hard to keep his half-sister content. Yet with me here, it’s impossible, she wanted to tell him. She’d made Ira a shirt, her careful stitches small and exquisite, just as Aunt Ida had taught her. Irene had bought her brother a beautiful Spanish leather saddle. Her own gift, in comparison, was meager indeed, but she had no money.
Eileen and Naomi served them steaming mugs of buttered rum, and received, in turn, their presents. Byrony sat back to watch Irene playing with Michelle while she unwrapped the baby’s many gifts. The baby gurgled happily and waved pieces of the gay wrapping paper in her hands. Irene is an excellent mother, Byrony thought. How would I feel if I had to pretend to others that my child weren’t my own?
Ira laughed at the baby’s antics.
“She looks more and more like Irene every day,” he said, “except for that mop of blond hair.”
Yes, Byrony thought. The shape of the baby’s face was Irene’s, and the dark brown eyes.
Irene opened Byrony’s present to Michelle, a tiny hand-sewn ribboned petticoat.
“She is much too young, of course,” Irene said, and tossed the small garment aside.
So much for the goodwill at Christmastime, Byrony thought.
There were only the three of them for Christmas dinner. It was a delicious meal—a stuffed goose, fresh green beans, potatoes, and Naomi’s rendition of a Christmas pudding. Irene sat next to Ira, the baby on her lap.
Here I am alone in splendid solitude, Byrony thought, gazing down the long expanse of dining table. She supposed, honestly, that this Christmas was more pleasant than the previous one. Her father had gotten drunk and her brother had gone off with some of his worthless friends to gamble. And her mother, of course, had said nothing.
Ira had also given her a book for Christmas, a collection of Lord Byron’s poetry. “Your namesake, my dear,” he said.
She spent the remainder of the day curled on the small settee in front of the fire.
Brent and Saint shared Christmas dinner with the Saxtons.
“Your bulk, Chauncey, is charming,” Brent said, smiling at his hostess.
“Come now, I’m not that ungainly yet.”
As for Saint, he studied Chauncey for a long moment and said, “Go upstairs at once and loosen those stays of yours.”
Chauncey threw up her hands.
“Just do as you’re told, sweetheart, and you’ll get no orders from me,” said Del.
“What marvelous male ambiguity,” his wife said.
Brent said, “I fear, Chauncey, that it’s too late to change any of us blighted specimens. What do you think, Saint?”
“I think,” said Saint slowly, “that this is the happiest household in San Francisco.”
“What is this? You dismiss the Butler household?”
Saint gave him a long, thoughtful look, and Brent found himself squirming. Why the hell hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut?
Del, who’d just turned to them, added his two cents. “Yeah, Saint, and don’t forget the Stevensons.”