Singing that might have been self-conscious, since there was no instrument to provide accompaniment, was, in fact, not self-conscious at all. Lady Birkin, Pamela Wilder, Colonel Forbes and, surprisingly, Miss Amelia Horn all had good voices and could hold a tune. Everyone else joined in lustily, even the tone-deaf Mrs. Forbes.

Lord Birkin left the room after a while. He found Tom Suffield in the kitchen, where he had been eating with the guests’ coachmen. Lisa and the baby were asleep, Tom explained, scrambling to his feet, and he did not want to disturb them. Lord Birkin took Tom through into the taproom.

“I don’t know what you are good at, Tom,” he said. “I can’t offer much in the way of employment, I’m afraid, but I can send you to my estate in Kent and instruct my housekeeper to find you work in the stables or in the gardens. I doubt there will be an empty cottage, but we will find somewhere where you and Lisa can stay for a while, at least.”

Tom shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “That be awf’ly good of ye, sir,” he said, “but Mr. Cornwallis needs a cook and a handyman and have offered the jobs to me and Lisa.”

“Mr. Cornwallis?” Lord Birkin raised his eyebrows.

“The doctor, sir,” Tom said.

“Ah.” It was strange, Lord Birkin thought, that even though they had all introduced themselves the evening before, he had thought of Mr.

Cornwallis ever since only as the quiet gentleman. “I am glad, Tom. I hated to think of your taking Lisa and your baby to one of the industrial towns with no job waiting for you there.”

“Aye, sir,” Tom said. “Everyone is right kind. Thanks again for the money, sir. We will buy new clothes for the baby with it.”

Lord Birkin nodded and returned to the dining room.

The Marquess of Lytton found Tom just ten minutes later. “Having a woman and child and no home or employment is a burdensome situation to find yourself in, Tom,” he said.

“Aye, that it is, sir,” Tom said. “But I feels like a wealthy man, sir, with all the gifts. And with your gold ring, sir. And a home and a job from Mr. Cornwallis.” He told his tale again.

“Ah,” the marquess said. “I am glad to hear it, Tom. I was prepared to give you a letter of introduction to a friend of mine, but now I see you will not need it. I would like to give you a small sum of money, though.

Call it a Christmas gift to you personally, if you will. It is the price of a license. You must marry her, Tom. Such things are important to women, you know. And you would not wish to hear anyone calling your son a bastard.”

“Bless you, sir,” Tom said, flushing, “but Mr. Cornwallis is to marry us, sir, as soon as we gets to his home.”

“The physician?” the marquess raised his eyebrows.

“He’s a clergyman, sir,” Tom said.

“Ah.” The marquess nodded pleasantly to him and returned to the dining room. The quiet gentleman, he thought, was becoming more intriguing by the moment. Was he a physician or a clergyman? Or both?Or neither?

Lord Lytton seated himself beside the quiet gentleman and spoke to him while everyone else was singing. “You are a clergyman, sir?” he asked.

The quiet gentleman smiled. “I am, my lord,” he said.

“And a physician, too?” The marquess frowned.

“It is possible to be both,” the quiet gentleman said. “I am a clergyman, but not of a large and fashionable parish, you see. My time is not taken up by the sometimes tedious and meaningless duties I would have if I belonged to a large parish, and certainly not by the social commitments I would have if I had a wealthy patron. I am fortunate. My time is free to be devoted to the service of others. I am not distracted by the trappings of the established faith.” He chuckled. “I have learned to deliver babies. It is the greatest delight and the greatest privilege a man could experience. You discovered that once upon a time, I believe.”

“And the greatest terror,” the marquess said fervently. “I dreaded facing it again today. There was the terror of becoming the instrument of death rather than of life.”

“Ah,” the quiet gentleman said, “but we must learn to accept our limitations as part of the human condition. It is our Lord who controls life and death.”

The marquess was quiet for a while. “Yes,” he said. “We are all of us too busy, aren’t we? Especially at Christmastime. Too busy enjoying ourselves and surrounding ourselves with the perfect atmosphere to remember what it is all about. This unexpected rainstorm has forced us to remember. And you have helped too, sir, by sitting back and allowing us to face all the terror of imminent birth.”

“Without suffering there can never be the fullness of joy,” the quiet gentleman said.

The Misses Horn were rising to retire for the night, and everyone else followed suit. But they did not part to go to their separate rooms without a great deal of handshaking and hugging first.

“Happy Christmas,” they each said a dozen times to one another. But the words were not the automatic greeting they had all uttered during all their previous Christmases, but heartfelt wishes for one another’s joy.

Suddenly this Christmas-this dull, rainy disaster of a Christmas-seemed very happy indeed. Perhaps the happiest any of them had ever known.

And so Christmas Eve drew to an end. A baby had been born.

It was a little different when they were alone together in their room.

Some of the magic went from the evening. It was all right for her, Lady Birkin thought. She had been busy all day and directly involved in the wonder of the baby’s birth. Men were not so concerned about such matters. It must have been a dreadfully dull day for him.

“Henry,” she said, looking at him apologetically, as if everything were her fault, “I am so sorry that this is such a dull Christmas for you.”

“Dull?” He looked at her intently and took a step toward her so that he was very close. “I don’t think I have ever celebrated Christmas until this year, Sally. I am very proud of you, you know.”

Her eyes widened. “You are?” He so rarely paid her compliments.

“You worked tirelessly all day to help that girl,” he said. “You and Miss Wilder. I don’t know how Lisa would have managed without you.”

“But there was a physician in the house, after all,” she said. “What we did was nothing.”

He framed her face with his hands. “What you did was everything,” he said. “The doctor gave his skills. You gave yourself, Sally, despite being frightened and inexperienced.”

“Oh,” she said. She felt like crying. She had tried so hard to impress him since their marriage, dressing to please him, talking and smiling to please him. And losing him with every day that passed. And yet now he was looking at her with unmistakable admiration and… love?

“Henry,” she said, and on impulse she put her arms up about his neck.

“What is it about this Christmas? It is not just me, is it? Everyone has been feeling it. You too? What is so wonderful about it? This inn is not the inn, after all, and the baby is not Jesus, not even born in the stable.”

He slipped his hands to her waist. “We have all seen to the core of Christmas this year,” he said. “We are very fortunate, Sally. We might so easily have never had the chance. We have no gifts for each other.

They are somewhere with our baggage coach. And this inn has provided us with nothing that is usually associated with the season. We had all come to believe that Christmas could not possibly be celebrated without those things. But this year we have been forced to see that Christmas is about birth and life and love and giving of whatever one has to give, even if it is only one’s time and compassion.”

She should not say it, she thought. She might spoil everything. They never said such things to each other. There seemed to be a great embarrassment between them where personal matters were concerned. But she was going to say it. She was going to take a chance. That was what the whole day seemed to have been about.

“Henry,” she said. She was whispering, she found. “I love you so very much.”

He gazed into her eyes, a look of hunger in his own. He drew breath but seemed to change his mind. Instead of speaking he lowered his head and kissed her-an openmouthed kiss of raw need that drew an instant response of surprise and desire. She tightened her arms and arched herself to him. There was shock for a moment as she felt his hands working at the buttons down the back of her dress, and then a surge of happiness.

“I always have,” she said against his mouth. “Since the first moment I saw you. I have always worshiped you.”

She gasped when he lowered her bodice and her chemise to her waist, and her naked breasts came back against his coat. And then his hands were on them, cupping them and stroking them, and his thumbs and forefingers were squeezing her nipples, rolling them lightly until she felt such a sharp stab of desire that she moaned into his mouth.

“Henry,” she begged him, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth still against his, “make love to me. I have always wanted you to make love to me. Please, for this special day. Make love to me.”

She would die, she thought if he merely coupled with her as he had the night before and all those other nights since their marriage. She should not have said what she just had. She should not have given in to the temptation to hope. She should not have begged for what he had never freely given.

But she was on the bed before she could get her thoughts straight, before she could feel shame for her wanton words. She was flat on her back, and he was stripping away her clothes from the waist down, looking at her from eyes heavy with desire as he straightened up and began to remove his own clothes. She was surprised to find that she felt no embarrassment though the candles burned and those passion-heavy eyes were devouring her nakedness. She lifted her arms to him.