The Christmas Secret by Julia London Page A

aye?” Erin asked, and joined Lady Donnelly at the window.
    A steady stream followed, nearly thirty souls in all, including the children. Most of the guests arrived carrying small boughs of holly tied together with bright ribbons. Erin put them around the main salon—there were no servants for them today, Lady Donnelly informed Henry, as they had all been given the day to enjoy with their families or in their own feast, below stairs.
    Henry was happy to have an occupation, and he helped Erin serve wassail and ale, waving off Lady Donnelly’s protests that he himself was a guest. He liked working alongside Erin, listening to her chatter with her acquaintances, her laughter rising above the din.
    At precisely four o’clock, Mrs. Sullivan announced that the meal was served. Henry lost sight of Erin during the procession, but Molly Hannigan attached herself to him as he entered the dining room, determined to guide him through the Christmas feast.
    When they had managed to seat themselves with only one loud outburst of complaint over the seating—“Mr. Flannery again,” Molly sighed wearily—and the platters of food were uncovered, Lord Donnelly stood at the head of the table. “ Nollaig Shona duit,” he said.
    His guests returned his greeting in kind.
    “I am not one to make grand speeches,” he continued. “But I must thank you all for putting aside your reservations to join us on this, the holiest of occasions. I offer you all an old Irish blessing.” He lifted his wineglass. The guests followed suit. “ The light of the Christmas star to you, the warmth of home and hearth to you. The cheer and goodwill of friends to you, the hope of a childlike heart to you. The joy of a thousand angels to you, the love of the Son and God’s peace to you .”
    Several of the ladies tapped their glasses with spoons to signal their approval, and others called up a cheerful “ Sláinte. ”
    And then began the liveliness Erin had warned Henry about. The meal was a rowdy affair—it seemed that if there was no one to serve them, the privileged Irish were happy to abandon decorum and serve as they saw fit. Platters and plates were passed in every which direction. The wine flowed freely, as did the laughter. The bounty of food—three roasted geese, a turkey, brandied yams, potatoes, and a variety of puddings—was delicious, perhaps the best meal Henry had enjoyed since crossing the ocean.
    When there was not a scrap of food left on a platter or plate, or a drop of wine in the goblets, the guests were asked to return to the grand salon, where the wassail bowl had been replenished by some kind soul, and a gentleman with a shock of white hair and new boots produced a fiddle.
    “An Aimsir Fháistineach!” someone called out, and a few men pushed the furnishings aside to make room.
    If a gentleman had not picked up a fiddle, Henry would not have understood what was happening. He was surprised by it; this was something one might see in America, but here, it seemed as if there was a rule for everything—who might speak to whom, when one called on a friend, what should be worn to a supper party, and certainly in what rooms one engaged in what activity.
    But these Irish were eager to dance, and when they began, Henry could see why. The music was fast and light, and the brave souls who began the dance held their hands clasped behind their back and kicked up their heels in a manner that Henry found quite entertaining.
    He noted that one gentleman who did not dance straightaway was Mr. Canavan. Henry had met Canavan when he’d poured him a cup of wassail. Canavan was shorter than Henry, and darker. He was handsome enough, Henry supposed, but he really didn’t see what all the fuss was about—yet fuss there was. Mr. Canavan preened before several young ladies, but Henry couldn’t help noticing that more than once, Mr. Canavan glanced across the room to where Mabe Hannigan and Erin stood with Lady Donnelly.
    What he could not determine