A Yuletide Treasure by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page A

almost uncontrollable. As a youth, he took mad chances. True, he always came out of them well, barring a broken arm or some such, but I worry....”
    “I’m a stranger here, Dr. March,” Camilla said, suddenly feeling as if she were being warned to stay away. Perversely, this warning only made her want to explore forbidden territory more closely. “Such things are not my concern.”
    “No, of course not.”
    Sir Philip came to them. “Come, come, no conspiracies,” he said. “You can’t share your wishes, you know. As guests, you must stir first.” He took Camilla’s hand in his warm clasp and tucked it beneath his arm. “Come along.”
    They waited, however, until the younger two children came in, shuffling along in matching quilted robes with felt slippers upon their feet. The doctor and Camilla exchanged a glance. “Tell me the joke,” Sir Philip whispered in her other ear.
    “Nothing important. What happens now?”
    “Listen,” he said. His breath was warm and fragrant with the wine he’d drunk at dinner. She found herself breathing in a little more deeply, feeling how close he stood beside her.
    Camilla had only ever drunk water or sweet cider at meals. She’d found the one glass of rich red wine she’d had, served with a chine of beef and removes of pigeon pie and salmi of woodcock, to be both delicious and drying. She’d had to request a glass of water from Mr. Samson and had been glad, thereafter, to be served the same drinks as Tinarose.
    Nevertheless, the single glass of red wine must have done something to disturb her equilibrium.
    Why else would she feel this urgent temptation to lean against Sir Philip, to feel his strong arm come about her waist in support? She’d been raised to stand firmly on her own two feet and to know right from wrong no matter what clever disguises wrong took on. It must certainly be wrong to wish to rub her cheek against the smooth wool of his coat like a cat finding her master. Only the unaccustomed taste of alcohol could explain this sudden sapping of her moral fiber. She vowed she’d never take another glass.
    As though the entrance of the children was a signal, from every corner of the room servants stepped forward to stand beside the large, well-scrubbed table in the center of the room. Camilla saw now that an enormous bowl stood in the center, ringed about with garlands of dried flowers. A topiary tree made of some evergreen plant stood beside the bowl. The cook, Mrs. Lamsard, stood behind the bowl, wearing her dazzlingly white apron but having added what was evidently her very best bonnet.
    At her nod, the servants broke into song. Camilla couldn’t quite make out the words, something about the sun or the Son. She found herself smiling at Sir Philip as he sang along, tunelessly and all but inaudibly under his breath. “This is my favorite part,” he said.
    Merridew started it. “Suet for Bartholomew,” he said, leaning forward to touch the bowl, and then turned to the man next to him.
    “Sugar for Matthew,” he mumbled, several front teeth missing. He touched the bowl and turned to a younger woman.
    “Raisins for Mark.”
    “Currants for Luke.”
    “Crumbs for John.”
    Camilla looked up at Sir Philip, puzzled.
    “There are thirteen ingredients in a good Christmas pudding,” he whispered. “One for each Apostle and Christ, too.”
    “What does Judas get?” she asked softly.
    “I don’t know. The egg shells, perhaps.”
    When the reading of the ingredients came to an end, Mrs. Lamsard beckoned Camilla forward. Camilla hesitated, not sure of her place in this ritual. Sir Philip gave her a little push. “Go on.”
    Coming nearer, she saw that from several branches of the little tree, silver charms hung twinkling. As she watched, Mrs. Lamsard pulled the charms off, one at a time, and dropped them into the bowl, “Wedding ring means marriage,” she said, her curiously deep voice rumbling like heat in a chimney. “Button means bachelor. Thimble