Silent Night Quotes

“The other travellers do seem to have given us a wide berth,” I admitted.
“Can you blame them?” He surveyed our possessions, and I found myself smiling as well.
“Not precisely a partridge in a pear tree...”
“But we have a raven in a cage, a lurcher on a lead, a Siamese in a basket, and a dormouse in your décolletage. We are a travelling circus.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“Julia, we are all children at Christmastime.”
“You are not,” I pointed out.
He gave me a shadowy smile. “I think you told me once I was born old.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“I sat down and put my fingertips to my temples, rubbing hard. “We have one fallen tree, one destroyed Rookery, one delusional butler and no good brandy. Is that what you are telling me?”
“And the cook’s down with piles and more than half the staff are suffering from catarrh,” she added maliciously.
I looked to Brisbane, who was smiling broadly. “God bless us, everyone,” he said, spreading his arms wide.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“Plum’s handsome mouth curved into a smile. “Oh, yes. It’s slipped your mind, dearest, but the year is 1889—and that means Twelfth Night falls in 1890.”

I buried my face in my hands. “No.”

Brisbane stirred himself. “What is the significance of 1890?”

I peeped over my fingertips. “The Twelfth Night mummers’ play. Every year the villagers put on a traditional mummers’ play.”

Brisbane groaned. “Not one of those absurdities with St. George and the dragon?”

“The very same.” I exchanged glances with Plum. His smile sharpened as he picked up the story. “I am sure Julia told you Shakespeare once stayed as a guest of the Marches at Bellmont Abbey. There was apparently a quarrel that ended with the earl’s wife throwing Shakespeare’s only copy of the play he was writing into the fire. They patched things up, and—”

“And to demonstrate he bore no ill will, Shakespeare himself wrote our mummers’ play,” I finished. “Once every decade, instead of the villagers of Blessingstoke performing the traditional play, the family perform the Shakespearean version for the local folk.”
“Every ten years,” Brisbane said, his black brows arched thoughtfully.

“Yes. The men in the family act out the parts and the women are a sort of chorus, robed in white and singing in the background.”

“It is great fun, really,” Plum put in. “Father always plays the king who sends St. George to kill the dragon and the rest of the parts always seem to go to the same people. Except for St. George. That one always falls to the newest male to marry into the family.”

I busied myself with tearing a muffin to bits while Plum’s words registered with Brisbane. “Absolutely not.” I turned to him. “But dearest, it is tradition.”
“I am not an enthusiast of tradition.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“Your Aunt Hermia will not thank you for attempting to poach her maid. Do not look to me for protection,” he advised. “I have my hands quite full with one March lady. I could not rise to the challenge of taking on another.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“Bellmont”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“Recipe for March Wassail Drinking wassail is an ancient tradition. Dating back to Saxon times, the word itself comes from the greeting “wæs hæl”, roughly translated as “be you healthy”. In the counties of southern England renowned for cider production, drinking wassail originated as a bit of sympathetic magic to protect and encourage the apple trees to bear fruit. While wassail and other punches were very popular during Regency times, by the later part of the 19th-century, they had been largely supplanted by wines and other spirits. The Marches, however, care much more for their own pleasure than for what is fashionable. They serve their wassail the old-fashioned way, out of an enormous wooden bowl mounted in silver with a roasted apple garnish. Their wassail is, as tradition dictates, served quite hot and is deceptively alcoholic. Proceed with caution. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Core a dozen small apples. (You will only need ten for the wassail, but leftover roasted apples are delicious with cream, yogurt, or ice cream.) Loosely spoon brown sugar into each apple place in a casserole dish with a small amount of water. Bake until tender, approximately 45 minutes. Meanwhile, gently warm 2 pints hard cider. (This is not available in the juice aisle of the grocery store. It is wonderfully alcoholic and tastes deeply of apples. You can find bottled varieties at wine and liquor stores, but the very best is fermented by apple farmers for their own use. Find one and befriend him. The Marches get their cider at the source from the Home Farm at Bellmont Abbey.) To the warming cider, add four cinnamon sticks, crushed with a mortar and pestle, and four pinches ground cloves. (In a bind, ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon may be substituted for the sticks.) Grate in fresh ginger and fresh nutmeg to taste. Lord March’s secret ingredient is a cup of his very best port, added just in time to heat through. When the apples are plump and bursting from their skins, remove them from the oven. Put one into a heatproof punch glass and ladle the wassail over. The March family recipe calls for a garnish of a fresh cinnamon stick for each glass. This recipe will serve six Marches or ten ordinary folk.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“Meeting the Marches *Hector March, the Earl March (b.1817) His beloved wife, Charlotte, is deceased. He divides his time between his Sussex estate, Bellmont Abbey, and his London home where he is active in Parliamentary debate, particularly over the question of Irish Home Rule. His hobbies are Shakespearean studies and quarrelling with his hermit. His children are: Frederick, Viscount Bellmont “Monty” (b. 1846) Married to Adelaide Walsingham. Resides in London. Represents Blessingstoke as a Member of Parliament. Lady Olivia Peverell (b.1847) Married to Sir Hastings Peverell. Resides in London where she is a prominent political hostess. Hon. Benedick March (b.1848) Married to Elizabeth Pritchett. Manages the Home Farm at Bellmont Abbey and is acknowledged to be Julia’s favourite brother. His two eldest children, Tarquin and Perdita, make an appearance in two of Lady Julia’s adventures. Lady Beatrice “Bee” Baddesley (b. 1850) Married to Sir Arthur Baddesley, noted Arthurian scholar. Resides in Cornwall. Lady Rupert “Nerissa” Haverford (b.1851) Married to Lord Rupert Haverford, third son of the Duke of Lincoln. Divides her time between London and her father-in-law’s estate near Nottingham. Lady Bettiscombe “Portia” (b.1853) Widow. Mother to Jane the Younger. Resides in London. Hon. Eglamour March (b.1854) Known as Plum to the family. Unmarried. A gifted artist, he resides in London where he engages in a bit of private enquiry work for Nicholas Brisbane. Hon. Lysander March (b.1855) Married to Violanthe, his turbulent Neapolitan bride. He is a composer. Lady Julia Brisbane (b.1856) Widow of Sir Edward Grey. Married to Nicholas Brisbane. Her husband permits her to join him in his work as a private enquiry agent against his better judgment. Hon. Valerius March (b.1862) Unmarried. His desire to qualify as a physician has led to numerous arguments with his father. He pursues his studies in London. *Note regarding titles: as the daughters of an earl, the March sisters are styled “Lady”. This title is retained when one of them marries a baronet, knight, or plain gentleman, as is the case with Olivia, Beatrice, and Julia. As Portia wed a peer, she takes her husband’s title, and as Nerissa married into a ducal family, she takes the style of her husband and is addressed as Lady Rupert. Their eldest brother, Frederick, takes his father’s subsidiary title of Viscount Bellmont as a courtesy title until he succeeds to the earldom. (It should be noted his presence in Parliament is not a perk of this title. Unlike his father who sits in the House of Lords, Bellmont sits in the House of Commons as an elected member.) The younger brothers are given the honorific “The Honourable”, a courtesy which is written but not spoken aloud.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“It is madness,” Brisbane said, and he laughed until tears gathered in his eyes. “It may be madness, but it is an entirely March Christmas,” I told him. “And do not forget, this is only half the family. The rest will be here for Twelfth Night.” But that is a tale for another time.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“It was not mine to tell. He asked for my word I would keep silent.”

“I think you might have broken it upon this occasion,” Plum returned hotly.

“Then I think you know me not at all,” Brisbane countered, his tone deceptively bland. He would put up with Plum’s barbs only so long before he took the quarrel further, and that was not an eventuality I cared to see. “Calm yourself, Plum. If I am not upset, you have no call to be.” I turned to Brisbane. “I understand why you did not tell me. You are a man of your word. And you know precisely when it is necessary to break it. This was not that time.” The look he gave me was mingled gratitude and promise of a significant dose of his attentions later. I shivered a little as Portia entered.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“Brisbane and I passed a thoroughly satisfactory and entirely private evening in the solitude of our room. “Thank God for stout stone walls,” he said at one point, and I heartily agreed.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“You wanted a traditional Christmas. And it is not a traditional Christmas without a Yule log.” He opened his arms and I went into them, absurdly, wholly delighted with this enigmatic man that I had married. “But you do not like tradition,” I murmured into his ear. “I like you,” he replied. His arms tightened about me, and I went on tiptoe to thank him with a kiss. My brothers made appropriately appalled noises and Aquinas shepherded the staff out with promises of warm punch in the kitchen. “If we are burning a Yule log, we really ought to hang the holly and the ivy,” I mused.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“There were cycles in the life of a great house such as ours. When a lord is young, his family is boisterous and the house comes alive. But the wheel turns, as it must, and a quiet settles over the place as softly as a snowfall, muffling its gaiety as the lord ages and his family is flown. And then the wheel turns again and the house his handed over to the new lord and it stirs to life again, sheltering the family as it has so many before.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“I folded my arms over my chest. “Oh, that is just like a man! To credit something inexplicable to the feeble mind of an hysterical woman.”

He gave me a slow smile. “I think I have proven amply that I, at least, do not believe your sex to be the weaker. On the contrary, my dear, your kind has brought kingdoms to ruin and heroes to their knees. I would not dare to underestimate you."

“And yet,” I muttered.

“And yet, I will point out any flaw in your logic because you are capable of better,” he returned rather more sternly. “You’ve a fine mind when you aren’t haring off in one direction or other.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night

“You are not a man,” Brisbane reminded me. He unwound his neckcloth and set to work on his collar. “Does that make a difference?” I bent my head to unpin his cuffs. “It might.” He trailed a fingertip along the lace at my décolletage. “Do you think I would be accommodating to any man who had shared your bed?” “You knew the only man who shared my bed,” I reminded him. “He died in your arms.”4 The finger dipped lower and I gave a little shiver. “And if he hadn’t, I would have happily strangled him to put him out of the way.” I slapped lightly at his hand. “You would not. You are far too devoted to justice to kill a man without reason.” “I am devoted to you,” he said, bending his head low and pressing his lips to my neck. His hand resumed its interesting business with my neckline and this time I let him. “And it would have been justice to put Edward Grey out of the way. He did not deserve you.” “And you do?” The words were breathless, coming out on a gasp. “Let me show you.” I turned my face up to his and he began to kiss me. After a few blissful moments, he drew back suddenly with a sharp oath. “What the devil? Julia,” he said patiently, “will you kindly remove that dormouse from your décolletage? There is only room for one of us in there and I refuse to share.” I hurried to pull the little creature out of my garment. I put him into his basket, bidding him goodnight as he curled obligingly into a restful slumber and closed his black teardrop eyes. “I am sorry,” I said, returning to Brisbane’s arms. “Let me make it up to you.”
― Deanna Raybourn, Silent Night