The English Country House ~ The Library

Those of us who love books very often have our own collections, carefully arranged on bookcases and shelves, or, in this modern age, stored in electronic devices. We correlate them by type (paperback or hardback), by author, by fiction or non-fiction, by subject. We caress them lovingly, re-read favourites over and over and admire glossy pictures in educational tomes.

 

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, books were also a sign of status and wealth. A leather-bound volume was an expensive item – a far cry from the digital e-book of today. Many landowners gathered together large collections of books, sometimes from all over the world, just for the distinction of possession and with little interest in their contents. That said, there were many scholars who collected rare manuscripts, and a classical education – including, of course, the Grand Tour – were a pre requisite of the English gentleman. It was considered of enormous importance that a Regency gentleman had a sound knowledge of the Antiquities, of politics, philosophy, literature and science, so a wide a range of subjects as possible was collected by most. The owner could thus converse with authority at his Club, at House Parties and other social occasions. Even the bruising rider to hounds could turn his mind to more elevated concerns when in the company of such notables of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as Sir Robert Walpole, John Locke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Oliver Goldsmith, Charles James Fox and Thomas Charles Bunbury, to say nothing of the esteem conferred by ‘hob-nobbing’ with the Duke of Wellington, William Wilberforce, Lord George Byron and Beau Brummell.

 

The library was often a place of sanctuary for the master of the house, where he could smoke his pipe, indulge in a glass or two of brandy and contemplate upon his next speech in the Lords or how to persuade his lady not to bankrupt him during the course of his daughters’ comings out. It was usually furnished in a masculine style, with comfortable armchairs, robust cabinets and tables and a solid library table, the correct term for a flat-topped desk with drawers and knee space. As all aficionados of Georgette Heyer will know, a young lady desirous to ‘cut a dash’ in Society did not wish to be thought ‘bookish’. Too much book learning was not considered pleasing unless one was immensely wealthy, in which case one was likely to be indulgently deemed eccentric.

 

Sometimes, books were housed in specially constructed oak or walnut stepped units, such as at Boughton, where they were installed for the 1^st Duke of Montagu. In earlier centuries, however, it was frequently the case that books were stored randomly and not placed with spines facing the observer as they are nowadays. At Charlecote Park in Warwickshire, early seventeenth century volumes are titled across the leaves between the opening edges of the covers. Furthermore, in Charlecote church, the marble tomb of Sir Thomas Lacy shows them carved in this way. By the Regency era, and the resurgence of classicism, many libraries became designed specifically to display the owner’s book collection. Pedimented bookcases to reflect the architecture can be seen at Holkham Hall in Norfolk, where they were a revolutionary introduction by William Kent. At Holkham, the fifty-four foot long library is part of Lord Leicester’s private apartments and is still used as a family room. I find it hard to imagine children and dogs rampaging around this elegance, though, as in the 1732 painting by William Hogarth of The Cholmondeley Family in a similar book room.

 

The painting belongs to a private collection and is currently on display in the Tate (Gallery).

http://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-britain/exhibition/hogarth/hogarth-room-guide-room-4

The long library at Holkham Hall by John Chapman
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons



The original design for above the fireplace was an oval painting of Apollo with his lyre, but the lion depicted is an antique mosaic, brought back from his Grand Tour by Lord Leicester.

The pedimented feature on the bookcases was recreated at Berrington Hall in Herefordshire. Berrington was built by Thomas Harley, who inherited his library from his great-grandfather, Robert Harley, 1^st Earl of Oxford, who died in 1724. He was succeeded by his son Edward, who left this world in 1741. Sadly, much of the collection was sold in 1744. Edward Harley was ‘a close friend of Pope, Swift and Matthew Prior’ and was one of the first to instigate the practice of keeping large collections of books in the country, where there was greater opportunity to peruse and appreciate them. Unfortunately, those books enjoyed by Thomas Harley were sold by the 7^th Lord Rodney, who turned the library into a billiard room.

Library, Berrington Hall

The library at Berrington has several interesting features for the historical author. The picture above (apologies for the quality) does not show the pediment on the fitted bookcases designed by Henry Holland, but it is reflected on the pier-table and over the fireplace, as are the narrow Ionic pilasters. A ‘Greek key’ decoration, embellished with mistletoe berries, links the various features. The frieze above has some lovely classical plasterwork to reflect the origins of the architecture, and on the ceiling there are ‘portrait medallions’, attributed to Biagio Rebecca, according to the guidebook, commemorating various famous authors. These are, clockwise from the fireplace, Matthew Prior (poet, political ally of Robert Harley), John Milton, Alexander Pope, William Shakespeare, Geoffrey Chaucer, Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon and Joseph Addison.

Frieze, Berrington Hall

Fireplace, showing pediment and Ionic pilasters
Berrington Hall

Portrait Medallions, Library, Berrington Hall

On Wednesday 27 September 1826, diarist William Cobbett visited Stanford Court, the Worcestershire seat of Sir Thomas Winnington, while on one of his Rural Rides. He arrived on the previous day, and had time ‘…to see the place, to look at trees, and the like, and I wished to get away early this morning; but being prevailed on to stay to breakfast, here I am, at six o’clock in the morning, in one of the best and best-stocked private libraries that I ever saw; and, what is more, the owner, from what passed yesterday, when he brought me hither, convinced me that he was acquainted with the insides of the books. I asked, and shall ask, no questions about who got these books together; but the collection is such as, I am sure, I never saw before in a private house.’

In his Guide to Worcestershire of 1868, John Noakes wrote: ‘The Court is delightfully situated, and contains some good paintings and an extensive modern library, with also an ancient one, with panel paintings of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, in the attics, where Sir Thomas frequently brings to light MSS. of great value and interest.’

 

The house was almost destroyed on 5 December 1882, with only the ashlar-faced North Front surviving. The collection of manuscripts and books was sadly lost.

 

Indeed, by the close of the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth, the library reached its height as a book room. It seems that Robert Adam was ahead of the game when he designed a library-sitting room combined at Kenwood House for Lord Mansfield. This was in a side wing, but was nevertheless designed to be a gathering place for guests as well as close members of the family. There are various allusions, in literature of the time, to rooms of this type containing such amusements as billiard tables, piano fortes, paintings, card tables and even French windows leading to gardens and/or conservatories. Paintings show groups of people conversing or engaged in other occupations. Lovers of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice will recall the scene where Lizzie and Miss Bingley patrol the room when Mr. Darcy is writing a letter.

 

In his Fragments, Humphrey Repton is said to have considered this switch of use of the library to a ‘general living-room’ and ‘the best-parlour… of late years the drawing-room, is now generally found a melancholy apartment, when entirely shut up and opened to give the visitors a formal cold reception’ an occurrence of fairly recent usage. However, this might not be the case. At Houghton Hall, Sir Robert Walpole installed his library next to his bedchamber and dressing room, while at Petworth in 1774, the King of Spain’s Bedchamber on the ground floor was converted by the 3^rd Earl of Egremont into the present White Library.

The Drawing Room, Calke Abbey
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Comfortable clutter was, at times, overshadowed by architectural importance in the form of statuary, literary busts and portraits of men of letters and learning. This was often a conscious reflection of the philosophers, poets, playwrights and scientists whose works adorned the shelves. The Georgians had ever an eye for placement and design. Already mentioned in this article are the plaques on the ceiling at Berrington Hall. At Chesterfield House, a set of literary portraits, beginning with Chaucer and finishing with Dr. Johnson, were displayed in the library, while at Hagley Hall in Worcestershire, there are busts by Peter Scheemakers of Dryden, Milton, Shakespeare and Spenser, as well as a portrait of Pope by Jonathan Richardson.

 

Henry Holland’s library at Woburn Abbey is a warm, inviting room, in direct contrast to the austere and grand proportions of the same room at Sledmere Hall in Yorkshire, which looks more like a ballroom, especially since the carpet (lost in a fire that gutted the room in the first years of the twentieth century) was replaced with parquet. The bookshelves here are recessed into the wall, almost forgotten, whereas at Woburn they are proudly a part of the room’s architecture. Alongside the dry reports of parliamentary proceedings and matters of law, one-time necessaries in an Englishman’s library, march the 6^th Duke of Bedford’s own volumes about the wildlife and plants to be found on the estates. Such tomes were surely far more inviting reads!

 

As remarked at the beginning of this piece, the library was considered a male preserve, as was also the case with the dining room. Lady Bessborough, a visitor to Woburn in 1797, is quoted as being very taken with the furnishings, describing the ‘…finest Editions magnificently bound…’, ‘…some very fine pictures…’, ‘…three great looking glasses, all the ornaments white and golden, and the furniture blue leather.’ Leather was often chosen as the upholstery for the library, since it would, in the way of a saddle or a fine pair of Hoby’s boots, mature and be the better for use, unlike the fragile velvet and silk fabrics employed in the saloons and drawing room. Not only would they speedily show signs of wear, they would need to be replaced according to the dictates of fashion.

 

Very little changes, it seems. Beautiful Georgian furniture can be picked up for a few pounds nowadays, while modern ‘designer’ suites will cost the purchaser a small fortune and last a quarter of the time – perhaps. I know which I would prefer.

 

Unless otherwise stated, photographs are the property of the author and may not be copied without the owner’s expressed permission.

 

© Heather King

Twelfth Night Cake

Last year, I wrote a post about the celebrations traditionally associated with Twelfth Night and the now almost forgotten Twelfth-Day, which you can find here:

Twelfth Night Revels


The fifth of January is ‘the eve of the Epiphany, or Twelfth-night eve, arid is a night of preparation in some parts of England for the merriments which, to the present hour, distinguish Twelfth-day,’ states William Hone in his Every-day Book of 1825. Twelfth-Day, the sixth of January, is the Epiphany and commemorates the arrival in Bethlehem of the Three Wise Men with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. It is on this night (Twelfth Night) that decorations are taken down and the King and Queen of the Bean are elected through the auspices of the Twelfth Cake. On the eve of the Epiphany, it is still the custom in parts of the country to toast the apple orchards with pitchers of cider, usually by forming a circle around one of the most fruitful trees and drinking ‘the following toast three times.’

“Here's to thee, old apple-tree,

hence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow!

And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!

Hats full! caps full!

Bushel—bushel—sacks full,

And my pockets full too! Huzza!”

In days of yore, itinerant minstrels were given to taking a bowl of spiced wine from house to house, especially those of the gentry, where they expected the best of hospitality and to be toasted for their musical endeavours from the wassail bowl. It is a night for games, singing joyous songs and much merriment.

On Twelfth-Day, the confectioners pulled out all the stops to create fabulous displays in their shop windows, of a wide range of cakes and delicacies to suit all purses. These ranged from the most exotically decorated and iced confections – the largest on an enormous salver – to simple buns.

‘Scarcely a shop in London that offers a halfpenny plain bun to the purchase of a

hungry boy, is without Twelfth-cakes and finery in the windows on Twelfth-day.

The gingerbread-bakers—there are not many, compared with their number when

the writer was a consumer of their manufactured goods,—even the reduced

gingerbread-bakers periwig a few plum-buns with sugar-frost to-day, and coaxingly

interpolate them among their new made sixes, bath-cakes, parliament, and ladies’

fingers. Their staple-ware has leaves of untarnished dutch-gilt stuck on; their

 upright cylinder-shaped show-glasses, containing peppermint-drops, elecampane,

sugar-sticks, hard-bake, brandy-balls, and bulls'-eyes, are carefully polished; their

lolly-pops are fresh encased, and look as white as the stems of tobacco-pipes;

and their candlesticks are ornamented with fillets and bosses of writing paper;

or, if the candles rise from the bottom of inverted glass cones, they shine more

sparkling for the thorough cleaning of their receivers in the morning.’

 

Such are the scenes, that, at the front and side

Of the Twelfth cake-shops, scatter wild dismay;

As up the slipp'ry curl), or pavement wide,

We seek the pastrycooks, to keep Twelfth-day;

While ladies stand aghast, in speechless trance,

Look round—dare not go back—and yet dare not advance.

One of the most celebrated, and possibly oldest, confectioners was at 15, Cornhill, established during George I’s reign by Mr. Horton. It was taken over by Lucas Birch, who was succeeded by his son Samuel, who was born in 1757 and among other offices, was Lord Mayor in 1815.

15, Cornhill

Traditionally, the Twelfth Cake was a very large fruit cake, iced and decorated. By the nineteenth century it was often garlanded with gilded paper and dressed with figures made out of marzipan, sugar-paste or Plaster of Paris. These could be crowns, coronets, swans, horses or people etc. 

…all are decorated with all imaginable images of things animate and inanimate.

Stars, castles, kings, cottages, dragons, trees, fish, palaces, cats, dogs, churches, lions,

milk maids, knights, serpents, and innumerable other forms in snow-white confectionary,

painted with variegated colours, glitter by ‘excess of light’ from mirrors against the walls

festooned with artificial ‘wonders of Flora.’

Over time, this cake has evolved into what we know today as Christmas Cake. Twelfth Cake was baked with a dried bean and a dried pea in the mixture, one in each half of the cake. On Twelfth Night it was cut into slices and everyone in the household had a slice, no matter how lowly their position. Ladies were served from the left and gentlemen from the right. The man who got the bean became King for the night and the woman or girl who claimed the pea became Queen. Their rule lasted until midnight and it was an excuse for all kinds of jests, foolish commands and silliness. At house parties, sometimes a coin was put in the cake instead of the bean or another alternative was the drawing of tickets or characters (often produced by the confectioners).

Traditional Twelfth Cake

There is no standard recipe for Twelfth Cake. It can be a fruit cake or even a sponge cake (all you need to do is put ‘Twelfth Cake recipes’ into your search engine and many possibilities come up!) I have therefore searched Cookery books of the Regency era for those listed below.

This is possibly the first printed recipe for Twelfth Cake and comes from The Art of Cookery by John Mollard, published in 1802. It is somewhat large!

Take seven pounds of flour, make a cavity in the centre, set a sponge with a gill and a half of yest and a little warm milk; then put round it one pound of fresh butter broke into small lumps, one pound and a quarter of sifted sugar, four pounds and a half of currants washed and picked, half an ounce of sifted cinnamon, a quarter of an ounce of pounded cloves, mace, and nutmeg mixed, sliced candied orange or lemon peel and citron. When the sponge is risen mix all the ingredients together with a little warm milk; let the hoops be well papered and buttered, then fill them with the mixture and bake them, and when nearly cold ice them over with sugar prepared for that purpose as per receipt; or they may be plain.

Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery quotes three recipes for Twelfth Cake, one of which is Morrell’s, above. This is also a massive cake.

Before beginning to mix the cake all the ingredients should be pre-pared, the flour dried and sifted, the currants washed, di-ied, and picked, the nutmegs grated, the spices pounded, the candied fruit cut into thin slices, the almonds bruised with orange-flower or rose water, but not to a paste, the sugar sifted, and the eggs thoroughly whisked, yolks and whites separately. Care should be taken to make the cake and to keep the fruit in a warm place, and, unless the weather is very warm, to whisk the eggs in a pan set in another containing hot water. To make the cake, put two pounds of fresh butter into a large bowl, and beat it with the hand to a smooth cream: then add two pounds of powdered sugar, a large nutmeg grated, and a quarter of an ounce each of powdered cinnamon, powdered mace, powdered ginger, and powdered allspice. Beat the mixture for ten minutes, add gradually twenty eggs, and beat the cake for twenty minutes. Work in two pounds of flour, four pounds of currants, half a pound of bruised almonds, half a pound each of candied orange, candied lemon, and candied citron, and, last of all, a claret-glassful of brandy, and beat the cake lightly between every addition. Line a baking-hoop with doubled paper well buttered, pour in the mixture, and be careful that it does no more than three-parts fill it, that there may be room for the cake to rise. Cover the top with paper, set the tin on an inverted plate in the oven to keep it from burning at the bottom, and bake in a slow but well-heated oven. When it is nearly cold, cover it as smoothly as possible with sugar-icing three-quarters of an inch thick (see Frost or Icing for Cakes). Ornament with fancy articles of any kind, with a high ornament in the centre : these may frequently be hired of the confectioner. In order to ascertain whether the cake is done enough, plunge a bright knife into the centre of it, and if it comes out bright and clear the cake is done. A cake of this description will, if properly made, and kept in a cool dry place, keep for twelve months. If cut too soon it will crumble and fall to pieces. It will be at its best when it has been kept four months. Time to bake, four hours and a half. Probable cost, 12s. for this quantity.

Then this recipe is of great interest to Regency aficionados. It is of rather more modest size. 

Twelfth Cake, Lady Caroline Lamb's. —

 Quarter of a peck of pure flour carefully dried, three pounds of cui-rants, a quarter of a pound of raisins, half a pound of refined sugar, quarter of a pound of sweet and half an ounce of bitter almonds blanched and sliced, two ounces of orange and two ounces of candied lemon-peel, and spices according to taste, mix all thoroughly; then take one pint of cream, and put to it three-quarters of a pound of fresh butter washed first in pure and afterwards in rose-water; place in a gentle heat. Beat up the white and yolks, separately, of six eggs, and the yolks only of six more. Add to them a little rose-water, two table- spoonfuls of cardamom brandy, half a glassful of old Rhenish, hock, or champagne, quarter of a pint of fresh yeast, and a little fine salt. Mix the liquids together, strain them, add the dry materials warm, and mix the whole into a light smooth batter. Place it before a fire for twenty minutes to rise, butter your hoop, and use what flour is necessary to make the cake sufficiently stiff. Set it in the oven with some sheets of brown paper well floured to prevent its burning. In about a couple of hours it will be done. Ice it in the usual manner, and stick any ornaments you choose upon the icing before it is dry. 

In his Book of Christmas of 1888, Thomas Hervey quotes an account from an earlier work, the Cook and Confectioner’s Dictionary, edited by one Nutt. According to Mr. Nutt, the nursery rhyme ‘Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pye,’ who ‘When the pye was opened all began to sing,’ was based on fact. It seems there were ‘two great pies, made of coarse paste and bran, into one of which, after it was baked, live frogs were introduced, and into the other, live birds; which, upon some curious persons lifting up the covers, would jump and fly about the room, causing ‘a surprising and diverting hurly-burly among the guests.’

Thomas Hervey continues to describe Victorian Twelfth Cakes:

What feeble imitations are the castles, ships, and animals that now adorn our Twelfth-night cakes, to the performances of Nutt! How much, every way, inferior are the specimens of art produced, even by the renowned author of the ‘Italian Confectioner,’ the illustrious Jarrin!

On the battlements of the castles of former days were planted ‘kexes,’ or pop-guns, charged with gunpowder, to be fired upon a pastry ship, with ‘masts,’ ropes, we doubt not of spun sugar, ‘sails, flags, and streamers.’ Nor was the naval power of England lost sight of; for the ‘kexes’ of this delicious ship were, also, charged with gunpowder, and, when she was fired upon from the castle, her guns were able to return the salute.

In order to get rid of the smell of the powder, eggshells were prepared, filled with rose water, which guests then threw at each other! Finally, there was ‘a stag of pastry filled with claret…’ ‘…which, when wounded, poured forth its blood, free and sparkling as a ruby, for those whose nerves were delicate and needed the refreshment of a glass of wine.’

How modest in comparison are our celebrations today, but then, the Georgians really knew how to feast and make merry!

 A very merry Twelfth Night to you all!

Images from non-copyright books quoted unless otherwise stated. 

© Heather King

The Feast of Stephen

Good King Wenceslas by John Mason Neale

Good King Wenceslas look’d out,

On the Feast of Stephen,

When the snow lay round about,

Deep and crisp and even;

Brightly shone the moon that night,

Though the frost was cruel,

When a poor man came in sight,

Gath’ring winter fuel.

“Hither, page, and stand by me,

If thou know’st it, telling,

Yonder peasant, who is he?

Where and what his dwelling?”

“Sire, he lives a good league hence,

Underneath the mountain;

Right against the forest fence,

By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”

“Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,

Bring me pine logs hither:

Thou and I, we’ll see him dine,

When we bear them thither.”

Page and monarch forth they went,

Forth they went together;

Through the rude wind’s wild lament,

Through the bitter weather.

“Sire, the night is darker now,

And the wind blows stronger;

Fails my heart, I know not how,

I can go no longer.”

“Mark my steps, be brave, my page;

Tread thou in them boldly;

Then thou’lt find the winter’s rage

Freeze thy blood less coldly.”

In his master’s steps he trod,

Where the snow lay dinted;

Heat was in the very sod

Which his foot had printed.

Therefore Christian men, be sure,

Wealth or rank possessing,

Ye who now will bless the poor,

Shall yourselves find blessing.

Although strongly criticized by the purists, and compilers far more learned than I, this popular carol is one of my favourites. It was written by John Mason Neale and published in 1853, the music being a Finnish melody for spring, dating from three hundred years earlier. But who was King Wenceslas and who was St. Stephen, whose day many of us now celebrate as Boxing Day, 26 December?

Wenceslas was Duke of Bohemia in the tenth century. A Catholic, he attempted to spread Christianity among his people and so was murdered by his brother Boleslaus (also Boleslaw and Boleslav). Wenceslaus (original English spelling) was martyred following his death and is the Patron Saint of the Czech Republic. His Saint’s Day is 28 September. The regal dignity was conferred on him posthumously by Holy Roman Emperor Otto I, according to the Catholic Encyclopaedia. The carol tells of a legend connected with Wenceslas’ life.

John Mason Neale set his words to ‘Tempus adest floridum’ or ‘The Time is Near for Flowering’, a spring carol of Finland, which first appeared in the collection ‘Piae Cantiones’ of 1582. Good King Wenceslas was first published in 1853, in a collection entitled Carols for Christmas-Tide by Neale and Thomas Helmore.

The Feast of Stephen is the Saint’s Day of Saint Stephen, in the west nowadays more usually referred to as Boxing Day. Stephen, who died circa AD 35, was the first Christian martyr. He belonged to a primitive Christian community in Jerusalem and is mentioned in Acts as one of those seven who were ‘of good repute, full of the Spirit and of wisdom’ chosen by the community to support the twelve apostles. Stephen is given credit as ‘a man full of faith and of the Holy Spirit’. He apparently died (stoned to death) near the so-called Damascus Gate in the northern wall outside Jerusalem, killed by a mob. His death is celebrated on 26 December in the Western Church and 27 December in the Eastern Church. Some countries commemorate him on 9 January, the same day in the Julian calendar. Stephen is the Patron Saint of Serbia and his day is a public holiday in many countries.

In Finland, there is a tradition whereby sleighs pulled by horses take to the village streets in the merry ‘St. Stephen’s Day ride’, a chance for the people to rejoice following the piety and silence of Christmas. Other old traditions include parades of singers and people dressed in festive costume.

In Ireland, Boxing Day is still sometimes called Wren Day. It was once the case that a wren would be killed, then carried by children from house to house, asking for money in exchange for a wren’s feather, which was believed to bring good luck. Visiting each house on St. Stephen’s Day is a tradition which survives in many countries, particularly in Scandinavia, where the day is spent in partying and going to see friends.

By the Regency, Stephen’s feast day had become a day for the wealthy to give Christmas boxes to their dependents, either servants or tradespeople who had given them good service through the year. While the term Boxing Day was most likely coined by the Victorians, who so liked to propound the myth and customs of Christmas, the tradition of giving ‘boxes’ of money or a small gift certainly predates the 1800s. In his diary entry of 19 December 1663, Samuel Pepys states ‘Thence by coach to my shoemaker’s and paid all there and gave something to the boys’ box against Christmas.’

There is some conjecture as to when the custom originated – it may have been in the Middle Ages with alms put in boxes for the poor, but there is no doubt it was in existence by the Georgian era. Required to work on Christmas Day to provide for the family they served, servants were often allowed to visit their families on the Feast of Stephen, clutching boxes of leftovers and largesse from their employers. However, it must be remembered that in those times Christmas wasn’t necessarily a public holiday, as it is now. For many it was just another working day.

Happy Christmas!

 

© Heather King

Who is Father Christmas?

Father Christmas, with his rich, red suit and bushy white beard, has been an iconic figure since Victorian times, but the personification of Christmas has been part of English folklore since the fifteenth century. After the Puritans banned Christmas during the English Civil War, supporters of the Royalist cause published political pamphlets marrying the old customs of feasting and merrymaking with the festivities, in the process taking Old Father Christmas as their ‘figurehead’.

‘The Examination and Tryal of Old Father Christmas’ (1687) from a pamphlet by Josiah King.

Although his popularity dwindled following the Restoration, Christmas folk or mummer’s plays kept Old Father Christmas alive through the late eighteenth century and on into the nineteenth.

Christmas as a festivity for children developed during the Victorian era. Prior to then it had been a time of feasting and carousing strictly for adults, sometimes even with an air of menace when associated with the Lord of Misrule, a mock king introduced by the Normans, who wore red robes and made sure the celebrations were run in the old pagan manner. Villagers would leave out food and drink to pacify any malicious spirits. This association gradually died out when the tradition of the Lord of Misrule also became lost in the annals of time, although into the Regency, a servant was made a king or queen for the night on Twelfth Night and a misruling lord still exists in the British military through the officers and NCOs serving the men Christmas dinner.

In a fifteenth century carol purported to be written by the Rector of Plymtree between 1435 and 1477 makes an early mention of Sir Christmas. This is quoted from Christmas Carols, Ancient and Modern, 1833, by William Sandys.

In Die Nativitatis

Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell.

Who ys there thay syngith so nowell, nowell?

I am here, syre cristsmasse;

Well come, my lord sr crstmasse,

Welcome to vs all bothe more & lasse,

Com ner, nowell.

Dievs wous garde, brewe srs, tydyge y zow bryng,

A mayde hath born a chylde full zong,

The weche causeth zew for to syng,

Nowell.

Criste is now born of a pure mayde,

In an oxe stalle he ys layde,

Wher'for syng we alle atte abrayde,

Nowell.

Bevvex bien par tutte la company,

Make gode chere & be right mery,

And syng wt vs now joyfully,

Nowell.

This celebrates the birth of Jesus and exhorts parishioners to ‘Make good cheer and be right merry, And sing with us now joyfully, Nowell.’ So it is clear that already the seed of Father Christmas was there, beginning to be nurtured.

In the seventeenth century, various plays and masques, including The Masque Of Christmas, 1616, by Ben Jonson, continued to preserve the persona of Christmas as an individual.

THE COURT BEING SEATED,

Enter Christmas, with two or three of the guard, attired in round hose, long stockings, a fine doublet, a high-crowned hat, with a brooch, a long thin beard, a truncheon, little ruffs, white shoes, his scarf and garter: tied cross, and his drum beaten before him.

WHY, gentlemen, do you know what you do? ha! would you have kept me out? CHRISTMAS, old Christmas, Christmas of London, and captain Christmas? Pray you, let me be brought before my lord chamberlain, I'll not be answered else: ’Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all: I have seen the time you have wish’d for me, for a merry Christmas; and now you have me, they would not let me in: I must come another time! a good jest, as if I could come more than once a year: Why I am no dangerous person, and so I told my friends of the guard. I am old Gregory Christmas still,

and though I come out of Pope’s-head alley, as good a Protestant as any in my parish.

In a court masque of 1638, by Thomas Nabbes, it is said the stage directions assert that Christmas is represented by ‘an old reverend Gentleman’ in a furred gown and cap etc.’

By the eighteenth century, it seems, traditions muddled on much as before, but in the middle of the century, according to William Sandys, Stevenson introduced ‘…Old Christmas talking of the former festivities of the season, of sitting by the fire with a bowl of lamb’s wool; after which some sang carols; the servants went to dancing, and sung one to the tune of Hey,

            Let’s dance and sing, and make good cheer,

            For Christmas comes but once a year. 

So, it would appear from this that the character of Father Christmas as we know him today is beginning to evolve.

In 1774, David Garrick produced A Christmas Tale at Drury Lane, to popular acclaim. Although forgotten once the season was over, it ran for nineteen performances and was a spectacular piece of magic, music and romance.

‘…Mr. Palmer, in the character of Christmas:

To the AUDIENCE

Behold a personage well known to fame;

Once lov'd and honour'd - Christmas is my name!

My officers of state my taste display;

Cooks, scullions, pastry-cooks, prepare my way!

Holly and ivy round me honours spread,

And my retinue show I'm not ill-fed.

Minc'd pies by way of belt my breast divide,

And a large carving knife adorns my side;

'Tis no Fop's weapon, 'twill be often drawn;

This turban for my head is collar'd brawn!

Tho' old and white my locks, my cheeks are cherry,

Warm'd by good fires, good cheer, I'm always merry:

With carrol, fiddle, dance and pleasant tale,

Jest, gibe, prank, gambol, mummery and ale,

I, English hearts rejoiced in day of yore;

For new strange modes, imported by the score,

You will not sure turn Christmas out of door!

and though I come out of Pope’s-head alley, as

good a Protestant as any in my parish...

In the Georgian era, any gifts given were usually exchanged on Saint Nicholas’ Day, the sixth of December. Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of children, sailors and Russia. The North American tradition of Santa Claus is a corruption of his name and stems from the Dutch custom of giving presents to children on his feast day. However, it is likely that the custom of giving presents on Christmas Day, the Nativity of Christ, has travelled across the Atlantic. The holy demeanour of the bishop became a jolly, fat gentleman with ruddy cheeks and a white beard. In 1809, Washington Irving, in the Knickerbocker’s History of New York, portrayed Saint Nicholas as a portly, jolly chap who drove a wagon through the skies. This was further augmented by Clement C. Moore in 1822, when he wrote the poem which starts, ‘’Twas the night before Christmas…’ This portrayal was of a gentleman with twinkling eyes, rosy cheeks with dimples, a red nose, snow-white beard and a round stomach ‘that shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.’ As with Saint Nicholas in Holland, he is a supernatural and generous figure, who comes at night down the chimney and leaves gifts for the sleeping children.

Merry Old Santa Claus by Thomas Nast from the January 1, 1881 edition of Harper's Weekly. It was Thomas Nast who immortalized the modern perception of Father Christmas when he produced an initial illustration, in an issue of the same magazine in 1863. It proved so popular, he created this 1881 image.

Saint Nicholas was born in the fourth century in the then Greek village of Patara, near Lycia (now in Turkey). His parents were wealthy and he was brought up a devout Christian. He devoted his life to God and the needy, using his inheritance to help those suffering sickness or poverty. He became Bishop of Myra and his fame spread, leading to his persecution and imprisonment for his faith. When he died, on 6 December 343, he was buried in the cathedral at Myra. His life inspired great devotion and in 1087, Italian sailors are said to have removed his bones to Bari in southeast Italy to preserve them from the many wars around Myra. A shrine was built over his remains and became a major place of pilgrimage. There is now a magnificent church there. 

Saint Nicholas’ Day became a day of rejoicing and giving, as a celebration of his teachings. Due to his reputation for kindness and giving, many legends evolved through the centuries, of the miracles he performed. Stories are told of his calming storms, saving his people from famine, rescuing those in dire need and saving those wrongfully accused. One story goes that the father of three daughters was too poor to provide dowries for marriage. On three consecutive nights, a bag of gold was thrown through an open window, to land in stockings or shoes drying by the fire and thus save them from shame and slavery. The tradition of hanging up stockings or putting out shoes for gifts comes from this legend. Another story has Saint Nicholas bringing three boys back to life, having been variously murdered by a wicked innkeeper and put in a salting barrel or killed by a butcher to be made into pies.

There are a variety of customs in Europe to celebrate Saint Nicholas’ Day. In some countries he is believed to ride a white horse while spreading his largesse; in others, boys pretending to be bishops beg monies for the ‘poor’. This tradition of feasting and exchanging gifts on this day continues still in many European countries. The sharing of sweets, gifts, riddles and initials made of chocolate takes place on the eve of Saint Nicholas’ Day in the Netherlands, and the children fill shoes with carrots and hay for his horse, in the hopes of presents being left in return. It was this tradition of Christmas being primarily a holiday for children which was instrumental in bringing about the switch of Saint Nicholas into Father Christmas/Santa Claus and the exchange of gifts from Saint Nicholas’ Day to Christmas Day.

 The Yuletide feast of midwinter among Briton, Norse and Saxon peoples, along with the Roman festival of Saturnalia, among others, were probably influential in this regard as well, since feasting, ceremonies, decorations, symbolic figures and values, spiritual beings and the giving of gifts have long been a part of the winter solstice. It is not too far a stretch of probability to consider the association of Father Christmas with the North Pole, reindeer and snow to have come from Norse or Scandinavian customs in connection with Yuletide. In A Visit from St. Nicholas (’Twas the Night Before Christmas), eight tiny reindeer fly up to the house-top drawing a miniature sleigh. Kris Kringle of Nowegian tradition has a sleigh and reindeer which glide over the house tops in a fantastic manner, this having definite connections with the ancient Norse legend of Odin’s white horse Sleipnir, who was possessed of eight hooves and was the fastest horse in the world.

Supernatural beings have been a part of winter celebrations since pagan times. In many northern countries, demonic creatures such as vampires, witches, ghosts and trolls are thought to be abroad on Christmas Eve, but folklore also allows for the tiny manifestations of goblins, sprites, fairies and elves, so the cheery, green-suited human ushering children into ‘Santa’s Grotto’ is not so very surprising after all.

I will leave you with this lovely word picture of Christmas, courtesy of William Sandys’ Christmas Carols, Ancient and Modern.

All images public domain, most courtesy Wikimedia Commons.


 

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ALL HALLOWS’ EVE

On the first of November, known as All Saints Day in the Christian calendar, the lives of the dead are honoured and celebrated by relatives and friends. All Hallows’ Eve is the night before, now better known as Hallowe’en. Hallow (or hallowed) means holy or sacred; ‘Hallowe’en’ is derived from the compression of All Hallows’ Even. It has now been further simplified into Halloween and has done wonders for the pumpkin industry!

The celebration originates more than 2000 years ago, when the Celtic druids occupied Great Britain and some parts of Europe. On the thirty-first of October, they celebrated the last day of the year in the Celtic calendar, a night when witches and warlocks mingled freely with ordinary folk. Now considered the pagan festival of Samhain, the revels associated with that night signified the end of summer and the onset of winter. In many minds, the dank, black chill of the grave and death itself very often had associations with dark and cold winter days.

It was believed that on the night of Samhain, the cloak between the spirit world and the living was but a thin veil, allowing the dead to rise up and come forth from their graves. Huge bonfires were lit to assist the fading sun god and the people would disguise themselves to avoid being recognized. Gradually, witches, vampires, demons, werewolves and fairies were also thought to emerge with the darkness of winter, to join the spirits of the dead in a night of rejoicing.

In order to claw back some semblance of control, All Saints’ Day was created by the Church in 835. Originally held on the thirteenth of May to commemorate all martyrs and saints without a special day, it was moved to November as an exercise in damage limitation and thus Hallowe’en replaced Samhain.

Prior to the late seventeen hundreds, Hallowe’en was considered a night of fear and dread. While malicious spirits, itinerant demons, other supernatural beings and wicked hobgoblins roamed the night, sensible men kept themselves and their families safe by the hearth. In those superstitious times, it was the custom for people wearing strange costumes and masks, known as guisers, to pass from house to house, protecting the occupants by dancing and singing or, alternatively, to represent goblins, ghosts and other spirits of darkness.

By the turn of the eighteenth century into the nineteenth, All Hallows’ Eve was becoming a time for jollification for children and over the years, the superstitions surrounding this magical night evolved into lanterns, costumes and games. The now synonymous pumpkin lantern has its origins in a time when offerings of food were made to the spirits of the dead and the American custom of ‘Trick or Treat’ is the masquerade descendant of the guisers’ parade. It survives in other parts of the world, too, as a children’s festival.



A girl might place hazel nuts on a hot grate and giving each the name of a potential husband, recite, “If you love me, pop and fly; if you hate me, burn and die.” In a variant, any cracked nuts indicated those suitors who were fickle.

Other games also have their origins in Hallowe’en rituals. Throwing the complete peel of an apple over a shoulder revealed the initial of a girl’s true love. In Scandinavia, she set her shoes in the form of a ‘T’ on Hallowe’en and recited the words, “Hoping this night my true love to see, I place my shoes in the form of a ‘T’,” to ensure she dreamed of her future love. (The ‘T’ was a strong talisman representing the hammer of Thor, the god of thunder, agriculture and the home). It was also on All Hallows’ Eve when a girl hoped to see in her mirror a candlelight reflection of her future husband.

A more sombre ritual was that of building a bonfire on a burial mound, since these were thought to be portals to the spirit world. Once it was blazing, the locals held hands and danced around it. Young boys vied to grab burning branches and run across the fields, waving them like torches. Then, when the flames had died down, the lads had a jumping contest over the glowing embers, all the children bobbed for apples and the adults danced until bedtime.

So, on a night of magic when the spirits of the dead awaken and supernatural beings dance to a pagan drum, if you prefer your vampires to be romantic rather than terrifying creatures of darkness, perhaps you would rather curl up with a glass of wine (red, of course) and read the tales of some honourable, eternal, gentlemen.

Vampires Don’t Drink Coffee and Other Stories

Out of the night steps a figure; mysterious and dangerous, sensual and otherworldly. An individual destined to spend eternity alone, forced to hide in the shadows, preying on the innocent to survive and yet nursing a deep need for love. Is this lost and troubled soul predator or protector? Callie is mugged when walking home with her daughter and rescued by a man who is the image of her dead husband. Melissa inherits a house with a vampire living in the basement. Sabrina, a healer at the time of the Civil War, is drained of blood and left for dead by an evil vampire, then saved by his twin. Condemned to death in the seventeenth century for being possessed by a demonic presence, Katalin shocks vicar Christopher when she turns up at his church claiming he is the reincarnation of her long-lost love… With both contemporary and historical settings, this tantalizing collection of stories is a romantic feast, full of humour, passion and love.

A collection of fourteen tales bringing together irresistible heroes and memorable heroines who battle against demons, muggers, lost loves, loneliness and unholy thirst to find their true loves.

Amazon UK

Amazon US

© Heather King



Vampires Don't Drink Coffee...

To celebrate Hallowe'en, I am sharing one of the stories in my Vampire Romance anthology, Vampires Don't Drink Coffee and Other Stories

Blood Transfusion

I expect you consider vampires to be either the stuff of myth or blood-sucking monsters – if you think of them at all, that is. Believe me, they are real – and contrary to popular belief, most just wish to be left alone. Of course there have been occasions when blood-lust and power have turned a vampire evil, but then that can happen with humans too. As is the case with mortals, there are some undead souls who yet belong with the angels – and I mean those of the Heavenly persuasion, not the Fallen.

I know such a vampire. His name is Dimitri Nikolaides and he must surely be descended from the gods of Mount Olympus! Tall and leanly muscled, he is incredibly good-looking, the sculpted planes of his pale, angular face accentuated by his long black hair and vibrant blue eyes. I met him at a fund-raiser for leukaemia, which I had organized following my own life-shattering diagnosis with the disease. The event had helped me to feel that I was fighting back, but one thing is for sure – if I had not met Dimitri that night, I would have died.

My name is Tessa Brandon and I used to be a children’s nurse. I loved my job and I lived life to the full. Being a self-confessed, fun-loving party animal, I had a different boyfriend nearly every week. I told myself variety was the spice of life, but the truth was I had always shied away from commitment because my parents had broken up when I was small. I had never considered any of my relationships to be worth that pain. Then the disease struck. Knowing I was going to die without anyone special to care about me turned the once-colourful palette of my existence to a drab, soulless grey.

It is probable that I contracted the disease through radiation build-up whilst working on the terminal ward. It is a low risk, but nevertheless one of the hazards of the job. At first, when I was diagnosed, I went to pieces. It is one of those things you think is never going to happen to you, then when it does it is utterly devastating, but the dignity and courage displayed by all the wonderful children I had nursed inspired me not to give in and crumble. Hence the fund-raising.

This particular function was a dinner and auction of promises. As organizer I was expected to be there, but I planned to keep a low profile. It was being held in the glittering ballroom of a plush hotel, where floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one wall reflected back scores of candle-effect lights from a dozen chandeliers. Wine-red velvet curtains showcased hundreds of richly dressed socialites.

Diamonds winked in the ears and around the throats of sex-kittens and divas, while gold and platinum adorned the wrists of playboys and magnates. This was no place for catalogue bargains or polyester. The local ‘haves’ were shamelessly displaying their worth, salving their collective consciences by giving generously to the ‘have-nots’. The promises on offer ranged from balloon rides and slaves-for-a-day to a supermarket grab-it and a day-share in a racehorse. Since the tickets cost fifty pounds each, the number of ordinary folk likely to be present was limited, but the object was to make money and lots of it. Those in attendance were, in slang parlance, rolling in it.

I had felt reasonably happy with my appearance when I left the ladies’ rest room. Having been at the hotel all day, to ensure that everything was in place for this multi-faceted jewel in the charity’s money-raising crown, it had seemed ridiculous to go all the way home to my tiny flat just to change. Faced with all the glamour in the ballroom, however, my confidence was rapidly fading, along with my energy.

A stage had been erected at one end of the function hall, in front of a cream-painted wall on which coloured lights could be trained to create special effects appropriate to the event in progress. Tonight, photographic slides were being projected on to the wall to ‘advertise’ each promise. Currently, a super-size black thoroughbred racehorse was in full gallop across a long strip of verdant green turf, a tiny blob of a human clinging like a monkey to its huge back. In the background, the strains of the theme to the television series ‘Black Beauty’, which I used to watch as a child, were playing over the speakers. ‘Galloping Home’ it was called, I remembered, smiling to myself at the lack of originality. Most of the crowd were probably too merry to notice, anyway.

On the stage, the horse’s owner or trainer was talking up the ability of the nag and the races it had already contested. It did seem to have done quite well, but apart from the Grand National, I don’t know one race from another, and I don’t suppose the rest of the moneyed throng did either, so they could have been flogging a real dud for all I knew.

Nevertheless, the bidding was brisk, especially from one corner of the ballroom, where a group of businessmen were egging each other on with noisy enthusiasm. Evidently already three sheets to the wind, they managed to outbid each other – and everyone else interested – to the tune of five thousand pounds. Brian Gibbs, one-time colleague, old friend and tonight’s Master of Ceremonies was nearly apoplectic with delight and almost screamed his encouragement down the microphone. It was a lot of money, but rather cynically, I could not help thinking to myself that if the horse was as good as the owner/trainer had implied, then the red-faced gent in the tight-fitting white dinner jacket who had had the final bid was likely to win an awful lot more than that.

The next lot was the services of a limousine and driver for the day. On the display behind the dais was a picture of a gleaming Lady Penelope-type pink Rolls Royce, whilst on to the stage tottered (I cannot say walked, for her heels were too high) the leggy blonde chauffeuse… in tight baby pink jacket which revealed a quantity of cleavage – no blouse, needless to say – and a matching pink mini skirt which barely covered her… assets. Of course all the men in the room, including the balding, bespectacled auctioneer, were virtually drooling at the mouth. I noticed more than one wife or girlfriend poke an errant ‘other half’ back to a semblance of twenty-first century, rather than Neolithic, behaviour.

Even so, the ballroom was in an uproar as bids flew in from all sides.

“Fifty quid,” shouted one bright spark from the back of the room.

“One hundred,” roared another.

“Gentlemen, please!” entreated Wallis, the auctioneer. “I cannot accept an opening bid of less than five hundred pounds. And please remember that only Miss Pinkerton’s driving skills are being auctioned.”

A loud groan echoed around the room followed by a burst of laughter. I wondered wearily if some of them would stay sober long enough to view all the lots. In spite of evident female disapproval, however, competition was fierce and Miss Pinkerton was finally knocked under the gavel for three thousand, five hundred pounds. I almost laughed out loud when I saw that the winning bid had been made by the diamond necklace and tiara-wearing wife of a local bank manager. I had a strong suspicion that she would be enjoying the services of the chauffeuse while spending large quantities of her husband’s money on a shopping spree. That would teach him, I thought with a certain amount of glee.

It was beginning to feel very stuffy in the crowded hall and as the next lot was introduced, a straightforward balloon ride, I started to think longingly of floating away myself. My attention began to wander and it was then that I caught sight of my reflection in one of the mirrors. I could not help but cringe.

My face was the colour of whey and the cerise lamé turban which I had bought from a charity shop to hide my absent ash-blonde curls had clearly been made for someone with a rounder head than I. In the cloakroom mirror, it had seemed content to stay where I put it; in the warmth of the function hall, it had slipped drunkenly sideways. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, given the way matters turned out – none of this seemed to bother Brian.

Two lots later, as proceedings were drawing to a close, he swooped down on me before I had a chance to engineer my escape. Ignoring my wan face and badly-fitting headdress, he dismissed my pathetically garbled veto with a wave of his hand and dragged me up the three steps on to the stage. It was at that moment that I saw Dimitri for the first time.

I suppose I noticed him because he was standing on his own to the other side of the dais, with his attention on the merry gathering rather than the ‘merchandise’ and a glass of red wine instead of the customary champagne in his hand. His gaze held mine and for several seconds I had the oddest sensation we were the only people in the room. Slowly, almost insolently, he then allowed his eyes to travel over the spangled black party frock I had hired for the occasion. He raised an eyebrow and instantly I had a strange notion that he understood how much I hated the limelight. Something new and unheralded uncurled in my stomach and came to life beneath his scrutiny. My lips opened on a breath and my heart beat a rapid tattoo against my ribs.

I began to feel light-headed as Brian pressed me to make a speech. The bright lights of the crystal chandeliers seemed to spin before my eyes. All colours of the rainbow – pink, red, blue, green – swirled around me like a shoal of exotic fish in a turquoise ocean. Oddly, the events which followed seemed to take place in slow motion and yet at the same time, while I remember each moment with perfect clarity, they were over in a flash.

I turned from Dimitri to make my excuses to Brian. Somehow as I turned, I lost my balance in my borrowed heels. My spangled dress had a narrow, figure-hugging skirt and as I took an unwary step to save myself, the fabric snagged around my thigh, blocking my movement. I heard the crowd gasp as I teetered precariously and then made an undignified swan dive off the stage. Before I hit the parquet floor and without apparently moving, Dimitri was there, cradling me…

I fainted into oblivion.

I awoke in a high, narrow hospital bed with monitors bleeping and various wires attaching me to them. Dimitri was gone. Brian and his wife Beryl, my second-in-command, were arguing, sotto voce, in the corner of the soulless private room. It was like a thousand other such rooms in hospitals the length and breadth of the British Isles. Painted a utilitarian and dispiriting grey, there were drab grey-green curtains at the one small window, a hard, similarly-coloured faux leather chair beside the bed and a marginally more comfortable-looking armchair against the opposite wall. On a trolley table at the end of the bed was an ancient television. I tried not to, but could not help listening to the heated conversation.

“You fool!” Beryl was saying. “Couldn’t you see how pale she was? She’s run herself ragged putting this together. Throwing the spotlight on her like that, when you know how much she hates being ‘gawped at’ as she puts it… Well, it might have been the last straw. This might be… the end.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper, but I heard the emotion there. We had been working for months on various fund-raising events and were a good team, complementing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. We had become close friends in the process. I was aware of being weaker than I could ever remember, but it was too much effort to process what that meant. I felt numb. I wondered if this was how it was, at the end, this fog-like calm acceptance. My eyes scanned the unlit corners of the sterile, impersonal room; only dimly did I realize I was seeking the wraith of Death.

A nurse wearing lilac scrubs and a plastic apron came in, her grim expression swiftly changing to a cheery smile when she saw I was awake. As she checked my vital signs, she murmured words of encouragement, but I was not about to be fooled and neither was Beryl. I distinctly heard her sob. I wanted to reassure her that I was ready to go, but my brain would not cooperate. With a sigh I closed my eyes…

The hospital clock showed two a.m. when I next opened them. All was quiet, apart from the bleeps of the equipment and a low humming similar to that a refrigerator makes. A spicy aroma vied with the integral, sanitized antiseptic smell as the atmosphere in the room distinctly cooled. By the door the shadows seemed to shift… I blinked and Dimitri stepped forward to the bed. In the low-wattage overhead light I could see he was wearing navy chinos and a matching silk shirt. A heavy gold ring encircled the middle finger of his left hand. He took hold of mine, a white wisp against his olive-toned strength, and blood rushed to my nerve endings, making them tingle in the manner of feeling returning to a cramped limb.

“Fear not, pethi mou,” he murmured. His voice was deep and soothing, yet stirred my senses. “I can help you. Drink, now.”

My mind fuddled with drugs, I obeyed as he pressed something to my mouth. The liquid was warm and slightly salty, with a metallic taste. I grimaced, turning my head aside to avoid whatever it was he was giving me, but he spoke again – softly, compellingly – and I followed his bidding without another thought.

When I woke the next morning, I believed Dimitri’s visit must have been a dream, a side-effect of all the medication I had been given. However, I astounded everyone – including myself – by sitting up and swallowing some chicken soup for dinner. That night I slept more deeply than in a very long time and I dreamed of him again, though this time my overwrought hormones had his muscular body enhanced by a figure-hugging black T-shirt and black jeans. I woke up short of breath, as if I had been running, my nostrils full of cinnamon and nutmeg and a coppery tang lingering on my lips. Rubbing my rough scalp, I gulped a mouthful of water from the glass by my bed. I had never had such a sensuous and powerful dream. It disturbed me and yet I felt… more alive, more vital, than I had in months.

All week he came and each day I embellished the sweet fantasy, even though I knew that it could not happen. The handsome hero could not save me. Nothing and no-one could save me. Nevertheless, my condition continued to improve dramatically. The doctors were dumbstruck. I was tempted to tell them of my nocturnal visitor, but I knew they would somehow prevent him coming. I did tell my best friend Julie when she came to visit, but with sublime disregard for our long-standing relationship, she leaned back in the armchair, chuckled throatily and blamed the drugs. Being a mature, responsible adult, I threw my pillow at her.

Determined to prove I wasn’t hallucinating, that night I refused the medication the nurse brought me. Of course there was a mighty fuss at this. The ward sister was sent for – a frosty creature in a starched mauve uniform – and she summoned the on-call doctor, who considered me gravely and advised against such a course in a strained, over-worked tone, but finally I convinced them I was adamant. When the furore had eventually died down and I was once more alone, I set my watch alarm for midnight. Dimitri arrived soon after, dressed in charcoal trousers, short-sleeved white shirt and a black leather jacket. His hair, dark as a raven’s wing, flopped sexily over his brow. My hormones sat up and took notice.

“Who are you?” I asked as he soundlessly approached the bed. He seemed to glide across the two-tone grey tile-effect floor. “Some sort of Guardian Angel?!”

He said nothing at first, as if considering. “Once I was a doctor. I help where I can.” His voice was low-pitched and gravelly. It sent shock-waves of sensation to my stomach.

“You made me drink. Made me better.” It was a statement, not a question. “What did you give me?”

“It is best you do not know.”

He turned away, his movement smooth and assured. Suddenly I was afraid I would never see him again.

“Don’t leave. Tell me… Please.”

I climbed from the bed, reaching for him. As I clutched at his arm, my mind at once filled with images: star-filled skies; barren moonlit landscapes; a figure tramping dark, empty streets. I saw his loneliness and felt his sorrow, his need to hold and be held. Was this his life I was seeing? How could that be? I had never before had any kind of spiritual experience. In fact I had always had so much trouble deciding what to buy close friends and family for Christmas, knowing what they were thinking would have been a huge help.

His skin twitched beneath my fingers, as if his body was healing, coming back to life the same as mine was. What a bizarre thought! His brilliant sapphire eyes captured mine; their pupils contracted, the colour intensifying… and I felt oddly as though I were drowning in their depths. Raising my hand, he pressed a kiss to my palm. I trembled deliciously, my lips burning in anticipation under his heated perusal.

Without being aware that I did so, I reached upwards. His lips were cool and sweet, his kiss gentle and coaxing. I pressed closer to his hard, toned body and put my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me; shamelessly seeking more. His tongue sought entry to my mouth as he deepened the kiss. It was glorious and quite unlike any kiss I had ever had in my life. With each stroke against the sensitive skin inside my mouth, a charge of electricity shot to my toes. As I followed his lead, I heard a growl and then something pricked my tongue. I tasted blood – and then I knew what he was, how he had been able to save me. We stood transfixed, breathing heavily. My mind screamed denial, but my soul believed.

I should have been alarmed. Any sane, sensible person would have run from the room as fast as her feet could carry her… although if the myths were to be believed, he could be at the door almost before I had thought to move. However, my heart was soaring, already lost. I watched as Dimitri slowly brought his wrist to his mouth and allowed his fangs to descend. I knew no fear as he bit into the vein, only an all-consuming relief that I no longer fought this thing alone. He offered his bleeding wrist, one eyebrow quirked upwards.

“Will it make me what you are?” My voice was scratchy and infuriatingly weak.

“No. Drink and be well.”

Hesitantly and with a sense of unreality, I took what he offered. Expecting to feel revulsion, I was surprised to find the reverse was true. He tasted of wine and dark chocolate, a heady flavour which I found intoxicating. Desire raged through me like a forest fire. His. Mine. He smelt of spice and a musk which was uniquely him. My body trembled and I felt giddy, as if he had taken my blood.

He wanted me. I wanted him.

Dragging his shirt free of his trousers, I ran my hands feverishly over the smooth flesh of his back without breaking my hold on his vein. His muscles were taut and sculpted, like a centrefold model. With a groan I rubbed against him in the manner of a well-fed cat which has just lapped a saucer of cream.

Gently Dimitri withdrew his wrist. Sealing the wound with a swipe of his tongue, he gave me a kiss which was long, slow and full of promise. Patience, beloved, he spoke to my mind. Not yet. When you are stronger…

The fire in my veins abruptly died. Lifting my unresisting body into his arms, he carried me to the bed, where he lowered me to the mattress as if I was a porcelain doll and tenderly tucked me in.

“Sleep,” he whispered, brushing his lips over mine. “You must get well. Then I will make you mine own, sweet beloved.”

I sighed, the mists of slumber already claiming me. I dreamed of exotic lands, beautiful treasures and magical creatures. I dreamed of angels dancing on pink-edged clouds and I dreamed of Dimitri, my very own dark angel, whose touch promised me both heaven and earth.

To read more of the stories, visit Amazon US  Barnes & Noble


© Heather King
 

Enjoy! Happy Hallowe'en!