Amazing gifts had been showered on the children, from kites to entire armies of toy soldiers to dolls and doll furniture, to a bicycle for Aimee, the oldest Mackenzie at seven. Andrew eyed the bicycle with envy, but forgot about it when he opened his steam train on a track, with an engine that belched real steam.
Cat received jewelry, ribbons, lace, hats, and slippers, from the Mackenzie and McBride ladies, and her doll had a new frock, given to her by Sinclair. The gown was of the latest mode, a burnt orange color trimmed with brown, with a puffed bustle and long sleeves that tapered into ruffled cuffs. Cat touched the dress, thanked her father, and set the box aside.
Sinclair’s smile when Cat thanked him was strained. Beth whispered to Bertie later that Cat received a new dress for the doll every year, but never put them on her. Bertie had noted that the doll’s clothes never changed—though Cat would undress the doll and let Aoife wash the garments, the same things always went back on again.
Daniel Mackenzie didn’t let the dignity of his nineteen years mar his eagerness to help the children open and sort through their mountain of gifts. The children loved him, Bertie saw, the tiny ones crawling over him, the older ones, including Andrew, shouting for his attention. Even Cat, the oldest child present, favored him with her rare smiles.
“What did you do for us this year, Danny?” Andrew yelled at him.
“Thought you’d never ask.” Daniel rose to his feet, winked at Bertie, and told the children to follow him—no pushing, no shouting.
They filed out obediently, the older ones quivering in excitement as they ran down the stairs after him.
Ian Mackenzie, who’d left the nursery as soon as his son’s and daughters’ gifts had been opened, waited for them on the terrace. Snow had fallen in the night, but the clouds had gone, and the December day was crisp and clear. The nannies had made the children stop for coats, and Bertie adjusted mittens on several pairs of hands.
Daniel held his hands up for silence, then spoke. “Those of you who were here for Christmas last year remember the spectacular show put on by his brilliance, Ian Mackenzie, assisted by your humble servant.” Daniel pressed his hands to his chest and bowed. The children laughed and applauded.
“Get on with it, Danny,” Louisa shouted.
Daniel took another bow. “As you know, I have a fondness for mechanical workings, and Ian has a fondness for precision. He also has a fondness for his children, who are spoiled rotten.” Ian’s two older children jeered at him, while his youngest, Megan, waved her fists from her mother’s arms. “We pooled our efforts to bring to you the launch of the first Mackenzie flotilla—of the air!”
Daniel rotated his arms in a wild signal to Ian, who carefully leaned down and pulled some kind of lever half hidden by the terrace’s wall.
The pops of small explosions, like miniature fireworks, sounded, making the children jump and squeal, some sticking fingers into ears. Puffs of smoke burst up all along the terrace, and with it, balloons, each about a foot in diameter. Dangling from each was a small box.
The balloons, dozens of them, soared up into the air and headed for the garden. The children jumped and danced, or stared, enchanted.
“Those boxes are my presents to you,” Daniel shouted. “Catch them if you can!”
Chapter 22
Another collective cheer, and the children swarmed down from the terrace, racing into the garden, screaming and laughing.
Cameron went off the terrace after his tottering, happy daughter. “Blast you, Danny. I’d dreamt of putting my feet up somewhere warm for the rest of the morning, not rushing around the freezing garden.”
Daniel only grinned at his father. “I know your meaning, and you can cuddle with my stepmama later. But it’s the bairns’ day, isn’t it?”
Sinclair said nothing at all, only went after Andrew, who was running hell-bent after one of the drifting balloons. Cat watched with some interest, but she sat down on the terrace wall and took out her notebook.
Bertie sat down next to Cat, and Cat shut the book, as usual. “That was a lovely dress your father gave you for your doll.”
Cat nodded. “He has a dressmaker make them. It’s very kind.”
“Will you show them all to me? I bet you can see the march of fashion all the way back to this one.” Bertie touched the dress the doll always wore, which had a tighter skirt and a smaller bustle than the one Cat had received today, the mode of about eight years ago.
Cat gave her another nod. “They’re in London. We can look when we get back.”
Her answers were polite, but she was impatient, her fingers tightening on her notebook.
“Will you show me what’s in there?” Bertie asked, gesturing to the notebook.
Cat shot her a look that was almost fearful. “No.”
Bertie’s curiosity rose, but she remembered how she’d been at Cat’s age, having lost her mother. She’d needed something private, hers alone, and so Bertie had made her hideaway under the street. “It’s all right. I won’t ask if you don’t want me to.”
Cat watched the children running through the garden, arms outstretched for the balloons, which were drifting down again. Their parents ran after them, like colorful ducks after their ducklings. Bertie and Cat were relatively alone on the terrace, no one in their corner.
“I don’t want anyone to see,” Cat said, shifting her doll in her arm. “They’ll laugh, or try to make me stop. Even Papa.”