The lead-up to Christmas at Fenwick-Hargreeves estate is always a spectacle—equal parts charm and calamity. This year, it's been no different. As the daughter of this illustrious estate, I should have grown used to the eccentricities of the season, but no. Every December, this place manages to surprise me, like a grand old actor refusing to retire, determined to upstage everyone with one last flourish.
The house, with its ancient stone walls and ivy-clad towers, looks as though it were pulled straight from the pages of a gothic novel. The frost on the windows adds a delicate touch, as if the house itself has been dusted with icing sugar in preparation for the season. Inside, however, things are less serene. A chaotic orchestra of decorators, caterers, and well-meaning relatives has descended upon the halls, all trying (and failing) to work in harmony.
The Christmas tree arrived last week, an absolute behemoth of a thing that required four men to carry and nearly toppled twice en route to the great hall. Once upright, it began shedding needles with the fury of a porcupine under duress. My mother, ever the visionary, insisted on adorning it with marigold garlands to "honour her heritage" and "add some colour." The result is a glorious clash of gold blooms, antique baubles, and twinkling lights that somehow works—though the grounds keeper is still muttering about the "sacrilegious use of perfectly good flowers."
Then there's the kitchen, which has become a battleground of culinary ambition. Mrs. Pembroke, our cook, is in her element, wielding wooden spoons like weapons as she orchestrates a symphony of pies, puddings, and mince. My mother, not to be outdone, has taken over one corner to prepare her arsenal of Indian sweets. The scents are intoxicating—a heady mix of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and ghee. It's impossible to walk past without stealing a taste, though I'm starting to think she notices every missing laddoo or gulab jamun, judging by the way she raises an eyebrow whenever I enter the kitchen.
Of course, the estate staff have their own unique way of approaching the season. Mrs. Moffat, our head housekeeper, has declared war on the dust in the seldom-used west wing, which she claims will be opened for "overflow guests." Overflow guests? Who are we hosting, the entirety of Cumbria? Meanwhile, Mr. Larkin, our butler, has taken it upon himself to polish every single piece of silver in the house. He can be found muttering darkly over a particularly stubborn candlestick, as though it insulted his honour.
The pheasants, those unruly residents of the estate grounds, have also decided to join in the festive chaos. This morning, I watched from my bedroom window as a particularly bold one made off with a piece of wreath from the stables. I'd like to think it was decorating its nest, though it's just as likely planning some sort of avian uprising.
In the evenings, the great hall comes alive with warmth and light. The fireplaces crackle, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls, while the scent of mulled wine fills the air. We've already had one impromptu carol session, led by Cousin Henry, whose enthusiasm far outpaces his ability to hit a single correct note. My mother, ever gracious, joined in with a Bollywood rendition of Jingle Bells, which had the younger cousins in stitches and left Uncle Harold looking rather scandalized.
As for me, I've been sneaking moments of solitude amidst the chaos, wandering the estate grounds wrapped in layers of wool. The lake has started to freeze over, its surface shimmering under the pale winter sun, and the hills are blanketed in a soft layer of snow that muffles the world and makes everything feel a little more magical. It's in these quiet moments that I remember why this season is so special—not for the grand gestures or perfect decorations, but for the little joys that sneak up on you.
And yet, for all the charm, there's an undeniable air of expectation that looms over the estate. The house seems to hold its breath, waiting for Christmas Day itself to unleash its full glory. Invitations have been sent far and wide, and each reply that arrives feels like another piece of a puzzle sliding into place. There's always a tension between tradition and innovation here—my mother, with her love of Diwali's vibrant festivities, often suggests ways to brighten up our decidedly English Christmas. My father, naturally, clings to the heritage of the Fenwick-Hargreeves lineage like a knight defending a crumbling castle wall.
Take, for example, the annual Christmas Eve feast. My father insists on the classic roast goose centerpiece, accompanied by every stodgy British side dish you can imagine. My mother, on the other hand, sneaks in masala-spiced roasted potatoes and turmeric-glazed carrots, much to everyone's delight—though my father grumbles that his ancestors wouldn't recognize half the food on their plates. I, for one, am more than happy to honour our fusion of traditions, particularly if it means getting an extra helping of my mother's saffron rice pudding alongside my Christmas pudding.
There's also the matter of the estate ghost, Lady Eleanor. She has a habit of making her presence known during the festive season, as though she resents not being invited to the celebrations. Last year, a perfectly good bottle of port went flying off the sideboard during dinner, and my uncle swears he heard her muttering about "unseemly modern frivolities." This year, we've taken precautions: a sprig of holly has been discreetly placed in every corner of the great hall. It's unclear whether this is to ward her off or to include her in the décor, but so far, she's been mercifully quiet.
As I sit here in the library, the scent of cedar logs burning in the fireplace mingling with the faint spice of cloves, I find myself both amused and awed by the peculiar magic of this place. The library is my refuge during this festive whirlwind—a cocoon of leather-bound books and golden lamplight where I can steal moments of peace. From here, I can hear the faint sounds of preparations echoing through the halls: the clatter of dishes, the rustle of wreaths being adjusted for the umpteenth time, and the distant laughter of children racing through the corridors.
I imagine how this same room must have looked centuries ago when my illustrious ancestor, a certain loyal knight to William the Conqueror, first claimed the land on which the estate now stands. Did they celebrate the season as exuberantly as we do? Or was it a quieter affair, with wassail shared by the hearth and the chill of winter creeping through unglazed windows? Either way, I feel a curious kinship with those long-gone figures, as though the spirit of their revelries lives on in ours.
But nostalgia aside, there's no denying the humor in it all. Just yesterday, my father got into a spirited debate with the gardener about the placement of a nativity scene. It ended with the baby Jesus being temporarily cradled in a potted fern until someone could find a proper spot for the manger. My mother, meanwhile, has taken it upon herself to teach the staff's children the finer points of Bollywood dance, which has resulted in the surreal sight of a conga line winding through the great hall to the tune of "Deck the Halls."
And me? I'm simply trying to absorb it all—the frost-draped hills, the ever-so-slightly lopsided Christmas tree, the mismatched fusion of traditions that somehow feels perfectly ours. This estate, with its ancient stones and timeless quirks, is a world unto itself during the Christmas season. And as much as I may roll my eyes at the chaos or groan at yet another misplaced bauble, there's no denying the warmth it brings. It's the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones, wrapping itself around you like a favorite old quilt.
In the evenings, when the stormy Cumbrian winds howl outside, we gather in the drawing room by the fire. It's a scene straight out of a Victorian novel: the crackling flames, the soft glow of candles, and the quiet murmur of conversation punctuated by the occasional laugh. Someone—usually my mother—always insists on a story, and whether it's a ghostly tale to honour Lady Eleanor or a cheerful recounting of family mishaps, the tradition feels as natural as breathing.
I think what I treasure most is how the estate, despite its grandeur, doesn't demand perfection. The wreaths may droop, the puddings may slightly burn, and the staff may mutter under their breath about the never-ending demands of the season, but it's all so wonderfully human.
As the days tick closer to Christmas, I find myself leaning into the madness, quirks and all. I'm already envisioning the chaos of Christmas morning: the haphazardly wrapped gifts under the tree, the inevitable argument over charades rules, and the blissful quiet that follows the feast when everyone is too full to move.
Home isn't just an estate—it's a story, one I'm lucky enough to live in. And as the frost falls softly tonight, blanketing the grounds in a pristine white, I find myself smiling at the thought of all the moments yet to come. The ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future all seem to whisper the same thing: there's magic here, if only you know where to look.
And so, as the evening draws on and the last flickers of daylight fade into the dark, I sit here with a cup of mulled wine in hand, a cat on my lap and dogs at my feet, the faint scent of cinnamon filling the air, and a contented smile on my lips. The storm outside is more insistent now, but it only adds to the charm. The wind howls against the windows, rattling the glass like a distant reminder of the world beyond these ancient walls. Yet, inside, we are cocooned in warmth, in stories, in the oddities of our own traditions.
I think of the old tapestries lining the hallways, some of them so faded with time that they seem to blur into the shadows. They tell stories of long-forgotten battles, of ancestors whose names are spoken with reverence, their deeds immortalized in thread. And I wonder, will my name one day be whispered the same way? Not for any great battle or conquest, but for the odd, whimsical, magical Christmases I’ve shared here, where the stories are less about history and more about the moments we carve out for ourselves.
Tomorrow, I will be helping with the final-not so final at all-preparations. There’s the food, of course—my mother’s fragrant biryanis and my father’s beloved puddings, all served with the same irreverent mix of old and new. And then there will be the laughter of cousins and uncles, the gentle clinking of glasses, the glow of candles, and the unmistakable sound of a well-meaning argument over the proper way to decorate the tree (don’t ask me how it always comes to this, but it does).
But for now, I let the quiet moments wrap around me. The flicker of the fire, the murmur of voices, the last traces of the day’s frenzy settling into something softer. It’s all part of the dance, this Christmas at the estate. A dance that never quite ends, but is somehow always new.
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