A Partridge in a Pear Tree

Chapter 1. On the First Day of Christmas… A Partridge in a Pear Tree, by Hesadevil

Christmas Day, December 25th 1879

"What the bloody hell did you do?" Spike said, shocked.

A void, maybe a place beyond time or reality, or even another dimension, stretched out forever in every direction. He could see Illyria staring into the nothingness, unmoving, but he couldn't see the light that illuminated them. They were standing in an otherwise total darkness. Perhaps this was just an illusion.

Disorientated, Spike held his hands out and groped for the door, or for anything solid, but there was nothing; just an icy black silence that seemed to roar in its intensity.

Then something changed…

It was the smells of Christmas Past that assailed his nostrils first. His ultra-sensitive vampire senses detected a heady and intense mix of heavenly scents. Evergreen fir and hemlock, cranberries and apple laced with sweet cinnamon, the pine-scented Yule log and the warm yeasty odour of freshly baked bread from the kitchen, all mingled with spices and fruit from the first batch of mince pies. The sweet scent of oranges pierced with woody cloves made way for another that was lighter, more floral.

His Mother's perfume. As clear in his memory as it had ever been.

Spike gulped.

With the scents came the light - and the warmth. A blazing fire roared up the chimney, casting flickering shadows on three people dressed in servants' livery, standing opposite the hearth, each one holding a small gift-wrapped box. To one side of the fire, a refined middle-aged lady dressed in Victorian finery sat in an armchair. Beside her, a young man stood affectionately over his mother. Everyone was frozen, held still in time until Illyria permitted it to move forward.

Beside them, the Christmas tree glowed with the gentle radiance of dozens of candles - twinkling lights that hung on fragrant boughs laced with golden antiquities. The bedecked branches sagged under the weight of gleaming orbs, small sugar sticks, gingerbread men, and marzipan sweets. Tiny packages, and nets holding precious cargo of rare citrus, figs and nuts peeped from the dark green depths. And, despite the raging bundle of emotions boiling up from the well of his memory, Spike couldn't help smirking at the sight of the topmost decoration. There, gleaming in white and gold, its hands folded in prayer, its wings of spun glass outstretched in protection, stood the Angel.

Always was the drama queen, he thought.

Illyria had started to move again. Ignoring the scene before her, she held out her hand and inspected it as if seeing it for the first time. "The weakness of this vessel disappoints me," she said as she turned and scrutinised Spike's anxious face. "Time no longer does my bidding. We can visit but for a brief moment. They cannot see us."

To demonstrate her point, Illyria stepped between the three servants and stared into the fire. "You will teach me about Christmas - from your own experience. We shall begin with your human form."

With a flick of her hand time started to move forward again.

Spike gulped again. Oh Boy.

One of the three servants, an elderly man wearing the striped waistcoat that denoted his status as footman, stepped forward and addressed the seated woman. "Thank you Ma'am. Thank you Master William," he said bowing slightly.

Spike winced as he watched himself, in the form of Master William, nod his head at the footman. "Mother and I are only sorry that we can't offer the usual gifts from the Americas this year, Albert." He turned to the others waiting to be dismissed. "We hope that an early beginning to your holiday will suffice. Now off you all go. Mother and I shall attend Evensong alone this evening. Be sure to take our Christmas greetings to your families and enjoy your full day of rest tomorrow."

As the group filed out past Spike and Illyria, a stout woman wearing the cap and apron of a cook stopped and spoke to William. "On be'alf of those as was lucky enough to be kept on after the passing of the Master - Gawd rest 'is soul - I'd just like to say how much we 'ppreciate these 'ere boxes. Knowin' the 'ardship Sir William's loss 'as brung the family, we didn't 'spect nuffin' for Boxin' Day this year."

William frowned and clasped his hands behind his back. "Yes, well, erm, thank you, Cook. I hardly think that Mother and I are ready for the Poor House just yet." He glanced down at his mother who had paled at the mention of his father's death. "Father's estate didn't amount to much, I grant you, what with the investment going down with the ship. But never fear. All is not lost. I shall provide for the family somehow. Start as I mean to go on, eh, Mother?"

Illyria stared at William and his mother, concentrating on the small, but easily missed interaction between them, noting the softening of William's features as he looked into Anne's eyes and the gentle caress as she placed her hand in his. They stared into the fire together, happy in a companionable silence. "I feel a warmth between these two," Illyria said. It is alien to me. Yet it was present between Fred Burkle and the people named as her parents. It is not the lust of a man for a woman."

Spike shook his head, not trusting his voice to conceal the emotion he was reliving.

"I wish to know more. Wesley refused…"

"Well you bloody well can't!" Spike snarled, interrupting her. Something had snapped inside him. "Thought this was about you learning what Christmas is about? Not prying into people's feelings!"

Illyria turned to Spike, her glacial eyes staring through him. Time re-started as her interest in the mother and son waned. "I wish to understand everything in your world."

Spike frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" He looked again at the tableau of William perched on the arm of his mother's armchair and then gestured at the tree and the decorations of ivy, holly and Christmas cards adorning the mantelpiece. "There's yer Christmas," he said savagely. "It's bloody stupid decorations and naff presents and stuffing yourself until you burst. Can we go back now?"

Illyria ignored him completely. This would be over when she chose and no sooner. Her eyes swept the room, taking in the glittering array of items on tables and windowsills. "This room is adorned strangely. Why is this?"

Spike shrugged, still bitter and uncomfortable in this parlour from the past he thought he'd buried long ago. "Buggered if I know."

Illyria continued her inspection until her eyes came to rest on a centrepiece arranged carefully on the polished mahogany dresser. She walked slowly towards it and touched the tiny crib at the heart of the scene. "And this?"

"Well, yeah, that's what it's meant to be about," Spike conceded. "...Where it all began, I suppose. The birth of Lord Jesus…"

"I do not understand. You say this 'Christmas' celebrated the birth of a Lord - a god."

"Son of," Spike corrected. "So he claimed. That's him in the crib."

Illyria scrutinised the other wooden pieces. "In a stable, among the beasts? A god would not permit her son to be born thus."

"Look - didn't say I was a soddin' theologian did I? 'S been a long time since I was involved in any of this."

A loud knocking at the front door interrupted any further protestations Spike may have had. Reluctantly, he followed Illyria as she strode out of the door and into the hall. She listened with interest to the noise emanating from the steps outside.

"On the First Day of Christmas, my true love sent to me…"

Spike groaned to himself. He couldn't escape the carols, even here.

Albert appeared from his quarters and opened the door with a jerk. He cuffed the young boy who stood in front of him on the ear. "Bugger off, you little…"

"Albert!" William's voice stopped him in mid tirade. "I know it's somewhat late for carols, but that's no way to treat the poor little chap." William stepped outside and lifted the boy's chin. "It's Tim, isn't it?"

Spike cringed. "I was living in a bloody Dickens novel! God, I'm glad I died."

"Yessir, Master William, sir," blubbered the boy, snivelling from the blow to his ear and unaware of Spike's comment.

"What are you doing here, child? Your sister's not here. She's on her way home. You must have just missed her."

Tim wiped his nose on the sleeve of his carefully mended jacket and rubbed his eyes with his fists. "Ma said as 'ow you wouldn't be cummin' to the service at St Giles's tomorrow, on account of yer Da's passin'."

William drew the child into the hallway and led him into the warmth of the drawing room, to where Spike and Illyria followed them. He reached for the teapot, testing its weight. "Albert, I think another pot is called for." He guided the child over to the hearth. "Mother, look who's here. Emily's little brother. Tim seems to think we shan't be attending the alms' service at St Giles-in-the-Fields tomorrow. Is this so?"

"Certainly not," Anne replied. "Your dear Papa's subscription to the family pew is paid until the end of the year. We shall go as usual. You, of course, as head of the household, will read the lesson in his stead. This evening we shall attend Evensong, just as we do every Christmas Day."

William turned to the boy. "There you are Tim. You've had a wasted journey. Now, here's tuppence for your song. Make sure you go straight home. Your mother will be waiting for you." He picked a spicy pomander from the tree and handed it to the boy, along with the coppers he'd taken from his pocket.

"God Bless you sir, and a Merry Christmas to you - and you an' all, Mum," said Tim beaming at them both.

Illyria regarded the boy with interest. "He calls your mother 'Mum', and yet she is not his mother. And the servants, they are not bound as slaves?"

Spike raised an eyebrow. He really didn't want to go into the complications of Cockney pronunciation, nor the socio-economic relationships that existed within the household. He needed to get out of the house as soon as possible. It was opening too many doors to too many memories he didn't want to remember, too many emotions he didn't want to feel; memories of loss and pain, feelings of grief and helplessness. He'd died to forget them and he'd been happy to let them remain in the past.

"Yeah," he drawled. "It's complicated."

"It is similar to the warmth between a mother and son," concluded Illyria. "And yet it is different."

"Something like that," agreed Spike.

Illyria fixed her unblinking stare at the little group by the hearth. "We will attend this service of which your mother speaks."

"Go to St-Giles-in-the-Fields?" Spike said, with mounting concern. "Where I met…" He spun round as the light faded once more and the sweet smells of his childhood home gave way to those of the decay and grime of a Holborn street.

Once he'd orientated himself, Spike saw William and his mother ahead of him, talking to a group of people outside the church, sheltering from the icy wind in the lea of the mature trees that framed the spire.

A gentleman of obvious high standing stood at the centre of the group. He offered his arm to William's mother. "My dear Anne. Let me escort you in. We shall leave the young people to their chit chat before the service begins."

Anne accepted the man's offer and he led her away through the main door and into the church.

With a rising panic, Spike remembered the scene all too well. He appealed to Illyria. "Nothing here of any interest, Blue. Just some musty ceremony for the poor buggers who live round these parts."

"These 'buggers', are they sacrificed as an offering to their Christ God?"

Spike snorted. "Yeah, that'd fit well with the whole love thy neighbour bit."

"I do not understand."

"I got that an apocalypse ago, Princess." Spike glanced nervously at William who was deep in conversation with a pretty young woman. He glared at a young man who had joined them and was offering the young woman his arm. "Look, it's all a bit hazy, but as far as I can remember, we listen to some uplifting Christmas music today. Tomorrow, it being Boxing Day, the well-off give cash to the poor and needy for some reason - stupid prats. End of lesson. Let's go."

Illyria watched with interest, as Spike made no attempt to urge her to move. Instead he stepped closer to the pair. Illyria saw his fists clench and unclench, the anger he was feeling sweeping across his face as he listened to what the newcomer was saying to his past self.

"Cecily has told me about your misfortune, William. It must have been a terrible blow for you to have to give up Oxford. I don't suppose the Law is your thing at all," the young man guffawed.

Turning his back on William, the young man began to move towards the church door, but William stepped in his path and halted his progress. "I don't intend to be a solicitor all my life, George, indeed I don't." He gazed into Cecily's eyes, adoration clearly visible in his own already. "I shall make a name for myself, just as Papa did, one day."

Cecily returned William's worshipping look with one of polite concern. "Indeed, perhaps you may. All men must have ambition, I am told, if they are worthy to be called gentlemen." Her face softened slightly as she noticed William's crestfallen face. "George is throwing a party for me early in the New Year, aren't you George? Cecily detached herself from her brother's arm and followed her father into the church. "Everyone will be there," she called over her shoulder.

"Only a sister could get away with inviting a fellow to another fellow's do," said George laughing. "You're welcome to attend, old chap. There'll be loads of interesting people who might be a help to you."

Spike was surprised to see William square up to Cecily's brother. "I don't need a leg up from you, Underwood," he snapped. "My father's friends…"

"Are of absolutely no use to you at all. They were all caught up in that dreadful affair and have enough worries of their own." He watched William's eyes follow Cecily into the church and decided now was the time to strike the message home. "Look here, Willy, I think you should know that Lord Percy's going to be at this party of mine. The negotiations between him and my father are at a rather tricky point. You don't want to go queering Cecily's chances if you know what's good for you."

With that, George swept into the church, leaving William alone with just Illyria and Spike to observe the quiet tears, he shed before pulling himself together and joining his mother in the family pew.

Illyria opened her mouth.

"Don't say a word," snarled Spike. "You wanted explanations. Christmas began in a stable. This is where I began. That's all you get."

Illyria's face remained impassive. "I wish to hear these Even Songs that glorify the Lord Jesus this day. They are offerings from the Minstrels?"

Spike glanced at the announcement pinned to the church door. "Hardly think Handel and his mates'd care for that label, Blue," he said.

Illyria scrutinised the notice. "Minstrels composed many songs in my honour." She tilted her head at Spike. "The song that the child brought to the house. This too was an Even Song." She fell silent, replaying the scene at the front door of the house in her mind.

Spike sighed heavily wondering how he was meant to guide a god-King who pre-dated Christianity through the complexities of the rituals surrounding Christmas when he himself knew so little about them. It was a heck of a long time since he'd been to Sunday school. "Not really…"

"I do not see how a song about love and sending gifts pays homage to this Christ god." Illyria said after a lengthy silence. "It is surely an offering to another. Wesley told me of a god of love named Cupid. Surely this is his day?"

Spike chuckled and patted his pockets for his cigarettes. "It might be at that. I'm sure the Christians hijacked someone else's festivals at some point."

"And yet the child offered it as a suitable one to the worshippers of the Christ god?"

Spike thought for a moment, "Technically, he's not a god, he's... Look Jesus is the Lord, God is his Dad and the Holy Ghost is something else entirely. They all love each other and mankind. The End. Can we please go now?"

Illyria ignored him and pressed further. "I wish to know more of the song and why it is sung on this day."

Spike paused for a moment, recalling the words of the carol. "Suppose it's 'cos it's about a true love sending presents to his sweetheart. A present for each of the twelve days." Spike replied sulkily.

"Twelve days?" Illyria tilted her head again. "Today is the first."

"Yeah. How'd it go now?" He hummed quietly to himself. "On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me - a partridge in a pear tree."

"A partridge?" asked Illyria. "Is this token of devotion a blood offering."

"I don't bleedin' know, do I?" Spike finished his unsuccessful search for his cigarettes, and shoved his hands into his pockets instead. "P'raps he thought she was hungry or something. Though I don't see as how she could be, what with all the big dinners everyone eats at this time of year."

"What did he send on the second of these twelve days?"

Spike narrowed his eyes and looked at her suspiciously. "Two turtle doves. Why? What're you…?"

Illyria closed her eyes and focused her energy. "Two birds. I see them."