As the fire crackled in the hearth and the scent of roasting chestnuts filled the room, Elladora pulled out a letter that would change the course of her life before the new year arrived. She had received it this morning but for whatever reason had waited to read it till lunchtime – since then she had been absorbing the contents privately, silently and with a large glass of mulled wine to help digest the news.

Now though, sitting quietly with Ursula, the children and Phineas absent as they always were, she thought it best to mention something. There would be a necessity of relaying the news soon, of course, but it felt only appropriate that she tell Ursula first. (She would unpack that detail later, when more wine had been consumed.)

"I received this earlier," she announced, quite calmly, to her fireside companion. She opened the letter and read the words again, as she had been doing since she had received it; there was no use beating around the bush. “My mother died yesterday.”

Was she upset? Elladora searched her heart for something that was comparable to the feelings she assumed most people felt upon the death of their mother, but she found herself mostly perturbed by the thought that she would have to go abroad again this year. (The possibility that Phineas might perform these pragmatic last rites for their mother never entered her mind – he was quite capable, of course, but it ought to be her this time.)

Truthfully, Ella Max was not a woman that had inspired too much affection. She had done her duty admirably, retired gracefully and was, altogether, a woman to be admired. But loved? Even by her own daughter? Elladora sniffed and carefully put away the letter, keeping it neatly folded and precisely where she could find it again at a moment’s notice: there were others to tell, after all, and a prop was so useful when one was unsure.

“There was no suffering,” she said by way of an answer. “Or so her maid says. It was she who wrote, by the way.” Ella added, gaze not quite meeting Ursula’s. “There was no one else with her.”

Mortality was not generally high on Elladora’s agenda - contrary to popular opinion, she was no more morbid than the next person - but her mother’s passing could hardly fail to bring such things to mind. She had not cultivated a family, rather she had had one thrust upon her due to her brother’s exemplary dedication to continuing the family name: would any of them care when she died?

It bothered Elladora no end that she hoped they would.

“Isn’t it?” She replied, sliding her book onto the table so she was not tempted to look at the letter again. Instead she looked at Ursula and guessed where her sister-in-law’s thoughts might be going. “I’m sure it’s what she would have wanted. She never cared much for crowds.”

Or us, she added mentally, though that was really rather evident anyway.

“No,” Elladora said vaguely, idly wondering if it would have made any difference. On balance, she didn’t expect so. Her mother hadn’t wanted her there at the end – or anyone else apparently – so she didn’t feel especially inclined to weep over her now.

“It hardly matters, but I expect I’ll have to go to France for a few weeks to see to things.”

Which would be tiresome and tedious, but might have some advantages. Avoiding the sympathies of others for a start; though avoiding Ursula seemed pointless as, delightfully, she didn’t seem inclined to fawn. Perhaps there were some upsides to being horribly selfish, after all?

“Come with me? We can have New Year in Paris; the nanny can see to the children.”