A Victorian Christmas Night

Enjoy a story within a story as you step back in time to the enchanting end of the Victorian era. Find comfort in a grand seaside home on a frosty night as you settle by a fire in a luxurious sleigh bed. Get lost in the pages of a classic holiday tale that reminds you of the softness of the world and the beauty of the human spirit. Fall asleep to the sounds of crackling logs and a howling winter wind. It’s time to dream away.

Includes a reading of Lucy Maude Montgomery's "A Christmas Inspiration."

Transcript

Step into a story within a story as tonight's sleepy tale helps you relax and embrace the holiday spirit.

You are listening to A Victorian Christmas.

Imagine yourself in a frost-kissed Victorian village,

Bathed in the gentle glow of street lamps as flurries dance around you in the late night air.

Find refuge in a grand home with candlelit windows and boughs of ivy and holly as you ascend a winding staircase to a peaceful guest room.

The fragrant aroma of cinnamon,

Clove,

And pine fills your senses with comfort and cheer as you settle by the fire in a mahogany sleigh bed.

As the winter winds howl outside,

A classic bedtime story leads you into the magic of this night and helps you drift peacefully to sleep.

It's time to dream away.

Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.

I'm Michelle,

Your nurturing guide to comforting sleepy realms.

Think of me as the voice of an old trusted friend,

Here to guide and support you.

Celebrate making it to the end of your day,

Knowing you can fall asleep whenever you're ready.

Let the soothing embrace of rest take over as you focus all your energy on feeling good.

There's no rush,

Only the gentle unfolding of peace tonight.

You're free to fall asleep whenever your heart desires.

Turn your attention to your breath,

Reveling in the sense of control you feel as you let out a sigh and set free any lingering impressions from today.

Clear the air in this audible exhale.

When you're ready,

Take a deep breath.

Imagine the crisp air of a winter's night and the sweet anticipation of the holiday season all around.

Yawn deeply,

Feeling quite sleepy,

And let go of any remaining tension as you exhale with a long sigh.

For round two,

Breathe in again,

This time feeling the warmth of a crackling fire and the aroma of fresh pine and holiday spices.

Yawn again,

Stretching further as you claim all this space that is yours for restoration.

Feel release as you exhale with a slow,

Full sigh.

Take one final deep breath,

The kind that fills you with the coziness of a holiday evening.

The twinkling lights of the season shine in your mind and the world outside is peaceful and still.

Yawn once more and release all that remains with a slow sigh,

Sinking deeper into comfort and all the support you have in this moment.

A night of Christmas inspiration awaits.

Allow yourself to drift,

Knowing you are in the perfect place for rest as the story unfolds.

The soles of your tightly tied boots balance atop the frosty cobblestone as the thick fabric of your cloak keeps you warm from the icy embrace of the Victorian night.

The chilly air nips at your cheeks and swirls invisible wisps with each breath out.

The coastal village stretches before you,

Its cobbled streets dappled with a scattering of fresh snowflakes that dance lazily in the air.

Gas streetlamps,

Flicker,

And soft amber firelight reflects off frost-laden windows,

Creating a sparkling web of crystalline beauty.

Frost clings to every surface,

Delicate lace patterns on shop windows,

Shimmering crystals on wrought iron railings,

And an opal-edged mosaic that crunches beneath your boots.

A horse-drawn carriage passes and its driver nods his top hat in your direction.

The rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves echoes through the narrow streets,

Slightly dampened by the snow.

Most of the town residents sleep,

Save for the few returning home from late-night holiday gatherings like you.

The air carries a medley of smells.

Briny sea salt mingles with the flinty aroma of wet cobblestones,

As well as wood smoke curling from chimneys and the sweet aroma of roasted chestnuts from a distant vendor's cart.

The cloudy sky delivers faint flurries in a dreamy indigo-gray haze that blurs the stars beyond.

You turn down a quiet winding lane lined by barren maple trees,

With rows of grand homes painted in complimentary rich pastel hues that run from raspberry pink to dusty rose,

From lavender to amethyst,

And from mint green to dark evergreen.

You arrive at the most charming three-story Victorian home on the block,

Its wide wraparound porch lined with ivy and garlands of holly,

Now dusted in snow.

The majestic manor features tall windows framed by heavy velvet gold curtains as golden light pours out into the frigid night.

Sections of the roof resemble the scales of a mermaid tail,

And a whimsical round turret extends above the porch.

The homes of this time were built with attention and care given to every detail,

And you can feel the love that emanates from this artistry.

You ascend the creaking wooden steps of the porch,

Brushing snow from your cloak with a gloved hand.

The other boarders in the house are fast asleep,

Their inspired dreams tucked within the walls of this Victorian haven.

Stepping inside,

A wave of dry,

Warm air accompanies a feeling of being home.

You climb the winding staircase,

Your fingers trailing along the polished cherry wood banister.

Gas lamps illuminate the dark fuchsia and lavender paisley wallpaper and framed portraits of stern faces from another era.

Reaching the top floor,

You enter your cozy room.

The space features stained-glassed windows,

Slanted ceilings,

And a fire roaring in the hearth.

The bed dominates the room,

A mahogany sleigh bed piled high with feather-stuffed pillows and a holiday quilt of deep crimson velvet with gold trim.

Glittery silver tinsel hangs from a small Christmas tree tucked by a bookshelf in the corner.

You let out a sigh of relief as you peel off the constricting layers of Victorian attire,

Your limbs softening with gratitude to be free of stiff,

Heavy fabrics.

You slip into soft linen bedclothes draped by the fire that still retain its heat as the fabric caresses your bare skin.

You sink onto the edge of the bed,

Feeling the thick mattress cradle you like a cloud.

On the small bedside table,

A single candle flickers,

Its golden light dancing across a book resting there,

A copy of A Christmas Inspiration by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

You run your fingers over the embossed title,

Tracing the curves of the letters before flipping it open to the soft pages.

Nestling deeper into the bed,

You arrange the pillows behind you and pull the quilt over your legs.

There is nothing quite like losing yourself in a story as a winter wind howls outside and the rest of the village sleeps.

The crackle of the fire and the whisper of snow brushing against the stained glass windows helps soothe your mind as the words on the page come to life.

A Christmas Inspiration Well,

I really think Santa Claus has been very good to us all,

Said Jean Lawrence,

Pulling the pins out of her heavy coil of fair hair and letting it ripple over her shoulders.

So do I,

Said Nellie Preston,

As well as she could with a mouthful of chocolate.

Those blessed home folks of mine seem to have divined by instinct the very things I most wanted.

It was the dusk of Christmas Eve and they were all in Jean Lawrence's room at number 16 Chestnut Terrace.

16.

Number 16 was a boarding house.

And boarding houses are not proverbially cheerful places in which to spend Christmas.

But Jean's room,

At least,

Was a pleasant spot and all the girls had brought their Christmas presents in to show each other.

Christmas came on Sunday that year and the Saturday evening mail at Chestnut Terrace had been an exciting one.

Jean had lighted the pink globed lamp on her table and the mellow light fell over Mary's faces as the girls chatted about their gifts.

On the table was a big white box heaped with roses that betokened a bit of Christmas extravagance on somebody's part.

Jean's brother had sent them to her from Montreal and all the girls were enjoying them in common.

Number 16 Chestnut Terrace was overrun with girls generally,

But just now only 5 were left.

All the others had gone home for Christmas,

But these 5 could not go and were bent on making the best of it.

Belle and Olive Reynolds,

Who were sitting on the bed,

Jean could never keep them off it,

Were high school girls.

They were said to be always laughing and even the fact that they could not go home for Christmas because a young brother had measles did not dampen their spirits.

Beth Hamilton,

Who was hovering over the roses,

And Nellie Preston,

Who was eating candy,

Were art students and their homes were too far away to visit.

As for Jean Lawrence,

She was an orphan and had no home of her own.

She worked on the staff of one of the big city newspapers and the other girls were a little in awe of her cleverness.

But her nature was a chummy one and her room was a favorite rendezvous.

Everybody liked frank,

Open-handed,

And hearted Jean.

It was so funny to see the postman when he came this evening,

Said Olive.

He just bulged with parcels.

They were sticking out in every direction.

We all got our share of them,

Said Jean with a sigh of content.

Even the cook got six.

I counted.

Miss Allen didn't get a thing,

Not even a letter,

Said Beth quickly.

Beth had a trick of seeing things that other girls didn't.

I forgot,

Miss Allen.

No,

I don't believe she did,

Answered Jean thoughtfully as she twisted up her pretty hair.

How dismal it must be to be so forlorn as that on Christmas Eve of all times.

I'm glad I have friends.

I saw Miss Allen watching us as we opened our parcels and letters,

Beth went on.

I happened to look up once and such an expression as was on her face,

Girls.

It was pathetic and sad and envious all at once.

It really made me feel bad for five minutes,

She concluded honestly.

Has a Miss Allen any friends at all,

Asked Beth.

No,

I don't think she has,

Answered Jean.

She's lived here for 14 years,

So Mrs.

Pickerel says.

Think of that,

Girls.

14 years at Chestnut Terrace.

Is it any wonder that she is thin and dried up and snappy?

Nobody ever comes to see her and she never goes anywhere,

Said Beth.

Dear me,

She must feel lonely now when everybody else is being remembered by their friends.

I can't forget her face tonight.

It actually haunts me.

Girls,

How would you feel if you hadn't anyone belonging to you and if nobody thought about you at Christmas?

Oh,

Said Olive,

As if the mere idea made her shiver.

A little silence followed.

To tell the truth,

None of them liked Miss Allen.

They knew that she did not like them either,

But considered them frivolous and pert,

And complained when they made a racket.

The skeleton at the feast,

Jean called her,

And certainly the presence of the pale,

Silent,

Discontented-looking woman at the number 16 table did not tend to heighten its festivity.

Presently,

Jean said,

With a dramatic flourish,

Girls,

I have an inspiration.

A Christmas inspiration.

What is it?

Cried four voices.

Just this.

Let us give Miss Allen a Christmas surprise.

She has not received a single present,

And I'm sure she feels lonely.

Just think how we would feel if we were in her place.

That is so true,

Said Olive thoughtfully.

Do you know,

Girls,

This evening I went to her room with a message from Mrs.

Pickrell,

And I do believe she had been crying.

Her room looked dreadfully bare and cheerless,

Too.

I think she's very poor.

What are we to do,

Jean?

Let us each give her something nice.

We can put the things just outside of her door,

So that she will see them whenever she opens it.

I'll give her some of Fred's roses,

Too.

And I'll write a Christmassy letter in my very best style to go with them,

Said Jean,

Warming up to her ideas as she talked.

The other girls caught her spirit and entered into the plan with enthusiasm.

Splendid,

Cried Beth.

Jean,

It is an inspiration,

Sure enough.

Haven't we been horribly selfish,

Thinking of nothing but our own gifts and fun and pleasure?

I really feel ashamed.

Let us do the thing up the very best way we can,

Said Nellie,

Forgetting even her beloved chocolates in her eagerness.

The shops are open yet.

Let us go uptown and invest.

Five minutes later,

Five capped and jacketed figures were scurrying up the street in the frosty,

Starlit December dusk.

Miss Allen,

In her cold little room,

Heard their gay voices and sighed.

She was crying by herself in the dark.

It was Christmas for everybody but her,

She thought drearily.

In an hour,

The girls came back with their purchases.

Now,

Let's hold a council of war,

Said Jean jubilantly.

I hadn't the faintest idea what Miss Allen would like,

So I guessed wildly.

I got her a lace handkerchief and a big bottle of perfume and a painted photograph frame.

And I'll stick my own photo in it for fun.

That was really all I could afford.

Christmas purchases have left my purse dreadfully lean.

I got her a glove box and a pin tray,

Said Belle,

And Olive got her a calendar and Whittier's poems.

And besides,

We are going to give her half of that big,

Plummy fruitcake Mother sent us from home.

I'm sure she hasn't tasted anything so delicious for years.

For fruitcakes don't grow on Chestnut Terrace,

And she never goes anywhere else for a meal.

Beth had bought a pretty cup and saucer,

And said she meant to give one of her pretty watercolors,

Too.

Nellie,

True to her reputation,

Had invested in a big box of chocolate creams,

A gorgeously striped candy cane,

A bag of oranges,

And a brilliant lampshade of rose-colored crepe paper to top off with.

It makes such a lot of show for the money,

She explained.

I am bankrupt like Jean.

Well,

We've got a lot of pretty things,

Said Jean,

In a tone of satisfaction.

Now we must do them up nicely.

Will you wrap them in tissue paper,

Girls,

And tie them with baby ribbon?

Here's a box of it while I write that letter.

While the others chatted over their parcels,

Jean wrote her letter.

And Jean could write delightful letters.

She had a decided talent in that respect,

And her correspondence all declared her letters to be things of beauty and joy forever.

She put her best into Miss Ellen's Christmas letter.

Since then,

She has written many bright and clever things,

But I do not believe she ever in her life wrote anything more genuinely original and delightful than that letter.

Besides,

It breathed the very spirit of Christmas,

And all the girls declared that it was splendid.

You must all sign it now,

Said Jean,

And I'll put it in one of those big envelopes,

And Nellie,

Won't you write her name on it in fancy letters?

Which Nellie proceeded to do,

And furthermore embellished the envelope by a border of chubby cherubs dancing hand in hand around it,

And a sketch of number 16 Chestnut Terrace in the corner in lieu of a stamp.

Not content with this,

She hunted out a huge sheet of drawing paper,

And drew upon it an original pen and ink design after her own heart.

A cat Miss Ellen was fond of,

The number 16 cat,

If she could be said to be fond of anything,

Was portrayed seated on a rocker,

Arrayed in smoking jacket and cap,

With a cigar waved airily aloft in one paw,

While the other held out a placard bearing the legend,

Merry Christmas.

A second cat,

In full street costume,

Bowed politely,

Hat in paw,

And waved a banner inscribed with Happy New Year,

While faintly suggested kittens gambled around the border.

The girls laughed until they cried over it,

And voted it to be the best thing Nellie had yet done in original work.

All this had taken time,

And it was past 11 o'clock.

Miss Ellen had cried herself to sleep long ago,

And everyone else in Chestnut Terrace was abed when five figures cautiously crept down the hall,

Headed by Gene with a dim lamp.

Outside of Miss Ellen's door,

The procession halted,

And the girls silently arranged their gifts on the floor.

That's done,

Whispered Gene,

In a tone of satisfaction,

As they tiptoed back.

And now let us go to bed,

Or Mrs.

Pickerel,

Bless her heart,

Will be down on us for burning so much midnight oil.

Oil has gone up,

You know,

Girls.

It was in the early morning that Miss Ellen opened her door.

But early as it was,

Another door down the hall was half open too,

And five rosy faces were peering cautiously out.

The girls had been up for an hour,

For fear they would miss the sight,

And were all in Nellie's room,

Which commanded a view of Miss Ellen's door.

That lady's face was a study.

Amazement.

Incredulity.

Wonder.

Chased each other over it.

Succeeded by a glow of pleasure.

On the floor before her was a snug little pyramid of parcels,

Topped by Gene's letter.

On a chair behind it was a bowl of delicious hothouse roses and Nellie's placard.

Miss Ellen looked down the hall,

But saw nothing,

For Gene had slammed the door just in time.

Half an hour later,

When they were going down to breakfast,

Miss Ellen came along the hall with outstretched hands to meet them.

She had been crying again,

But I think her tears were happy ones.

And she was smiling now.

A cluster of Gene's roses were pinned on her breast.

Oh girls,

Girls,

She said,

With a little tremble in her voice.

I can never thank you enough.

It was so kind and sweet of you.

You don't know how much good you've done me.

Breakfast was an unusually cheerful affair at number sixteen that morning.

There was no skeleton at the feast,

And everybody was beaming.

Miss Ellen laughed and talked like a girl herself.

Oh,

How surprised I was,

She said.

The roses were like a bit of summer,

And those cats of Nellie's were so funny and delightful.

In short letter,

Gene,

I cried and laughed over it.

I shall read it every day for a year.

After breakfast,

Everyone went to Christmas service.

The girls went uptown to the church they attended.

The city was very beautiful in the morning sunshine.

There had been a white frost in the night,

And the tree-lined avenues and public squares seemed like glimpses of fairyland.

How lovely the world is,

Said Gene.

This is really the very happiest Christmas morning I have ever known,

Declared Nellie.

I never felt so really Christmassy in my inmost soul before.

I suppose,

Said Beth thoughtfully,

That it is because we have discovered for ourselves the old truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive.

I've always known it in a way,

But I never realized it before.

Blessing on Gene's Christmas inspiration,

Said Nellie.

But girls,

Let us try to make it an all-the-year-round inspiration,

I say.

We can bring a little of our own sunshine into Miss Allen's life as long as we live with her.

Amen to that,

Said Gene heartily.

Oh listen,

Girls,

The Christmas chimes.

And over all the beautiful city was wafted the grand old message of peace on earth and goodwill to all the world.

The end.

You slowly come back to the room and your eyes come away from the pages.

Once more,

You are captivated by the smells of a Christmas tree and baking spices.

Firelight dances softly on the walls,

Its glow dwindling to molten orange embers that pulls in the hearth.

The leather-bound book falls to your side,

And you stir just enough to lift it carefully and place it on the bedside table.

Its cover still retains the warmth from your hands.

You lean over and blow out the bedside candles ready to fall asleep.

With a final sigh,

Your eyes close,

And you surrender to the velvety quiet.

The world softens,

And you slip away to loving dreamscapes filled with the magic of the holiday spirit.

Twinkling lights,

The laughter of happy souls,

And a sense of community and connection.

And you allow this night,

A Victorian inspiration,

To stay in your heart throughout the night,

The holiday season,

And all the days beyond.

Finding joy,

Finding comfort,

Finding hope,

Finding peace,

And finding sleep.

It's time to dream away.

Good night.

Reviews

I’ll listen to this again as I only heard a few minutes of the story. Thank you! Happy Holidays, Michelle! 💜💜

Thank you, Michelle, for another wonderful & inspiring sleep story. The Victorian era is one of my favorites with beautiful houses.

It worked. I fell asleep very quickly and missed most of the story but I will listen again. Thank you!

Another fantastic meditation session. Thank you for sharing your story with us. Your stories and insights are inspiring. Thanks!

Very relaxing and soothing once again I missed 2/3 of it as fell asleep for my midday nap thank you once again for a fab story x