Book 769: Christmas Angel (The Christmas Angel #1) – Eli Easton

On the 10th day of my MM Holiday Romance binge, I went historical with another Kindle Unlimited novella.

Christmas Angel takes us to 1750s London where we meet John, a tall, dark, and handsome detective of sorts, and Alec, an ethereal heartbroken wood sculptor. It also kicks off a series of work connected by the titular angel that span hundreds of years (see first quote in paragraph for the full list). I’ll probably read them all, but maybe not this year.

I was a little worried at first that the book might be a little preachy, so many of the Christmas romances avoid any sort of religious nods to the season and firmly ground themselves in the secular, but there was no need to be concerned. Easton did a wonderful job of basically saying religion, society, and anyone who looked down on consenting adults could stuff it.

For the first time in his life, John was . . . not in love. Not yet. But in hope of love. He’d met someone he might love, if given half a chance. (51)

John and Alec were the perfect balance for each other even though we barely go to know them. The story is so short, and the character development takes place so quickly that the glimpses you get of their characters are brief but bright. Alec has the most to lose and the most to gain from forming a friendship and then relationship with John, but neither of them approach it lightly because of the aforementioned laws and judgments of anyone and everyone.

The best part was the found family of John where he lives, like will find like and they will support and love each other through thick and thin. I didn’t realize just how diverse the house was until the same time Alec did.

Mrs. Simpson was leaning forward to look down the table at Dante, who’d just made a clever remark about the color of the squash soup. She laughed heartily, her voice dipping into her lowest register as the candle flame on the table played over her strong jaw and large hand holding the wine glass.

Allston’s face went pale with shock. He blinked as if to clear his eyes.

Mr. Simpson looked at John worriedly, and John gave a slight shake of his head. It’s fine.

He hoped it was fine. Dear God, let it be fine.

Mrs. Simpson was not female by birth, but rather by inclination and by every artifice she could contrive. And, certainly, in her heart of hearts. (88)

I legit had no clue she was trans and 100% just assumed she had a sidepiece or something, but when Alec found out I found out and was like, oh cool! Representation matters even historical representation, whether these individuals identified similar to today or not there were men who slept with and/or loved men and women who did the same and men and women who were born into wrong bodies, they just didn’t have the language/freedom/ability to express themselves openly.

Enough hiding, Alec Allston. Enough mourning over a love that never amounted to very much in the first place. Enough walls of your own making. Take a chance. (81)

This book lasts roughly the same length as a couple of the others I read and even though it’s shorter it felt longer. It felt like Alec and John’s courtship was significantly longer than a few weeks. I don’t know if it’s because the sex was kept to one (very hot) scene and even then there were euphemisms for days which worked, but it really did pack a bigger punch than a book two- to three-times the length! The conflict is pretty low angst in that it doesn’t really interfere with the main characters relationship and is tossed out the window in a few paragraphs.

And the cream on top was that it was well written. I wasn’t 100% convinced on all the vocabulary choices and the vernacular of the characters, but there were passages that most definitely made me want to read more of Easton’s work.

He stood for a moment in the drawing room, gazing at the Christmas tree. The room looked different with only the morning light coming in through windows. The candles were extinguished and cold. The punch bowl had been drained of every last drop. There was an abandoned game of cards on a table near the fireplace. It was a held breath of a celebration just waiting to be resumed today. (105)

The passage above could’ve been incredibly sad I mean it’s talking about the morning after a party, but between Alec’s new outlook on life and how she ends the passage it’s just so hopeful and beautifully written. The way Easton takes you from the cold to the potential warmth was perfect.

Recommendation: I want so much more from this story! Easton wrote it so well and I was pulled in really quickly, but the fact that it clocks in at 121 pages was truly a detriment. Alec and John are adorable, and the rest of the supporting characters have so much personality in such a small space! I easily could’ve read this in one sitting but showed a herculean amount of self-restraint and finished it the next morning. I will definitely check out more of Easton’s works; if she can make me want to know so much more from something so short, what can she do with a full-length novel?

Opening Line: “Alec stared down at the Thames far below.”

Closing Line: “And so he had.” (Whited out to avoid spoilers, highlight to read.)

Other Books in The Christmas Angel

• Summerfield’s Angel (#2)
• Magician’s Angel (#3)
• Christmas Homecoming (#4)
• Soldier’s Wish (#5)
• Shrewd Angel (#6)
• Christmas Prince (#7)

Additional Quotes from Christmas Angel
“In 1750, a master woodcarver poured all his unrequited love, passion, and longing into his masterpiece—a gorgeous Christmas angel for his beloved’s tree. When the man he loved tossed the angel away without a second thought, a miracle happened. The angel was found by another who brought the woodcarver True Love.
Since then, the angel has been passed down, sold, lost and found, but its magic remains. Read the romances inspired by (and perhaps nudged along by) the Christmas angel through the years. Whether it’s the 1880’s New York (Kim Fielding’s Summerfield’s Angel), the turn-of-the-century (Jordan L. Hawk’s Magician’s Angel), World War II (L.A. Witt’s Christmas Homecoming), Vietnam-era (N.R. Walker’s Soldier’s Wish), the 1990’s (Anyta Sunday’s Shrewd Angel), or 2018 (RJ Scott’s Christmas Prince), the Christmas angel has a way of landing on the trees of lonely men who need its blessing for a very Merry Christmas and forever HEA.”

“When you love, you love with your whole being. That is to be admired. And yet you do not see that the point is in the loving, whether or not the object of your desire deserves that love, and whether or not it is returned. Love is a powerful force in the world. It elevates everything around you, just as a candle’s flame illuminates and changes what’s within its circle. The reward is the feeling itself. Do you understand what I’m saying, Alec?” (5)

“The old house, which Mrs. Simpson had inherited, had three floors. John’s rooms were on the top floor in the back, and consisted of a bedroom, pantry, and a good-sized sitting room with a fireplace. Also on the top floor, facing the street, were the rooms taken by Mr. Leo Dante, a handsome young artist of independent means who had a string of male models in and out of his artist’s studio and his bed. In the rooms below John’s lived Stockbridge, who was in his fifties with a head of thick, graying brown hair and an eye for pretty young men, but not the nerve to act upon it. And in the front part of the second floor resided the pair they all referred to as ‘the Misses’—Miss Emily Blume and Miss Jane Wilfred, two plain and earnest young ladies who were employed as a midwife and a barmaid, respectively, and who were very much in love. The lower floor of the house was reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Simpson and held the commonly used drawing room, dining room, and kitchen.” (33)

“Yet as soon as Trent came in the door, Alec’s stomach would flutter, and he’d smile and stammer his thanks for the gifts. Trent’s appearance was like a breath of fresh air off some wild, windswept moor, and it blew away the cobwebs of his musty old routine. Alec couldn’t help it if it made his heart sing with gladness.” (62)

“What a strange world it was, Alec thought, with so many configurations. Young and old, large families and small, elderly couples, newlyweds, gentlemen who perhaps were bosom friends but would be horrified at the idea of more. And those who got up to things behind closed doors of which no one was the wiser. He supposed it must be so. He and William had carried on their dalliance, mostly in letters, true, but no one had guessed. And who knew but that the butcher’s wife had been secretly in love with the baker for decades? It reminded him of his shop where shepherdesses lounged on tables next to African beasts and King George in his coronation robes was arranged across from a humble field mouse.” (75)