waiting for him, he wondered—on the other
side? He laughed. “I have decided.”
“Have you, indeed?” She turned, aglow in the white light from snow-rimed windows,
twined braids running in twisted, honeyed gold tracks turning ever inward.
What would that hair look like falling long and rippling down her back? He imagined
the weight of it in his hands. Imagined burying his nose in silken frankincense.
“I should like to see that.” She twined her fingers through strands of ivy.
He started, thought of Henrietta, and wondered at the wanderings of his mind. He swallowed
hard, pushed away all vestiges of the past, focused on the present. “My younger brother,
Marcus, brings his wife, Katherine, on whom he dotes. A pair of lovebirds. Rarely
a harsh word between them. You will like them both.”
Her eyes narrowed, though whether from disbelief or too bright the light, he could
not tell. “They sound the perfect couple. But there is no such thing as the perfect
couple, is there?” She shrugged, the fluid movement of her shoulders strangely eloquent,
and entirely alluring—though not so touching as the jealousy in her voice when she
said, “I cannot believe in such a love.”
The ivy runners in her hands looked like a bouquet. She would make a beautiful bride
someday.
“You do not believe there is, somewhere, a perfect match for you?” Her answer was
important, for he began to wonder if Henrietta had ever been his perfect match.
Miss Walcott pulled ivy strands roughly through her fingers. “I believed,” she admitted
harshly. “Once upon a time. With all of my heart.” Her eyes held pain and skepticism.
“Do you believe?”
“I do, I think. Yes.” The uncertainty of his voice startled him. He sounded almost
as hopeless as she. He smiled ruefully, unwilling to reveal his own regret, remembering
his vow to focus on the uplifting rather than the melancholy. “I believe my friend
Nathan Sheridan has found the perfect match. He means to marry the eldest of the Gooding
sisters. They come with Edgar Hooking and his wife. Dear friends.”
“So, you play matchmaker? You must believe.” She measured him with her gaze. He wondered
if she saw the true height, breadth and depth of him. He wanted to be seen—truly seen.
He wondered if anyone truly understood that while his cheeks felt tight from smiling,
his heart ached.
“And yet, you are not married?” she pressed.
He frowned, thought of Henrietta, watched her hands, the skin translucent, veins showing
blue, imagined them twined about a lover’s neck.
He fingered his collar and shook his head.
“A shame to cut life short,” she said.
Had she discerned what none but the doctors knew?
She held her scissors suspended above the ivy, pulled the tender green, heart-shaped
leaves out of the path of her scissors.
The plant! She meant the plant.
“The ivy might live on, left in their pots. Shall I send the lads in to fetch them?
They are rather heavy.”
She nodded, pleased. “Splendid idea.”
He plucked up pine boughs and yew, the needles harsh, the evergreen tang overriding
her perfume, stinging eyes and nose. He thought again of the question she had asked,
of Henrietta.
“I once dreamed of marriage.” He forced a smile, made his admission merry, a jest.
“But I have awakened to a state of dedicated bachelorhood.” With a lighthearted gesture
he led the way back to the doorway, deliberately enigmatic. He had no intention of
further explaining himself.
He did not want marriage at the moment, did he? What he wanted was simple, innocent,
a matter of the moment—a soft, frankincense-scented mistletoe kiss, because she thought
it a shame to cut life short. Christmas for his lips. Was it too much to hope for?
Too much to ask of life? She had to pass him, his arms full of greenery, hers full
of mistletoe.
She stopped as she came into his shadow’s shelter. Deep shone the light in the
side? He laughed. “I have decided.”
“Have you, indeed?” She turned, aglow in the white light from snow-rimed windows,
twined braids running in twisted, honeyed gold tracks turning ever inward.
What would that hair look like falling long and rippling down her back? He imagined
the weight of it in his hands. Imagined burying his nose in silken frankincense.
“I should like to see that.” She twined her fingers through strands of ivy.
He started, thought of Henrietta, and wondered at the wanderings of his mind. He swallowed
hard, pushed away all vestiges of the past, focused on the present. “My younger brother,
Marcus, brings his wife, Katherine, on whom he dotes. A pair of lovebirds. Rarely
a harsh word between them. You will like them both.”
Her eyes narrowed, though whether from disbelief or too bright the light, he could
not tell. “They sound the perfect couple. But there is no such thing as the perfect
couple, is there?” She shrugged, the fluid movement of her shoulders strangely eloquent,
and entirely alluring—though not so touching as the jealousy in her voice when she
said, “I cannot believe in such a love.”
The ivy runners in her hands looked like a bouquet. She would make a beautiful bride
someday.
“You do not believe there is, somewhere, a perfect match for you?” Her answer was
important, for he began to wonder if Henrietta had ever been his perfect match.
Miss Walcott pulled ivy strands roughly through her fingers. “I believed,” she admitted
harshly. “Once upon a time. With all of my heart.” Her eyes held pain and skepticism.
“Do you believe?”
“I do, I think. Yes.” The uncertainty of his voice startled him. He sounded almost
as hopeless as she. He smiled ruefully, unwilling to reveal his own regret, remembering
his vow to focus on the uplifting rather than the melancholy. “I believe my friend
Nathan Sheridan has found the perfect match. He means to marry the eldest of the Gooding
sisters. They come with Edgar Hooking and his wife. Dear friends.”
“So, you play matchmaker? You must believe.” She measured him with her gaze. He wondered
if she saw the true height, breadth and depth of him. He wanted to be seen—truly seen.
He wondered if anyone truly understood that while his cheeks felt tight from smiling,
his heart ached.
“And yet, you are not married?” she pressed.
He frowned, thought of Henrietta, watched her hands, the skin translucent, veins showing
blue, imagined them twined about a lover’s neck.
He fingered his collar and shook his head.
“A shame to cut life short,” she said.
Had she discerned what none but the doctors knew?
She held her scissors suspended above the ivy, pulled the tender green, heart-shaped
leaves out of the path of her scissors.
The plant! She meant the plant.
“The ivy might live on, left in their pots. Shall I send the lads in to fetch them?
They are rather heavy.”
She nodded, pleased. “Splendid idea.”
He plucked up pine boughs and yew, the needles harsh, the evergreen tang overriding
her perfume, stinging eyes and nose. He thought again of the question she had asked,
of Henrietta.
“I once dreamed of marriage.” He forced a smile, made his admission merry, a jest.
“But I have awakened to a state of dedicated bachelorhood.” With a lighthearted gesture
he led the way back to the doorway, deliberately enigmatic. He had no intention of
further explaining himself.
He did not want marriage at the moment, did he? What he wanted was simple, innocent,
a matter of the moment—a soft, frankincense-scented mistletoe kiss, because she thought
it a shame to cut life short. Christmas for his lips. Was it too much to hope for?
Too much to ask of life? She had to pass him, his arms full of greenery, hers full
of mistletoe.
She stopped as she came into his shadow’s shelter. Deep shone the light in the
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