The Christmas Carriage by Grace Burrowes

The Christmas Carriage by Grace Burrowes
     
    “This blasted day wanted only another batch of damned snow.” Frederick Amadeus MacIntyre kept his voice down as he stomped his booted feet for warmth. One could not mutter such sentiments too loudly in a city gone stupid with holiday cheer.
    “I’ve always liked a white Christmas,” said a pleasant voice from behind him. Frederick glanced over his shoulder at the next patron waiting in line at the hackney stand.
    “The snow at least makes things seem clean for a few hours,” Frederick admitted. The fellow was tall and bare headed, with snowflakes catching in his dark chestnut hair. His build was lanky, and yet the elements did not seem to be affecting him adversely. “Only to become filthy again in all the coal smoke.”
    “What say we share?” the fellow suggested. “The cabbies have their hands full keeping up with all the holiday shoppers and one can always use good company.”
    Frederick took a closer look at the fellow. His clothing was exquisitely well made, and his green eyes held a sparkle. He’d be pleasant company. Pleasant was bearable.
    “My thanks. I’m late for work or I wouldn’t be parting with the coin for a hansom.” Really should not be, but with more snow falling, crossing town on foot would take forever.
    “Ah, you have gainful employment then,” Frederick’s companion remarked. “A substantial blessing, that.”
    Frederick said nothing, and the line seemed to shuffle forward more quickly, now that his toes were but a frozen memory. They piled into a cab that sported a surprisingly clean interior, though the poor horse was wearing jingling bells on its collar and a sprig of ivy between the terrets.
    “I’m Westhaven,” the fellow said, pulling his hand from a bright red mitten.
    Frederick had no gloves; the chill of his grasp in Mr. Westhaven’s warm hand occasioned a frisson of humiliation. “Frederick MacIntyre. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    “You mustn’t fret about being late for work,” Westhaven said, loosening a red scarf. “If you’re late, your superior is likely to be late as well. Besides, Christmas approaches, and the holiday spirit alone means some lenience is in order.”
    “You may not have noticed that I’m Scottish.”
    “A fine lineage when winter’s wrath is to be endured,” Westhaven rejoined.
    This was… true. Frederick loosened his own scarf, the only gift Lizzie had managed to give him. “Not so fine a lineage when one’s superior at the Post Office is a grouchy old martinet who thinks Englishmen deserve every position the government has to offer. I’m the only Scot, and we’ve not a Paddy among us, though they’re notably hard workers.”
    “That’s a beautiful scarf you’re wearing, Mr. MacIntyre. Has some angora in it, if I’m not mistaken?”
    Frederick ran his hand over the aubergine and green wool, a familiar comfort and a torment. “This was a gift from a friend. She was going to make me some gloves to go with it.”
    “A dear friend, I take it, to give you something intended to keep you cozy?”
    The dearest. The cab lurched away from the stand, but only at a walk. Mr. Westhaven seemed the chatty sort, and as Frederick looked out on the bleak, snowy scene, he gave in to the impulse to share a sorrow with a stranger.
    “My Lizzie gave it to me. Her papa did not approve of me, though, because I’m merely a clerk from Aberdeen, though many a clerk has risen to patronage and does quite well, eventually. Her papa told me to make something of myself before I presumed to offer for his darling girl—he wasn’t wrong—but the family has moved and I was not told their direction…”
    They passed a church, where two children huddled in the doorway, trying to shelter from the wind, if not the cold. “It has been months since I walked her home from services the last time. I expect Lizzie has suitors aplenty by now.”
    Westhaven was quiet for a bit, folding his scarf into a muff