Twelve Days in December: A Christmas Novella by Michele Paige Holmes

hers and Matthew’s had been. It is a marriage of convenience, a business arrangement.
    But standing in the doorway, staring at the bed William slept on, she did not feel very businesslike at all. On impulse, she stepped into his room. His dinner jacket from the previous evening lay draped over the chair. Out of habit, from years of servitude, she picked it up, intending to place it in his dressing room. But his familiar scent clung to it, catching her off guard, sending her senses and emotions temporarily reeling.
    Charlotte closed her eyes and clutched the jacket to her chest as a dozen images from the past few days scrolled through her mind. William looking so vulnerable on the church steps as he asked her if she was certain she wished to marry him. William wiping snow from his face. William hoisting Alec on his shoulders so he might see the ships better. William lying beside them in bed last night.
    She dropped the jacket and fled the room, closing the connecting door and locking it securely. She only just resisted the urge to move the bureau in front of it. As if that will stop this madness.
    It could be nothing else, this thinking of her new husband in any other terms but as an amiable partner. Someday, perhaps, she might feel differently. But not now . Not with Matthew so recently gone and this marriage so new.
    Forgive me, Matthew. But she did not even know what she was asking forgiveness for this time. And she dared not ponder it to find out.

    After a busy morning spent relocating her belongings to the new room and playing with Alec, Charlotte had enjoyed both her larger fireplace and the window seat, indulging in an afternoon of reading while Alec napped, all the while keeping half an eye on the comings and goings in the street below.
    It was dark and would soon be time to dress for dinner. William had not returned home, and she was starting to worry. No one in the house knew his whereabouts— or they were not telling Charlotte if they did. Feeling something between irritation and concern, she pressed her face to the window looking down on Fifth Street.
    A wagon was approaching, bringing a delivery of some sort, no doubt. The residents in this neighborhood did not drive wagons, that she could tell, but instead all owned fine carriages kept in carriage houses behind the main buildings.
    She followed the wagon’s progress up the street and was surprised when it stopped in front of the house. Even more surprising was that William himself jumped down from the seat. She watched as he paid the driver then went around back to heft an enormous fir tree from the wagon bed.
    A Christmas tree!
    Charlotte flew from the room, scarcely remembering to close the door behind her, lest Alec wake. She ran down the stairs and arrived breathless at the front door, in time to beat the butler to his post and open it herself.
    “You’ve brought us a Christmas tree! Oh, thank you.” Impulsively she threw her arms around William’s neck as he struggled to bring the tree inside.
    “Charlotte,” he choked. She released him and stepped back, laughing.
    Moving behind him, she attempted to lift the top of the tree and keep it from dragging across the floor. A trail of pine needles followed their progress from the foyer to the parlor, and her fingers were soon sticky with sap. At last William set the great tree down and paused to wipe his sleeve across his forehead.
    “Oh, thank you,” Charlotte said once more, though this time she refrained from hugging him. “Our father always brought us a Christmas tree, and I haven’t had one in years— not since we left France.”
    “I know.” In spite of his evident fatigue, he grinned. “Marsali told me all about the trees your family had. I realized this morning that we had no Christmas for Alec. So I set about remedying that as quickly as possible.” He inclined his head toward the hall, where servants laden with packages were making their way in.
    “Goodness,” Charlotte exclaimed.