by Tamara Allen
“Gentlemen, if you will accompany us downstairs.” It was a most gracious request and not even Garber dared refuse it. As he stalked ahead, Charlie turning to follow, Will hung back. There was something more he had to say, on the chance Rose might hear him.
“I was carried away, I confess, but I can’t bring myself to regret everything. You’ve been so kind and generous, so welcoming. I’ve made some friends I pray I won’t lose…” His voice grew less steady. “I do regret the deceit. I’m sorry for the hurt I’ve caused,” he hastened to add, as the manager beckoned for him to come along. “I hope you will forgive me.”
Though there was no doubt quite a bit of excited talk in the ballroom, Will heard only the music—another waltz—on his way to the stairs and down to the dining room. A scowling Garber and subdued Charlie stood at the street entrance, waiting for Will to catch up. He’d only stepped into the alcove when there was a rustle of skirts behind him and Rose called his name. His heart full, Will turned to her, ready to apologize—and at the sight of her beaming face, stood in silent bewilderment. Archie was coming up behind her, his smile strangely sheepish, and Will suddenly had an idea what it meant. “Archie told you?”
Rose laughed. “Only a few days ago. You mustn’t be angry at him.”
“Rose has been wondering for a while.” Archie dropped his gaze. “I’m awfully sorry, Will. She asked me about it and—well, I—”
“Couldn’t lie to her.” Will clapped him on the shoulder. “This is my fault, Archie. Not yours.” He wanted to bow his head in shame, himself, but Rose’s gaze held his fast. “Rose, I’m sorry. You’ve been so wonderful. I should have confessed the truth long ago, but the longer I waited, the more painful it was to think of your disappointment. If you can’t forgive it—”
“I can.” Rose caught his hands. “What you and Charlie have done for me… Oh, Will, I’m so grateful! And I’m glad you aren’t going to California or anyplace else. I want you at my wedding. You and Charlie both.” She kissed his cheek, and her voice was soft in his ear. “There’ll always be a place for you beside the fire in our library.”
The worst of his burden of lies seemed to ease, his heart lifting. “I’m grateful for your friendship, Rose. I’ll do right by it.”
“Then I’ll expect you to come to tea after Christmas.” She stepped back, tucking her arm under Archie’s. “We can’t properly announce our engagement without you.”
“Well, then…” Will glanced around at Charlie, who came forward to shake Archie’s hand. Archie grinned, a little sheepish yet as he accepted Charlie’s hand, then Will’s, and echoed Rose’s invitation. When Rose kissed Charlie’s cheek, he looked as flustered. Garber was already out the door, and Charlie tugged at Will’s sleeve, seeming eager to be away. They gathered their coats and hats, and bidding Rose and Archie good-bye, stepped out into a bitterly windy night. There wasn’t a cab in sight, though Garber was running down the sidewalk in search of one.
“He’s going to the paper,” Charlie predicted.
“I expect so. It’s quite a good bit of gossip, really.”
Charlie frowned. “It’s our story.”
“Then perhaps we should write it.”
“Do you have the fare for a cab?”
Will broke into a laugh. “I was rather preoccupied when we left the house.”
“So was I. We’ll have to walk.”
“Six blocks? You do mean to take cold before the year is out.”
“It’s no worse than waiting here. We might sneak aboard a streetcar along the way and still beat Garber. He’s got farther to go.”
“I don’t think he cares to brave it,” Will observed as Garber darted back into the warmth of the restaurant.
“He’ll find a cab, so we’d better be quick about it. We’ve still got to write the damned thing.”
They had gotten as far as the corner of 27th Street when a carriage that seemed on the verge of passing drew up to the curb, instead. Charlie slowed, keeping pace with Will. “You don’t suppose someone’s given up their supper to chase us down and horsewhip us?”
“I doubt anyone’s had quite that much to drink yet.”
As they neared, the coachman appeared to be looking them over. Charlie exchanged a mystified glance with Will. “It’s not Caroline’s rig.”
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone inside.”
“Have a care,” Charlie said, but the coachman was smiling as he leaned down.
“Mr. Kohlbeck?”
Charlie’s brows drew together. “Possibly.”
“Beg your pardon, sir. Mr. Mayhew asked that a carriage be sent out to take you wherever you’d like to go.”
Will was elated. “We’ve been forgiven.”
“Or an angel has spoken on our behalf.”
Out of the wind and huddled under the blessed warmth of the carriage rug, Will made a comfortable pillow of Charlie’s shoulder. At the scratch of a pencil, he smiled to himself in the darkness. There was barely enough light to see by. “Will Mr. Holloway let it go to print?”
“It’ll sell papers.”
Will’s attention drifted to the long paragraph Charlie had already scrawled. “You were going to take all the blame.”
“I was the one who got you into this.”
“I know. Still…” Will raised his head and pressed a kiss against Charlie’s jaw. “I couldn’t have gotten a word out if you hadn’t spoken first.”
“You would have. And I didn’t want you to take the brunt of it.”
“We’ll have a rough few days after the story comes out.”
“There won’t be as many people out of sorts with us as you think.”
“I hope not.”
Charlie’s pencil slowed. “We can always slip away for a day or two. Spend our Christmas at the shore.”
“Charlie, the thermometer’s at forty.”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
“On the ferry?”
“The fishermen won’t mind.” Charlie scratched out a sentence and rewrote it. “If they do… They can go to the devil. I’ll keep you warm wherever you like.” His voice went soft and contentedness rang sweetly in it.
Will eased up, sitting shoulder to shoulder. “Here in town?”
“If you want. Just keep in mind that any restaurant near the paper will be overrun with reporters, editors, office boys, and other no-accounts. And it’s Christmas Eve. The hotel’s probably given our room away to tourists.”
“You’d prefer that bath house on the beach?”
Charlie snorted. “We can stay in New Brighton.”
“And if we’re arrested on the ferry?”
“I’ll keep you warm in the lock-up.”
“You do know how to convince a fellow.”
“You never needed convincing.” Charlie tore loose another sheet of paper to begin a new paragraph. The carriage turned onto Broadway, providing better light to read by. “You’re editing,” Charlie said after a minute.
“I’m not.” Will settled back. “You’ve misspelled ‘patriarch’, you know.”
Charlie laughed, and turning, kissed him. “Welcome to the Herald.”
Until that moment, Will hadn’t realized what such a sentiment would mean to him, coming from Charlie. He couldn’t speak, but Charlie seemed to understand. He slipped an arm around Will’s shoulders and fondly mussed his hair. “Merry Christmas, Smitty.”
Before his heart could float off altogether, Will found his voice. “Merry Christmas, Charlie.”
Welcome to the Herald. How much that sounded just like welcome home.
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