The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding

by Amanda McCabe

  An image popped into her mind of Harry smiling in the snow, laughing with her as their sled flew down the hill. Rose blinked hard, trying to push away such an enticing and impossible vision.

  But—he had invited her to visit Hilltop, albeit with their rest of the party. It was surely a mere spur-of-the-moment politeness which meant no more than that. What if, by some wondrous chance, though, it was something a bit—more?

  Rose shook her head at herself and gulped down the last of her now cool drink. She had spent her whole life being the sensible one. She had to be, or her dear mother and sister would have been in even greater straits when her father died. Romantic dreams were luxuries. Luxuries she had always known couldn’t be hers.

  She glanced out the tall windows beyond the refreshment tables and saw that the snow was coming down a bit heavier, soft, sparkling flurries against the velvet night. Its wintry silence made the merriment indoors seem cosy and Rose couldn’t help but wonder where Harry and his brother were. Surely they had not broken down on their journey to the village?

  ‘Miss Parker,’ she heard someone say and turned to see Emma Marton hurrying towards her, along with her husband and another lady, a tall, elegant woman in plain dark green velvet, who Rose recognised as Mrs Anson from their card game. ‘Whatever are you doing here by yourself? And your glass is empty! David, dearest, could you fetch us some punch?’

  David Marton, always such a kind and obliging, not to mention ridiculously handsome man, smiled and gallantly kissed his wife’s hand before he disappeared in the crowds around the refreshment tables.

  Emma turned back to Rose and said, ‘You have met Mrs Anson, yes, who manages my bookstore for me? Rose Parker is our own cousin and loves books quite as much as we do, I’m happy to say.’

  ‘I’m very glad to see you again, Miss Parker,’ Mrs Anson said with a smile. Rose was drawn to her at once and not just because she also wore spectacles. ‘It’s always marvellous to meet friends of Emma’s, especially a fellow reader. Have you by chance tried the new Mrs Radcliffe? I found it quite chilling.’

  ‘I haven’t, though I must say I have been dying to have a peek at it,’ Rose answered. ‘I’m working as companion to an aunt, you see, and while she does enjoy reading aloud, her tastes do tend to run to sermons and not horrid novels. I must sneak off at bedtime to read by myself in the candlelight, which makes such tales even more fearsome.’

  Mrs Anson laughed. ‘I do sympathise. After I lost my husband, I too had to live with some aunts, until this position in Emma’s wonderful shop came about. Now I can read to my heart’s content.’

  ‘And I could not keep the store without her,’ Emma said. ‘I think books have certainly saved our sanity, if not our very lives, at times, have they not?’

  Rose laughed and nodded as David Marton came back with their drinks. The orchestra, a group of local musicians who Emma said were more noted for their volume than their ability to stay in tune, launched into the first dance and couples started to form into sets on the narrow, crowded dance floor. At the same moment, the door opened to admit a party of latecomers. Among them were Harry and his brother at last.

  Harry did look so handsome in his dark blue evening coat and stark white cravat, Rose thought. In the candlelight, his scars could barely be seen and his smile was open and friendly, if a bit cautious. Rose glanced away, feeling her cheeks grow warm again, only to find herself being watched by Lady Fallon. The lady’s head was tilted to one side, as if she was curious about something, a small frown on her lips. When she saw Rose looking at her, she gave a jaunty smile and turned away.

  ‘Harry, Charles!’ Emma called, waving them over. ‘There you are at last. We were beginning to think something dreadful had happened to you.’

  Harry laughed and Rose was struck by how it lit his whole face. Indeed, he seemed altogether brighter that evening. It was quite enchanting. ‘Only an emergency in which Charlie could not choose his cravat.’

  ‘The right cravat is an essential element of one’s attire,’ Charles said chidingly. ‘It must suit the party atmosphere.’

  Rose glanced at the cravat in question, but to her it looked as all such things did—white and starched into ruffled folds. Mrs Anson laughed and said, ‘Oh, it does indeed. I see you have chosen an emerald pin as well, very suited to Christmas.’

  Emma glanced between them, a thoughtful expression on her elfin face. ‘Such a cravat does deserve a proper showing, Charles. Perhaps on the dance floor?’

  ‘Of course,’ Charles said with a bow. ‘My reeling skills are a bit rusty, but I would be honoured if you would be my partner, Lady Marton.’

  Emma laughed and touched the small swell of her stomach under her velvet gown. ‘Oh, no, I am not up to dancing tonight. I shall have to join my sister and the others for cards. But Mrs Anson does enjoy it so.’

  Charles turned to Mrs Anson with a smile. ‘Will you do me the honour, then, Mrs Anson? I promise not to tread on your slippers too much.’

  Mrs Anson accepted with a smile and took Charles’s arm to make her way into the set. Rose could feel Emma and Harry both looking at her and she fidgeted with her skirt to keep from blushing again.

  ‘Shall we join them, Miss Parker?’ Harry asked. She peeked up to find him smiling at her ruefully, as if he knew what she was thinking. ‘My dancing skills have never been as fine as my brother’s, but I’m sure we can learn together. It must be easier than guiding a sled.’

  Rose laughed, put at her ease in an instant, as was always the case with him. ‘It’s been a long while for me as well, since Lily and I had girlhood lessons. I’m sure the dances we were taught then are most unfashionable by now, but perhaps if we just follow the others...’

  ‘We danced well together before, did we not?’ he said.

  Rose smiled at the memory. ‘Indeed we did.’

  Harry offered her his arm and she slipped her gloved hand lightly on to his sleeve. His arm was warm and strong under her touch, reassuring as he led her through the crowd. She felt a strange, tingling sensation on the back of her neck, just under her heavy chignon of hair. Startled, she glanced back and found Lady Fallon watching her intently with narrowed eyes.

  That look seemed—envious. Which was entirely ridiculous. Lady Fallon was a vivacious beauty, especially in her fashionable gown, ruby and diamond combs in her high-piled golden-red hair. Why would she look so at Rose, with her second-best, much-worn grey silk?

  But then again—Rose did have Harry’s arm at the moment, she realised. She remembered much too well the first time they had met, when everyone said surely Captain St George would marry the lovely Helen. He’d left with his regiment and she married the rich Lord Fallon, but all of that was changed now.

  Rose glanced up at Harry, uncertain, and he smiled back at her. The candlelight, the music and the laughter, the sweet-spicy cinnamon smell of Christmas and above all the feeling of Harry at her side—surely it was something, one small moment, she could savour? It couldn’t last long, but it made her feel a wondrous holiday glow all the same.

  She vowed to forget Lady Fallon, to forget Aunt Sylvia and her cold house, to forget everything else just for a moment. She did have to be so careful in her life. She was with Harry now for just one dance. His arm felt so strong, so steady under her touch. Surely such a man would hold her strong and steady, never letting her fall in the confusing twirls and reversals of a dance that was too much like life.

  Maybe, just maybe, he would give her another of those smiles again, too.

  * * *

  Rose Parker was a most unusual young lady indeed. Harry had known that from the first moment they met, at that party so long ago, and now he was sure of it. She did remind him of that fairy queen in his story, but warm and real and laughing. It had been hard to part from her at the end of their dance, to lead Helen into the figures for the next set. Rose had been led
away to play at the pianoforte and he couldn’t see her any longer.

  As a line of dancers separated him from Helen, Harry tried to catch a glimpse of Rose over the heads of the crowd packed close around them, but she had vanished. He could only see the top of her light brown hair. He almost laughed at himself for the pang of disappointment he felt.

  There was no use for it. He was too old, too damaged, too burdened with responsibilities now to think about a young lady like Rose Parker. She was too pretty, too kind—and too caught in the traps of responsibility to family, just as he was. They would not be good for one another, not situated as they both were in life.

  Yet that disappointment was there, and no mistaking it. When Rose was near, she always intrigued him. What was she thinking about, behind those unfathomable eyes? She was always watchful, always with that small smile curving on her shell-pink lips, as if she saw all around her and found it amusing, delightful, despite the straits she found herself in with her poor curate’s wife of a sister and working as a companion for an elderly aunt. But none of it seemed to have affected her sweetness, her pleasure in the Christmas festivities.

  He had no place for someone like Rose in his life now, not with Hilltop depending on him, and she had no room for him. Long ago, when he went into the army after a too-wild time as a young man, when he had caused much pain and trouble for his family, he had vowed he would change. He would fight for what was right, for his country and his home, and now he had to fulfil that vow. However he could.

  ‘Harry, darling,’ Helen said merrily. ‘You must pay attention!’

  He snapped back into the real world, the noisy, crowded assembly, and saw that Helen smiled at him as she held out her hands. It was their turn to twirl down the line and the others watched them impatiently.

  Helen laughed and clasped his hand to spin and skip in the elaborate steps he somehow remembered from childhood classes, when he and Helen and Charlie had been schooled by a stern French dancing master with other loud children.

  ‘You do remember how to be a gentleman,’ she said as they turned in allemande.

  ‘Just barely,’ he answered. ‘It must be your elegant influence.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You did very well partnering Miss Parker. I think you underestimate yourself, Harry,’ she said. ‘In so many ways.’

  As she had underestimated him, leaving behind a possible future as a mere military wife to wed a lord? He almost asked her, but then he just laughed. All of that seemed so long ago. That Harry, and surely even that Helen, no longer existed. What did she want now?

  What indeed did he want now? His life, a life that once was as regimented as a parade, was now like a grey cloud lowering over the horizon, obscuring all.

  You need an heiress, he heard Charles say in his mind. And an heiress would indeed be an answer for Hilltop. He himself would admit that companionship, a partner, would be most welcome.

  He looked down at Helen, at her brilliant smile, the flash of jewels in her hair, and for an instant he felt the tug of temptation towards a life that had never been his. A life of carefree glitter.

  But then, over the swirl of the dancers, he glimpsed Rose Parker, laughing with the other musicians as her slender fingers lightly skipped over the keys. And he was drawn towards her soft warmth that was like a fire on a cold day, sustaining and sweet.

  Rose deserved far more than what he had to offer, a wounded soldier whose house was falling down around him. That was one thing he did know for sure.

  ‘Harry!’ he heard Helen cry and suddenly realised he had once again lost the rhythm of the dance. Just like the reins of responsibility for Hilltop, he had to take them up again.

  He took her hand and led her down the line again, Helen laughing as if it was all the greatest lark, as surely her life often was.

  As they turned to circle the outside of the set, he glimpsed his brother standing on the sidelines, ignoring the elderly matron who chattered at his elbow. Charles grinned at Harry and raised his glass in salute.

  Harry nodded back, but the delight in the party he had felt so briefly was gone.

  * * *

  ‘You see,’ Jane said with a satisfied smile as she laid down her cards. Rather than dancing, she had decided another hand of whist with her husband and Emma and David was preferable, and now she was glad of it. From her seat at the table by the fire, she could observe the whole assembly. ‘It is all coming off rather well.’

  ‘What is?’ Emma asked, frowning down at her hand of cards.

  ‘My matchmaking, of course!’ Jane said. ‘I do like it when I have a fine idea.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, no,’ Hayden groaned. ‘Surely you don’t still think of that?’

  ‘Think what?’ Emma cried in confusion. Her husband, who was accustomed to his in-laws’ fancies, calmly laid down a card and smiled.

  ‘Harry St George and Helen Fallon were once nearly betrothed, were they not?’ Jane said. ‘And now here they are, each of them single once again. And each has something the other needs. Why should they not fall for each other again?’

  ‘Sometimes fate parts people for a good reason, Sister,’ Emma said. ‘Perhaps they were not meant for each other.’

  ‘And sometimes two people must learn to find each other at the right time,’ Jane said with a tender smile at her husband, whom she had once almost lost. ‘It was just so with us.’

  Hayden shook his head. ‘But Captain St George and Lady Fallon are not us, my love.’

  Jane glanced at the dance floor. ‘They do look well together, though.’

  ‘He looked well dancing with Rose Parker, too,’ Emma said with a sneaking smile.

  ‘Rose Parker?’ Jane said in surprise.

  ‘Yes. And surely their personalities are rather well suited,’ Emma said. ‘They are both so quiet, so easy to be around.’

  Jane looked at Rose, who sat at the pianoforte. She had not thought of such a thing, but Emma did have a point. And a lady without a fortune did need a home, one better than with an old aunt.

  ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘Harry must surely consider Hilltop now and all its tenants. And we must find someone well settled for Rose.’

  Emma looked doubtful, but she nodded. ‘Just as you say, Jane.’

  And while they were so occupied with romance, David won the hand easily.

  Chapter Ten

  Charles St George took a deep drag on his cheroot, tasting the cherry-smoke darkness at the back of his throat, before he exhaled the silvery plume into the frosty air of the small garden behind the assembly rooms. He could hear the music from the windows behind him, the stomp of dancing feet, the beat of the music, but it seemed very far away, like something in a dream.

  It had been much the same on the Continent. The music and laughter in casinos and ballrooms, the subtle dance of glances and smiles, the silent language everyone seemed to understand but him. At least at first. Eventually he learned it, even mastered it. But here, back at the home he had shunned for so long—it all seemed strange again. A cacophony he couldn’t quite make out clearly. All those happy couples in their contented homes—Jane and Hayden, Emma and David, and all their friends and their children. How did they do it? Charles found it such a mystery.

  He thought of the people, especially the women, he had known in Europe. The beautiful, sophisticated ladies with their satins and their jewels, their brittle laughter. That was what he knew. Lightness, flirtations, fleeting moments. Songs and laughter around the Christmas candles he could not fathom. And yet...

  Yet he longed for it, wanted it with a primitive fierceness he hadn’t felt since he was a child and so wanted to belong. Yet he never had, except for his brother.

  Charles inhaled from his cheroot again and stared up into the sky. It was a cold night, so crisp the breeze felt it could snap in two, but the sky was clear no
w, the earlier snow ceased. The stars sparkled like diamonds on a lady’s black velvet gown, glittering so he wanted to reach out and feel their heat on his skin. Feel alive again.

  Once, he would have longed to paint the scene, the bare trees against the candlelit windows, the elusive sparkle of the stars. Once his paintbrush could make sense of so many things around him, but now even that urge had deserted him. After what had happened to Harry on the battlefield, seeing Hilltop in such trouble, painting seemed frivolous.

  Surely his father had been right. Art was useless for a man. Charles gave a bitter laugh and raised his cheroot to his lips again.

  ‘Do you happen to have one of those to spare?’ he heard a soft voice ask.

  Surprised, he spun around to find Helen standing behind him. With the sparkle of jewels in her hair, the soft shimmer of her blue gown, she looked like a goddess. But silk gloves and tulle sleeves were no use in the cold wind and she shivered a bit in spite of her bright smile.

  She had always been beautiful and so far above his touch. But now there was a lack of a smile in her eyes, a disillusionment like his own.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied quickly, not knowing what to say to her, how to reach her. All his skills of flirtation learned in those spa towns seemed useless with Helen. As if they would bounce right off that diamond-hard, brilliant shell that had grown around her beautiful self since he had seen her last. She no longer seemed to be the girl he had known for so long, the beautiful, fiery, adventurous Helen, the one who made him envy Harry for being her intended.

  But that was a very long time ago. None of them were the same people now.

  He took out his silver cheroot case and offered her one, lighting it from the remains of his own. Then he removed his velvet evening coat and tucked it around her shoulders against the cold night.

  She smiled up at him and it seemed a different smile than before, softer, more tentative. More like the Helen he once knew and he felt a flash of something strangely like hope.