But now he too seemed reluctant to leave the warm cocoon of their room. With no seeming awareness of having moved, he had her bent over one arm, exploring in the most delightful ways. Her mouth, her face, her neck... She met him, still somewhat shyly, kiss for kiss. The two of them robbed of all thought. Gasping for breath.
It seemed whatever surprise Emmett had could at least wait a few more moments.
Placing an ad for a bride was the best choice he’d ever made, Emmett decided.
It took some time for him and Rose to arrange themselves into some semblance of order so they could eat a quick breakfast. Cold coffee and equally cold toast with honey. It was surprisingly satisfying. Rose had suggested they make another batch, but he hadn’t wanted to take the time.
Dawn broke while they ate. So there was a good bit of light as he led Rose, snug in her flannel wrapper, up the stairs to the attic. They’d left Boston behind, still firmly asleep on the bedroom rug.
“Why are you taking me up here?” she asked, following closely, her hand wrapped in his, tucked securely behind his back.
“You’ll see. Close your eyes.”
“Close my eyes?” she protested. “I’ll fall.”
“I won’t let you fall. I promise.”
Her steps slowed behind him as she closed her eyes. Or at least he hoped she had. She rested her other hand on his waist, gripping a good fistful of his flannel shirt.
“Are they closed?” He paused on the landing. Earlier, he had shut the attic door, so he could make a show of opening it. Having her shut her eyes was a spur-of-the-moment request.
“Yes.” She squeezed his hand, urging him to get her off the steps.
He guided her onto the landing, securing his arm around her waist. They stood wedged into the narrow space before the door. “Okay, you can look.”
She opened her eyes, looked at the door, then glanced up at him in question. “It’s shut.”
“Open it.”
She sighed, laughing a little nervously to his ears. “Is it something good?”
“Now, would I drag you up here—on Christmas morning—to show you a leak in the roof?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just open it,” he urged.
“Is there a leak in the roof?”
“Rose.”
She reached cautiously for the doorknob, as if she expected something to rush out at her.
Chapter 19
Rose pushed the attic door open, unsure what sight was going to greet her. She couldn’t even guess. Inside, soft morning light filtered in from two large windows, each on opposite ends of the space, centered under the peak of the roof, nearly floor to ceiling. The barest wisp of sheer white curtains framed them.
All around, she felt a comforting sense of airiness. Whitewashed walls and ceiling. Almost heavenly. Like being surrounded by clouds.
Odd. She hadn’t noticed this sense of airiness before. Although, last time she’d been up here, her attention had been focused on Emmett standing at the washstand, hadn’t it?
He’d changed the furniture around. She noticed that. The bedroom set and washstand were now grouped more snugly at the end nearest the landing. A braided rug defined a large circle, set off from the other half of the room.
But it was the rest of the space that drew her in. She wasn’t sure at first what her eyes were seeing.
Another work space for Emmett’s shop? That was his “surprise” to show her?
She wandered closer.
There was a tall worktable and stool like Emmett had downstairs in his shop, but these looked new. The tabletop was made of one large wood slab, sanded smooth and varnished to an impressive sheen. The legs were more fanciful. More like metal sculpture than simple table legs. Wrought iron curved in an S shape, with cutout pinecones welded in place and...
“Is that a squirrel with an acorn? It is!”
“You inspired me.”
“I did?” she asked softly. She ran her fingers over the metalwork, marveling at the elegant lines of the supports and the more folksy appeal of the squirrel. The whimsical little critter made her smile. “You made this?”
“Merry Christmas, Rose.”
“You made me a table?” Though she was grateful, she couldn’t keep the note of confusion out of her voice.
“Look around.”
She noticed then the smell of fresh paint. Looking around, she saw several low cabinets lining the walls on this end of the room. And shelves above, lots and lots of open shelves. Her driftwood sculptures were displayed on them. Some larger pieces were displayed on the walls, hanging somehow, weightless. Propped on hidden pegs, perhaps. How she hadn’t spotted them immediately, she wasn’t sure. Her attention had been so captured by the most obvious changes, the rearranged furniture and the new worktable. Her worktable, apparently. Emmett had said it was hers.
But now all these other small details—not insignificant at all—fairly leapt off the walls.
“What...is...this?” Her breath seemed to be lodged in her throat. Not uncomfortably, for her inmost being felt curiously light, as if she were floating above the floor.
Emmett was busily throwing cabinet doors wide open, his excitement and pride evident.
“Look.”
There was more of her driftwood inside, unworked pieces. And sticks of another wood she recognized as birch, with its white bark curling off in places, streaked with elegant black lines.
“Birch?”
He shrugged. “I found an entire tree in the woods—brought down by the storm, likely. I thought you might like to try it.”
“Birch,” she repeated with an almost reverent awe, selecting a thick shapely branch and turning it over in her hands. It was lovely, the bark papery—it would be interesting to keep some of that as part of a sculpture—the wood almost glassy smooth, very hard.
She’d only ever worked with driftwood back home. What would it be like to work with a different wood? With this lovely piece? She felt a curious tingling in her fingertips. The sensation of lightness fairly lifted her another foot off the floor.
There was a delightful creature in this piece, surely. A white ermine, perhaps? She could almost see its twitching nose. Not unlike the squirrel perched upon Emmett’s forged table legs. But different, obviously. Not flat, cutout black metal. No, this charming fellow was going to be polished smooth, made of wood that was nearly white...
“When did you do all this?” she asked suddenly. It seemed an entire army of elves had been working day and night without her knowledge.
“Well, the table I made in the foundry, with Hank’s help,” he said, and she recognized the name. Emmett’s friend Hank Gilson, the local carpenter. “He brought the tabletop, the shelves, and cabinets from his shop, fully made. I just had to assemble everything.” Humble as ever. “All the fittings are mine, of course.”
“Amazing. Truly.” Rose brought her birch ermine over to the worktable.
“And the rest, well…may I be permitted to say you sleep very soundly, Mrs. Southerland?”
“Um-hmm.” Rose’s mind was already awhirl, drawing her inward as it was like to do. She turned the wood over in her hands as he spoke, noticing each ridge, each little dip.
“My tools?” she asked, becoming engrossed but managing to spare a glance for her beloved Emmett.
Within seconds, he’d placed a little open toolbox with a wrought-iron handle before her.
“Oh, that’s so pretty. Look at the handle. You made this? I’ll have everything right at my fingertips, and yet I can put it all away, out of sight, when I’m done.”
She began to work.
His kiss on the side of her neck was pure sensation. She laughed and kissed him back, full on the mouth.
“Thank you,” she said, placing her hand on the side of his face. How she loved his nice gray eyes. And his morning stubble seemed manly to her. More than tolerable. Especially since she knew he’d be shaving his skin smooth again shortly.
“Merry Christmas,
” he said in that delightful baritone of his. She knew now he could sing quite well. She’d found that out on their wedding day, listening to him singing hymns from their shared songbook. The day they’d exchanged their vows.
“And you shall have a nice present too,” she told him. “Perhaps one of your bride’s sculptures, if you will just...” She waved vaguely in the direction of the stairs, her attention drawn back to the inviting work space before her.
Emmett laughed. It was the happy and satisfied laugh of a man who knew he’d done well. He slipped away, closing the attic door behind him. He moved so silently, bless him, she barely noticed him leaving. Her attention was completely captured now by her little creature in the making and the newness of working birch.
She had a sense—even in the midst of her fixed concentration, handling her sharpest chisel, lovingly working the wood, shavings curling away onto the tabletop and falling with a whisper to the bare floor—that a massive change had shifted inside her. Here, early Christmas morning, her new husband had just given her the greatest gift of all. He’d given her back her art. Whether he realized it or not, he’d freed whatever had been locked up inside her.
And, oddly enough, carving seemed as easy as it had ever been.
Just like that.
Rose wasn’t aware the sun had begun to set until she heard the creaking of footsteps on the stairs. The light coming through the attic windows had already begun to fade.
At some point, Emmett had set up a helpful oil lantern on the corner of her table. He’d also brought up two mugs of tea, a hunk of cheddar cheese, bread, and a jar of peaches, which they’d shared together over one corner of her table, exchanging some ideas about their fine Christmas supper. She wasn’t sure what time that had been. Noon, perhaps?
She stretched her back.
“I never intended for you to spend all of Christmas day in the attic,” Emmett said, joining her now. He stood behind her and circled his arms around her waist, taking advantage of their closeness to nuzzle her neck. A cozy warmth spread though her, making her aware she’d never properly dressed. She still wore her flannel wrapper over the lovely bridal nightgown that Emmett’s mother had made for her. Her feet were bare inside her house slippers.
And she hadn’t been downstairs once. Her hair...she hadn’t even brushed it.
“Do you mind terribly?” she asked, trying to smooth into order whatever mess was on top of her head. They had a nice Christmas supper planned, with a fresh young hen, several other savory dishes, and a red raspberry pie. The raspberry preserves were ready, of course. They’d bought those at the grocer’s yesterday. But Rose had fully intended to make the pie dough this afternoon.
“Not at all. As long as I still get that pie before midnight,” he teased, pressing a kiss to her jaw.
“It won’t take long to make the crust. What time is it?”
“Almost time for supper.”
“Ah.” She breathed in a host of tantalizing aromas from his clothes and from the air venting up the stairs. “Is that roasted chicken I smell?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He nuzzled a bit more, then perhaps noticed she wasn’t pushing him away or bending down over her work as if he weren’t there.
“Are you finished?” he asked, straightening.
“Almost.” She took the sculpture into her hands and turned it, looking it over with a practiced eye. “The wood’s very green, so I’ll want to dry it properly. Then I’d like to sand it a little more to get it silky smooth. But yes, it’s done. The carving anyway.”
“Can I see?”
He could very well see what she was holding in her hands, less than two feet from his face, but Rose knew he wanted to hold it himself. She offered the sculpture to him.
“Rose, this is extraordinary.” Emmett smoothed his fingers over the surface and shook his head. “I can’t believe you did this, all in one day. Amazing.”
“Mmm.” Rose accepted the little winter ermine back into her hands, shy in the presence of such praise, but pleased Emmett liked it. It would be his, after all, when it was complete.
“He is a charming little imp, isn’t he?” she asked, musing to herself mostly.
Emmett laughed. “He is indeed.”
“Is that too proud to say of something I made?” A smile found its way to her lips as she looked down at her creation. The ermine’s bright eyes practically gleamed with mischief—something she could bring out with a deft application of stain...
“In your case, no.” As if she could do no wrong, implied the man she loved. The man who loved her.
“Just look at him.” Rose smiled at her own delighted sense of accomplishment. Her ermine might as well have been alive. His fur—where she’d carved countless bits of wood into sharper points—how lifelike it looked. Even to her. She could barely remember doing it.
She’d made something. At last.
Looking at her creation now, a different feeling swept over her, something deeper, within her spirit. Like singing a particularly moving hymn in church. Had she really made this? Had she really made anything? It had been so long since she’d been able to pick up her tools and do anything with them other than become disappointed with her own inabilities. There had been none of that today. She’d simply been the sculptress, carving away.
Getting completely lost in her work. Doing what she loved.
That was what she’d missed most in the long, long drought.
This feeling.
Being transported to some other place entirely. Like the rest of the room, feeling like this once again seemed like heaven.
And here was the result, something she’d made.
“Thank you, Emmett,” she said with some difficulty, swallowing to clear the slight thickening of her throat.
“Are you crying?” he asked, clearly confused.
“Only the best kind of tears.” She smiled up at him, trying to hide the fact that she was about to weep uncontrollably at any second, especially if he kept looking at her with such tender concern.
He didn’t seem convinced. He took the sculpture from her and set it on the worktable. Then taking her hands, he eased her off the stool so she was standing before him.
“Don’t you dare hold me close to you,” she warned, but it was too late. He’d already begun to draw her into his arms. She was pressed solidly against him, her head held securely to his chest. At which point, the tears began in earnest. She was afraid she must be soaking his shirt. And the sounds she was making, embarrassing really. As if she were mourning a death.
“Rose, what is it?”
“If I could explain, I would.” She sniffled, striving to stem the runaway tide of tears.
“Are you sad?”
“I’ve never been happier.”
“You have a funny way of showing it,” he said teasingly.
She hiccuped a laugh and sniffed loudly. “Stop. You’re making me laugh.”
“I’d rather have you laughing than crying,” he said, all seriousness. “This was supposed to make you happy, not sad.” He gestured to her wonderful artist’s studio.
“I am happy. I love it.”
“Rose,” he admonished, as if she were lying to him.
“Truly, you’ve given me the greatest gift, and you don’t even realize it.”
“It is a nice table,” he said, with a comical air of understated pride.
“The best table ever.” She smiled and pulled away, so she could see him better. He didn’t realize. How could he?
“But that’s only a small part of something far grander.”
She gathered one of his large hands in hers. He immediately covered their bundle of hands with his, forming quite the knot of fingers.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m me again,” Rose said simply. Then she did her best to kiss him breathless.
Epilogue
Summer 1881
Rose hiked along the forest trail, her eyes seeking out fallen birch branches to bring back to her studio. She had a good
bundle under one arm. With the other, she swung her new straw bonnet from its cherry-red ribbons. A cooling mountain breeze blew a few loose curls across her face. She inhaled deeply, savoring the woodsy fragrance of pine pitch and something sweeter...perhaps flowers blooming in a clearing?
Finding one last good thick branch with a healthy amount of bark curling off it, she headed for the wagon.
“Emmett?” she called, not seeing him immediately. The wagon team was there, heads lowered to nibble on some sweet summer grass. Tall evergreens and birch trees cast a lattice patchwork of shade all around them. Inviting and cool—
There was Emmett. She saw him now, sprawled flat on the grass, as she drew closer.
Was he hurt? She let her bonnet fall. Her sticks scattered behind her as she flew to his side.
“Emmett?” She kneeled beside him, searching him from his head to the toes of his bare feet.
He’d taken his boots and socks off? Curious. He appeared to be in full health. With no signs of illness or injury that she could see. In fact, the dimples in his cheeks appeared suspiciously deeper. As if he were holding back a grin. Were those crinkles at the corners of his eyes as well? The scamp.
He’d been here napping in the shade while she gathered wood. One quick look in the back of the wagon, however, told her he’d gathered easily ten times as much as she had, while she’d been wandering about, daydreaming about little white kittens. There had been that one stupendous stick of birch in particular that had said kitten to her. She couldn’t be blamed for that.
“You could have at least put down the blanket,” she informed him coolly, even as she snuggled down against his side and kissed his cheek.
“A kiss on the cheek?” he complained, opening first one eye, then the other.
“You scared me, Emmett Southerland,” she scolded playfully. “So that’s all you get.”
“Is that a fact?” He propped himself up on one elbow and gazed at her through drowsy heavy-lidded eyes. So, he truly hadn’t been faking sleep. He’d recently woken up. Perhaps when he heard her call his name.
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