Mistletoe Courtship

by Janet Tronstad

  Clara and Dr. Harcourt were alone.

  “Smile, Miss Penrose,” he commanded her softly. “And stop comparing yourself to Patricia Dunwoody.”

  “How did you—” Clara bit her lip, then gave up and allowed a pent-up sigh to escape. “It’s an exercise in futility, at any rate, isn’t it? Comparing oneself to another person?”

  “Yes, but I’ve done so myself,” Dr. Harcourt admitted. “Usually to my disadvantage…except for the time when I was a reluctant member of a gang of outlaws.”

  “Are you trying to divert me from wallowing in self-pity, Dr. Harcourt?”

  “Absolutely, Miss Penrose. From personal as well as professional experience, I guarantee that self-pity is not conducive to good health.” His expression turned reflective. “You have no need for such feelings toward yourself, you know.”

  There it came again, that disorienting sensation of being flung into dizzying mist. She fiddled with the ruffles on her basque, stalling, then gave herself an impatient mental pinch. “Do you talk with such familiarity to everyone you meet, Dr. Harcourt?” The breathlessness in her voice made her wince.

  “Not for a very long time, Miss Penrose.” The melodic tinkling of the dinner bell sounded behind them. He offered his arm, and after a panicked internal skirmish Clara laid her hand on it. “I’ll share some particulars over the meal, if you like. I’ve had it on good authority that you’re to be my dinner partner.”

  “My younger sister Louise.” Clara sighed. “I’m sorry. My family is famous for many admirable traits, but subtlety is not one of them. I’m their thorn in the flesh, a spinster of independent means who scribbles prose nobody reads. They all think if they could procure a hus—”

  “You’re a writer, Miss Penrose?”

  Loose-tongued, empty-headed…twit. Nobody outside her immediate family knew about her secret pastime. “Not really. Please forget I said that. I’d really rather hear about that band of outlaws you mentioned.”

  For some reason the twinkling green eyes had turned frozen as hoarfrost and his expression—No. She realized as she pondered his face that it was wiped clean of any expression at all. “Dr. Harcourt?”

  “Mmm? Oh, sorry.” With a dismissive headshake he resumed speaking, and the skittish fingers scraping down her spine disappeared. “The outlaws. Yes. As Albert may have told you, for the past several years I’ve been wandering about out west. Last summer I was on a stage, bound for some tumbleweed town in the Nevada Territory. Gang of bandits ambushed us. Killed the drivers, threw open the doors and started on the passengers—an old miner, seventy-four years old, on his way to visit grandchildren he’d never seen…a young couple from Missouri. Homesteaders—they shot them dead, every one.”

  The quiet words spoke of brutality and horror, of actions inflicted by humans upon fellow human beings. “I read a lot,” Clara murmured, self-consciously glancing around the room. In its hundred-year history, this dignified old Virginia home had survived war, financial chaos and illness, yet somehow retained its atmosphere of Christian charity and decency. “I’ve seen greed. I’ve witnessed poverty and hopelessness and helplessness in tenement housing. But I’ve never witnessed cold-blooded murder. I won’t even try to pretend to understand.” Dr. Harcourt’s story reminded Clara anew of her privileged circumstances, rekindling the lifelong tussle between pride and inadequacy. “Why didn’t they kill you as well?”

  “I happened to be holding my doctor’s bag on my lap. I was searching through it for some ginger drops for the young woman, who was feeling ill. One of the brigands realized the significance of that black satchel. Their leader had been shot a week earlier, so they kidnapped me. If he died, they promised after I dug his grave they’d hang me, and leave my body for the buzzards.” He paused, adding dryly, “According to the U.S. Census, as of 1890, the Western frontier no longer existed. Someone forgot to tell those villains.”

  “Dr. Harcourt,” her mother spoke from the entry to the dining room, “I see you’ve found my older daughter. I trust she’ll allow you to enjoy the meal, and not try to monopolize the conversation.”

  In her pearl-gray evening gown, Mavis Penrose epitomized the Penrose heritage. The diamond pendant she’d received for her sixtieth birthday gleamed against the poult-de-soie fabric; matching earrings—an anniversary gift—perfectly complemented her silvery-blond hair. How could this vision of sophisticated elegance inhabit the same world as a band of soulless murderers?

  Mavis pointedly cleared her throat, and with a start Clara pulled herself together. “I’ll try to be on my best behavior,” she promised. “Confine my remarks strictly to the weather.”

  “Clara, really…”

  “I’m afraid I’m the one who has been monopolizing the conversation,” Dr. Harcourt interposed with the suavity of a seasoned diplomat. “We were reminiscing about old times.”

  Her mother arched one eyebrow. “I see. Well. The holiday season does seem to evoke feelings of nostalgia, does it not? I hope you enjoy the decorations as well as the meal, Dr. Harcourt.” With a final lingering glance she turned to a sprightly couple in their seventies whose property abutted the Penroses’.

  “Mother loves to decorate for holidays,” Clara murmured as everyone was seated. She gestured to the centerpiece—a footed silver bowl brimming with fruit, sprigs of holly and gilded pinecones, all trimmed with red ribbon streamers which drifted around a matched pair of silver candlesticks. “Every Sunday in December she creates a new centerpiece for the dining-room table. The one for Christmas Day is the most extravagant. Some years ago a ladies’ magazine wrote an article about them. Ever since then the centerpieces have grown more elaborate and outlandish.”

  “Did you notice that the ribbons match the one in your hair?”

  Clara made a production out of arranging the lace-edged napkin in her lap. Her appearance had never been compared to the centerpiece on a dining-room table, particularly one in which her mother had invested weeks of preparation. “It wasn’t deliberate. Are you still seeking to divert me from self-pity? If so, I’d rather hear more about your saga with outlaws.”

  Unexpectedly he laughed, a rich, deep sound that attracted attention from the entire assembly of twenty-four guests. Clara’s father immediately reclaimed control with an authoritative announcement that everyone bow their heads for the blessing. But in the respectful silence that descended before he spoke, Dr. Harcourt leaned sideways, toward Clara. “I can see,” he whispered next to her ear, “why you’re able to beat Mr. Pate in a game of chess.”

  So while her father thanked the Lord for His bounty and the food they were about to receive, Clara offered a quiet addendum, asking God to protect her heart from a man who was dangerously close to stealing it completely.

  Chapter Three

  That night Ethan had trouble falling asleep. The quantity and quality of the four-course meal he had consumed at the Penrose home was only partially to blame. At three o’clock in the morning, with a stifled imprecation he threw aside the covers, snatched on a Turkish smoking jacket foisted upon him by a grateful saloon girl whose life he had saved in Leadville, Colorado, and stalked down the hallway to his study.

  After dropping down in the creaky old rocking chair in front of his desk, he turned on the banker’s lamp, then moodily rocked for several moments while he contemplated a small locked drawer. Finally, his gut knotting, he unlocked the drawer and retrieved two envelopes and read the notes yet again. But no definitive proof that Clara Penrose was not the author revealed itself.

  Clara Penrose, who liked to write yet who didn’t want anybody to know she…“scribbled prose.”

  Clara Penrose, whose relations with her family contained inexplicable overtones of disapproval.

  The rocker groaned as Ethan leaned back, his hands absently shuffling the notes. All sorts of welcoming missives had been delivered over the past weeks, some several pages long, others merely a line or two of greeting—“looking forward to meeting you,” “relieved another physician available
to help old Doctor Witherspoon,” etcetera, etcetera. But at least the senders signed their names. All right, yes, his reaction to these anonymous notes stemmed from an admitted hypersensitivity to intrigue of any sort. Between backdoor politics and an adulterous wife, Ethan had choked down a bellyful of human deceit. If the stupid notes had been signed, he wouldn’t be sitting here at three o’clock in the morning, stewing over the motives, their mysterious tone or the sender.

  Which brought him full circle back to Clara Penrose.

  After running a weary hand around the back of his neck, Ethan sat forward, snagged a magnifying glass and spread the sheets across the desk.

  So you’ve returned at last. I knew you couldn’t hide forever. How convenient, to have chosen the town of Canterbury.

  The letters were written with a steady hand and a good pen. No blobs of ink, no dribbles or scratched-out misspellings.

  The second one, which he’d found tucked inside the curved brass handle on his front door when he returned home this evening, was shorter, only a single line:

  This Christmas will be one you’ll never forget.

  Was the ink darker, were the letters broader? Or was his mind manufacturing the threat?

  Ethan was no detective; based upon the quality of the stationery and the cryptic messages, however, he felt confident they’d been written by a woman.

  Clara Penrose, the elderly Mr. Pate told him, was possessed of a fine mind, which Ethan had seen for himself during the course of the evening.

  Well, she did have a fine mind, a mind sharp enough to win at chess and carry on intelligent conversation. But secretive? Devious? A short laugh rumbled in his chest. A woman who wore a scarlet overblouse to a dinner party could not be accused of subtlety, much less deviousness…unless her design had been to capture Ethan’s attention.

  Like writing anonymous letters.

  Of course, over the past week he’d learned that Clara’s love of bright colors and indifference to fashion was the bane of her family. Clara dressed to please herself, not others. It would be the height of arrogance for Ethan to assume her eye-popping attire had been designed solely to attract his attention.

  Clara Penrose was not Lillian, he reminded himself. She was not the sort of woman who would stoop to subterfuge, who would—With a snort of disgust Ethan sat up straight. All women resorted to subterfuge when it came to men. He had learned that dismal truth through the crucible of humiliation.

  And yet…With a groan he propped his elbows on the desktop and rested his head in his hands.

  The Clara Penrose he’d met three years earlier had been different from any woman he’d ever known. Forthright in manner and word, she had also projected an aura of uncertainty that appealed to every one of Ethan’s chivalrous instincts. Unlike tonight’s, three years earlier her evening costume had been forgettable, drab and dark. If she hadn’t tripped over his feet he might never have known she existed at all. Lillian, he remembered in a sharp stab of recall, had tossed out some contemptuous remarks, though her character assessments tended more toward character assassination.

  Within the quiet yellow lamplight more memories sprang forth, as vivid as they were painful.

  “You always were a stick, preaching compassion and common sense, when if you possessed an iota of either you’d tell Albert Penrose he should have left his sister at home, knitting socks for orphans. She’s pathetic, Ethan.”

  “The woman I chatted with on the veranda is far from pathetic, Lillian. On the contrary, I found her well-spoken, with a rare sense of humor. You could learn a thing or two.”

  “I’ve found a much more agreeable sort to teach me a thing or two.” With a final flick of a glance that had the power to break a bone, Lillian strolled off into the crowd, boldly linking arms with the man who burned to death with her forty-eight hours later.

  If it weren’t for the two notes, Ethan might have thanked God for resurrecting the memory of his first encounter with Clara Penrose, reminding him that something good had happened that bitter night.

  All right, these days he was a bit rusty on thanking God for anything. He’d strayed from his faith, not renouncing it, but certainly not living it. Ethan hadn’t felt much like living for a long time…until Albert had convinced him to settle in Canterbury, and re-establish a medical practice. Until he’d met Clara again.

  If he hadn’t found the second letter stuck in the door handle, Ethan had been planning to intensify the flirtation he’d initiated at dinner.

  Admit it, man. You enjoyed the evening. Despite her own heavy-handed attempts to return his flirtation, he enjoyed Clara Penrose’s company. Tonight he had discovered another side of this fascinating woman, one he would not have expected—in her own milieu, she was a social lioness. Regardless of her family’s ill-concealed disapproval, Clara Penrose transformed dull dinner chit-chat into a broad range of discussions that commanded the respect—and participation—of every guest at the table within hearing distance.

  All right, so he enjoyed her company, and admired her. Didn’t mean he was planning to offer a proposal of marriage.

  Ethan’s hand closed in a fist.

  He despised the needy part of his heart Lillian hadn’t succeeded in killing, the part stubbornly tempted to risk that bond of connection again.

  Eventually fatigue coated his brain; he fumbled the notes back into their envelopes and relocked them inside the drawer. Either the notes were innocent, or they were threats. Eventually he would discover which and who. For now, he was finally too spent to care.

  The wall telephone in the hallway rent the silence before he reached his bedroom. “Dr. Harcourt?” The operator’s tinny voice was threaded with urgency. “Mrs. Brown’s gone into labor, and Mr. Brown told me to tell you the pains are three minutes apart.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  In an instant his exhausted mind clicked into place; in eight minutes he was on the way, all thoughts of Clara Penrose and mysterious notes banished.

  The following Saturday a snow squall dusted Canterbury with two inches of powder-fine flakes, then blew out to sea. Distracted, for most of the day Clara flitted around the cottage, baking pies in the kitchen, tying red ribbons around white peppermint sticks and cutting out the last of the paper bells to hang around the Meeting Hall for the Annual Christmas Festival.

  Sometime in midafternoon her best friend Eleanor Woodson arrived to help load everything into baskets.

  “Brr! It’s nippy outside. Good thing this snowstorm seems to have passed. Maybe we should have the Christmas Festival in September instead.” She glanced around the parlor, her merry brown eyes widening. “For heaven’s sake, Clara. Are we having it here instead?” Shaking her head, she turned to give Clara a brisk hug. “You do realize you’re supposed to look like an upstanding member of Canterbury’s finest families, not the local washerwoman?”

  “I still have time to change. I’ve spent most of the day in the kitchen. Mrs. Brown’s baby came a week early, and her mother couldn’t make the pies she promised.” Dr. Harcourt had performed the delivery, which from the little bit Clara gleaned had been a difficult one. CoraMae Brown and her baby daughter were alive only through the skill of the attending physician. Ethan Harcourt, it seemed, was fast replacing Clara Penrose as the favorite subject of Canterbury conversations.

  Clara gratefully ceded him the honor. She was befuddled, however, over the discovery that her heart gave a little jump every time Ethan’s name was mentioned. Best not mention that weakness to Eleanor. “I volunteered to make the pies,” she explained. “I don’t have a husband or children.”

  “Spinsters are so convenient to have around, aren’t we?” Unrepentantly plump, cheerfully accepting of her status, Eleanor maneuvered her way around a stack of evergreens woven into long ropes, pausing by the chair to give Nim a pat. “You do realize we’re society’s slaves, relegated to any and every task nobody else wants to do?”

  “There’s not enough time to engage in one of our discus
sions, Eleanor. Frankly, I’m too weary to care one way or the other.”

  “What?” Eleanor charged back across the room, her heavy serge skirt hem narrowly missing a stack of cookie tins. “Clara? Are you ill? No, of course not. You’re never ill. Wait…oh, no. Tell me what I’ve been hearing isn’t true.”

  Clara offered a vague smile. “There’s always gossip. Some of it might actually be true. Um…if I’m going to make myself presentable enough to prevent more of it, would you mind organizing everything? Everything is labeled, decorations are all on the sofa or stacked here on the hall tree, except for those tins full of gingerbread men. I’d just brought them out when you arrived. The rest of the food is in the kitchen by the picnic baskets. Gifts for the orphanage children are by the fireplace. Willy’s supposed to be here at five to be our pack mule, but if you—”

  “As usual, Willy’s late. It’s five-twenty, Clara.”

  Clara threw one appalled look at the prosaically ticking wall clock, then fled toward her bedroom with Eleanor jabbering at her heels.

  “Bathe your face and hands in scented rosewater, you’ll feel better and smell clean even if you’re not. I’ll weave a sprig of holly in your hair. Why don’t you wear your red overwaist?”

  “I wore it for dinner on Tuesday.” Stupid mistake, one she wouldn’t make again. If she’d been thinking properly instead of like a besotted schoolgirl she would have saved the red for tonight. “The green will do. No—wait. When Louise dropped by yesterday, she mentioned something about leaving me a dress. I was up to my elbows in flour at the time, and haven’t bothered to look. If she did what she threatened, a totally unsuitable gown, dripping with geegaws and ruffles and lace—” something Louise herself preferred “—will be in my wardrobe.”