Mistletoe Courtship

by Janet Tronstad

  “I assume you mean to Methuselah, since you’ve indicated at least a passing acquaintance with the Lord.”

  “Let’s say I’m interested in pursuing a deeper understanding of both.”

  Her tart response sparked the fire that had been smoldering inside Ethan for weeks. The woman might be unpredictable as a dragonfly, but regardless of her evasiveness and his own wariness, she always made him feel alive. At this moment his doubts seemed more the product of an embittered mind than the observations of a man honed in the world of political chicanery.

  Watching her, he lifted the hand resting on his forearm and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “Perhaps talking to you and a turtle will provide it.”

  Clara yanked her hand free. “Are you making sport of me, Dr. Harcourt?”

  “I only make sport of ladies who talk to goldfish, not turtles.” In a quick move he recaptured her hand and tugged her over to the leaves. “After Saturday night, I was hoping you’d think of me as Ethan.”

  “I did, until you provoked me. Frankly, I don’t know what to think. You’re not acting like the congressman I met three years ago, nor the thoughtful gentleman who helped me with gifts the other night. You—well, you’re acting more like my brother, the way you’re—”

  “Clara—” he bent so his lips brushed the shell of her ear “—this is not how brothers behave toward their sisters.”

  “The last time Willy nibbled on my ear he was eight months old and teething.”

  Her voice had gone breathless. Ethan could hear the light rapid exhalations, feel the pulse skittering beneath his fingers. And the way she looked at him…

  If she kissed him, he’d be lost. For months Lillian enticed him with bashful gazes and half-parted lips until he would have followed her off the edge of a cliff. After that fateful evening when she’d pulled him behind an urn bursting with greenery and pressed those lips against his, he’d asked her to marry him the very next day.

  He’d been twenty-three, and an idealistic fool.

  “Ethan…you’re hurting my fingers—”

  “Sorry.”

  He dropped her hand as though it were a bundle of thorns. Silence thickened between them until he finally scraped up the courage to meet her bewildered, half-angry gaze, the eyes grown dark as the dregs at the bottom of a cup of very bitter coffee. Swallowing hard, he ran his hand around the back of his neck and prepared to abase himself. Then Clara spoke.

  “She really hurt you, didn’t she? Your wife?”

  In three years, no one had dared broach the subject, even indirectly. Yet this indefatigable woman, a woman he had just manhandled and frightened, sliced through all the polite social fabrications to offer him something he’d forgotten existed—honest empathy.

  “Yes, she did.” The admission still stung. In a flash of insight Ethan realized how much he’d needed to talk about Lillian with someone, instead of immersing himself in mindless flight to a place where nobody knew him from Adam’s house cat.

  Festering wounds to the heart required lancing as much as boils on the skin. “Can we sit down on that bench? Perhaps Methuselah will listen in, and have some helpful counsel.”

  “I’ve learned that most times, just listening is enough.”

  Chapter Seven

  They sat on the damp wood bench, shoulders almost touching. Thin silver-gold sunlight washed over the yard, and a stray wisp of breeze twirled a couple of leaves. Somewhere a bird twittered. Clara sat quietly, her mood contemplative, her gaze steady on the pile of leaves. She kept her hands folded in her lap, and didn’t speak or even clear her throat because she didn’t want to distract Ethan. He had indicated a need to clear the air between them. While her heart might palpitate with fearful hope, his behavior toward her was erratic; one moment he was tender, solicitous—the next moment he was crushing her fingers, his expression cold as a winter wind.

  She could not afford to trust this troubled man.

  All of a sudden he began to talk, the words halting at first, then escaping in a geyser, and Clara forgot about the need for caution. “The adulteries were humiliating enough—but what hurt more was her vindictiveness. I wasn’t the man she’d wanted me to be, I refused to turn a blind eye to her infidelities, so she delighted in making them as public as possible. I think by the time she died, I—” he turned slightly, watching Clara with fierce intensity “—I think I hated her. I wouldn’t have wished her to die like she did, but I was glad I wouldn’t have to deal with her anymore. It’s a desecration of the spirit, allowing that poisonous emotion to take root.”

  “Oh, Ethan…Even if you did grow to hate her, you never acted on your feelings. Based on what I saw at Senator Comstock’s party, and what I’ve learned since, you’re a private man with a reputation for personal integrity. Of course you’d need to build a wall around yourself to try to cope with a wife who possessed neither. I’d say your hatred was over the circumstances and your wife’s behavior, not a reflection of your true feelings toward—her name was Lillian?”

  “Yes.”

  He chewed over that a while, then shook his head. “I never should have gone into politics. I’m afraid I’ve spent the past three years avoiding the whole blamed mess because I don’t want to forgive either her, or myself for being relieved that she’s dead.”

  “Obviously I’ve never been in your position. If anything, at times I know all too well I’m the embarrassing weed in the Penrose family garden. But…” she relaxed her guard, even as common sense stridently warned against it “…but Ethan, I can tell you I’d probably feel the same way you do—did, if I’d had to step into your shoes.” He flashed her a grateful look, and Clara told her common sense to hush and go sit in the corner. “She betrayed you, in every way, publicly and repeatedly. I’m so sorry.”

  “A lot of people said that to me, back then. You’re the first one I actually believe.”

  Oh! His compliment sang through her. “One of my more awkward flaws is my inability to dissemble to spare someone’s sensibilities. You may have noticed?”

  “The trait has manifested itself upon occasion.”

  She had always appreciated dry humor. “I’ve tried to…ah…control it by…by writing.” A nervous gulp of air shuddered through her body as she confessed details of her most closely guarded secret, one she had not shared even with Eleanor. The sense of fellowship with this man was a potent elixir, and Clara had been thirsty for a long time. “I spent most of my childhood with a leaky pen, holed away in nooks while I scratched ponderous thoughts on papers I scrounged from my father’s study.”

  Pausing, she glanced up at him, wondering vaguely about the aura that seemed to have gathered around him like a cold gray mist. Don’t dry up now, Clara. He’s listening closely to you, not searching for ways to shut you up. “The habit’s never changed,” she plowed ahead. “Writing, I mean. I believe I mentioned nobody outside the family knows about my eccentricity? My parents never approved—my mother deplored my ink-stained fingers. Father was annoyed every time I pilfered through his desk looking for paper, even more so after he gave me an allowance and I spent most of it buying journals and foolscap instead of hairpins or hat pins or other feminine fribbles. When it became apparent that I—that I…” she stumbled a bit, then finished matter-of-factly “…that I was destined for spinsterhood, they sent me off to college, mostly because they hoped it would at least retrain my energies on something of value, like teaching or nursing. I disliked both. I now have a useless degree gathering dust in a trunk, and my parents have given up hope of reforming me into a proper Penrose. It was a relief, moving here to the cottage, where I can indulge myself to my heart’s content.”

  “So you’ve never outgrown your…writing habit?”

  “Well, no. And I probably wouldn’t have told you, except I’d already mentioned it at my parents’ dinner party.” Self-conscious now, she forced the rest out before fear froze her tongue. One bared heart deserved another. “I wondered…you might want to try writing yourself? It�
��s very therapeutic, you know. Actually, most of what I write these days are letters to editors, offering unsolicited my opinion on, um, everything. I’ve always admired the courage of men like you, who sought public office to proclaim their platform. Albert told me you were one of the few men he knew who believed women should have the right to vote. I’ve wished ever since that night we’d been able to discuss the subject. Of course, I don’t have the courage to flout that much convention, so I write letters.” After clearing her throat, she finished sadly, “Even then I use a pen name so I won’t embarrass the Penrose family name.”

  Letters. She wrote letters, using a pseudonym. Despite his unwillingness to accept the obvious—Clara possessed the time, the convoluted mind and now, the predilection for the medium—he did not want to believe she was the author of the notes. It required a tremendous effort of will for Ethan to keep his voice uninflected, stripped of emotion, yet warm enough to avoid spooking the young woman sitting beside him. “So you have no secret ambition to emulate the Brontë sisters or Jane Austen? Write charming stories of life in American towns instead of English villages?”

  “Heavens, no! I’ve little use for fiction. Why waste all your energy making something up, when real life offers more challenges?”

  “Point conceded. But if you write make-believe stories, you retain all the power of the creator, where with the stroke of a pen you bless, or curse, your characters.”

  “A rather Machiavellian-esque touch in your mind, Dr. Harcourt? Well, I already know I’m too opinionated. Whatever characters I might create in a work of fiction would be held hostage to my own will, so I don’t create them at all. Letters, on the other hand, leave the option to be blessed, or cursed, upon the reader.”

  Feeling trapped, Ethan casually shifted sideways. “So what do you write about, in your letters to editors?”

  “Hmm?” She blinked several times. “Lots of things. Political, religious, social issues—sometimes I chastise them for their abuse of their responsibilities as journalists to, well, strive for objectivity and truth. The written word holds power, would you agree?”

  Ethan managed a short nod, and Clara continued, her pale face lightly tinted with apricot. “Since I use a pseudonym, I’m fearless. My family of course would be horrified. For them public decorum and private discretion are nonnegotiable. I have a dear friend, but I’ve never shared this secret with her. She’s a born debater and we engage in lots of lively discussions. But I don’t want her reading over my shoulder. She’d argue about every phrase.”

  An awkward pause ensued until Clara finished lightly, “You’re the only one who knows my secret vice. You’ll have to promise either to be Methuselah, who certainly knows how to keep a secret, or Nim, who thinks paper was intended to be scrunched into balls and chased.”

  “I don’t know whether to feel honored or intimidated.”

  Beside him Clara stiffened, and Ethan couldn’t blame her; his response sounded as friendly as a trapped wolf. He wanted to bang his head against the garden shed. This was neither a stupid nor a silly woman; her candor left her particularly vulnerable, through no fault of her own. He felt like a clod, being angry with her when he was still unwilling to confront her with the suspicions that fueled the anger. Obviously she sensed something of his internal violence. Tone of voice, his expression…women possessed a sensitivity to atmosphere God had not seen fit to pass along to the male of the species. Or perhaps God just wanted to teach Ethan Harcourt a lesson in—what? Hadn’t he eaten enough humility pie?

  Inside the pocket of his trousers, the tiny charm of the Capitol Building seemed to scorch through the layers of fabric to burn fresh shame on his soul. Be a healer, Ethan, not a blasted judge and jury. You’ve learned that at least over the past three years.

  “I’ve bored you, haven’t I?” Clara announced. Her hand jerked in a half-abortive gesture. “Made you feel awkward, prattling away about a girlish habit I should have outgrown years ago. Forgive me. Would you like some apple cider? I still have some leftover Sally Lunn bread from the Festival I can offer as well. The cottage is woefully untidy, but you’re more than welcome. Don’t worry about the lack of a chaperone. I’m too old and too contrary to care. If you’re uncomfortable being alone with me, Nim’s pretty efficient at the task of maiden aunt.” Her quick laugh emerged too high. “Which of course I am already. You needn’t feel confined by convention, Dr. Harcourt…Ethan.”

  She stood, forcing Ethan to follow suit. What do I do here, Lord? “Convention is pretty necessary, under some circumstances,” he returned slowly. “But not between us, hmm? We’ve never been conventional, have we, Clara, even three years ago? Some cider sounds pretty good.”

  Clara nodded without looking at him, then set off toward the front of the cottage. When they reached the door, Ethan quickly stepped in front of her to open it. She was correct—the cozy rooms on either side of the minuscule entryway were a mess. Comfortable horsehair furniture feminized with lace antimacassars was covered with dozens of embroidered and needlepoint pillows; sheet music spilled onto the floor out of an opened music cabinet by an ebonized grand piano; stacks of newspapers and periodicals bulged from several walnut stands. A faded oriental rug covered the wide-planked floors. To Ethan’s left, the other front room bulged with bookcases filling two of the walls, and a ladies’ desk in the far corner. Wads of crumpled paper littered the floor, and a colorful paisley shawl draped forgotten over the spindle desk chair.

  Not a single sign of Christmas, not even a sprig of holly, was on display.

  Clara wandered across the parlor to the right, surprisingly turning on a pair of electric floor lamps before she lit the fire in the fireplace, laid with old-fashioned wood. With more force than finesse she gathered up an armful of sheet music and stuffed the pages into the music cabinet before finally returning to Ethan.

  “Well? Would you like to sit by the fire while I prepare a tray, or shall I invent an engagement I’ve forgotten and allow you a graceful exit?”

  He had hurt her. Now he could either inflict the coup de grace and level his accusation—or he could heed the remnant of idealism still clinging to life in a corner of his soul. “Clara…” Her name emerged on a long sigh as he surveyed her carefully expressionless face. “How about if we flout all the rules further, and I follow you to your kitchen? While you serve us up some cider, you can tell me why there’s no evidence of the Christmas season inside your home.”

  Some indefinable emotion flickered across her face, and her erect posture seemed to droop. Then her chin lifted. “Just because I don’t decorate for Christmas doesn’t mean I don’t celebrate the occasion.”

  “You have lots of habits I’m coming to know. One of the more annoying is avoiding a direct answer when you don’t like the question.”

  “Why should you care one way or the other? Is your home fragrant with ropes of evergreens? Do you have heaps of gifts all wrapped in ribbons and sprinkled with stardust, waiting to be delivered on Christmas Eve? Is there a crèche on display in your waiting room?”

  “Perhaps you should come see for yourself.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  Ethan cocked his head to one side while he sifted through the passionate outburst. “You feel you can’t compete with your mother or, for that matter, your sister-in-law? Is that what this is all about?”

  Clara swiveled on her heel and marched over to poke at the fire. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t decorate because it’s a distraction, a sentimentalization of what should be a reverent, holy celebration.”

  “Hmm. I suppose a manger full of straw, surrounded by smelly cattle in a dark stable, does lend itself to reverence.”

  “Now you are mocking me.”

  “Only a little.” His mood turned contemplative as he chewed over thoughts that had jigged about in his brain for a while. Here with Clara, they finally settled into place. “I’ve always considered the birth of any baby a miracle, worth celebrating whether the birth takes place in a stable or a cast
le. Perhaps all the lavish decorations folks like to display for Jesus’ birth merely reflect their inadequate attempts to acknowledge what God gave up when He squeezed Himself into human form. Doesn’t matter whether they live in a castle or a stone cottage, it’s a way of saying, ‘Welcome to the World, we’re glad You stopped by.’”

  “It’s not the decorations God looks for, Ethan. It’s how people decorate their hearts.”

  “Well said. Point conceded. Ah…I enjoyed the decorations you made for the Christmas Festival.”

  “Since you obviously enjoy debating, perhaps you shouldn’t give up on running for public office. For the record…Congressman, I do enjoy decorating—for others.” She stabbed at a log with enough force to send a shower of sparks shooting up the chimney. “For the present moment, however, let’s leave it that the dearth of decorations here is because I simply don’t have time, and this cottage is cluttered enough.”

  “You may rest assured I won’t run for public office. I’m not interested in debates—except with you.” The quip elicited nothing but silence. His voice gentled. “I think I understand more than you realize, Clara. A year ago I barely noted the Christmas season at all, much less sang ‘Joy to the World’ in a church.”

  Floorboards creaked as he made his way to the fireplace. The flames cast brooding shadows over Clara’s face, accentuating the strong bones of her cheeks, the straight uncompromising line of her nose. But the wide mouth was trying not to tremble. Compelled by a force he no longer wanted to ignore, Ethan waited until she hung the poker on its hook, then lifted her to her feet and clasped both her hands in his. “This year, I’m finding my way back to Christmas. Your family, this town—and you—are part of the reason. Grace seems to be a concept we human beings have trouble accepting, as well as dispensing—except at Christmastime. Your outside is full of grace, Clara. Over the past weeks I’ve watched you scatter it freely over everything and everyone, except yourself. A little bit ago, outside, I felt that grace when without any censure you allowed me to share secrets that have festered inside for years. Trouble is, I think you’re nursing a secret pain or two of your own, hiding it deep, somewhere inside where nobody can see.”