He chuckled. "I didn't imagine you would." He paused. "But it is good to know."
I stilled. "Why?"
"One never knows where the next path may lead us." He shrugged.
I wanted to ask more. What path? Who does he mean by us? I refrained only because I didn't know what I wanted him to say. How I might respond to his answers. I'd had a year to consider this very conversation, or one much like it, yet it did seem too soon.
Instead, I forced a light note to my voice. "And where has your path taken you since last year?"
He grinned. "Paris."
"Paris?" I stared. "You’re no longer in India?"
"I am not." He sipped his liquor.
"Which explains your fluency in French." Paris was ever so much closer to England than India. Why, I knew any number of people who jaunted off to Paris on no more than a whim. If Fletcher now resided in Paris, well, it brought to mind all sorts of possibilities. Delightful possibilities that did not include waiting for Christmas. "You've been posted to Paris, then? How lovely. And my congratulations on what is obviously a promotion."
"Oh, I am no longer a member of Her Majesty's Foreign Service."
"You're not?" My mind raced. "Then what are you doing?"
"Painting." He raised his glass to me. "You are looking at a man who has followed his heart."
"I don’t understand," I said slowly, although I thought I was beginning to. The enchantment of the evening faded.
"It’s amazing how little one spends on necessities when one lives in a city like Calcutta. It’s not at all difficult to save one’s money. After I returned last year, I realized I had enough to sustain myself for at least a year in Paris. Long enough to determine if my work would provide a living income. Although . . ."
"Yes?"
"It hasn’t. Not entirely anyway. At least, not yet." He grinned. "I find it amazing that that is no longer important."
"It isn't?" I said cautiously. "I would have thought making a living to be paramount."
He shook his head. "What is important is my work." He pinned me with a pointed look. "It’s much better than it was last year."
"Oh?" I had no idea what to say. In spite of my efforts, it was obvious he had ascertained my opinion of his artistic skill. "I—"
He held up a hand to stop me. "No need to apologize."
"I had no intention of apologizing." I shrugged. "While last year I found your work intriguing, it was not entirely to my liking."
He stared at me, then laughed. "I have truly missed your candor, Portia."
"Thank you," I murmured and took another sip of the Strega.
I was not sure how to react to his news. The thought of him being closer to England was rather exciting, even if I wasn't sure what, if anything, it would mean to our odd relationship. But the idea that he had cast off the security of an acceptable position for something as absurd as art was most distressing.
"I have learned a great deal in the past year."
"How to paint well?" I asked in an overly innocent manner. I was still shocked at his revelation.
"Yes, in a way, I suppose I have," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I have taken the opportunities Paris affords to study. That alone has been intoxicating. I had no idea how much I didn't know. But I have indeed learned much about technique and mastering the nuances of my craft. About style and expression and creating my own voice, if you will. More importantly, Portia, I have learned how to listen to my soul."
"You what?" It wasn't the most absurd thing I had ever heard, but it was certainly among them.
"When one is dabbling in art, as nothing more than a pastime, one cannot commit fully to the work. Only when one has shed the trappings of an ordinary life can one truly embrace the calling of one's soul." He raised his glass to me. "And that is where the essence of art is found."
"How utterly absurd." The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. And I did wish I had stopped them, even if I had never spoken truer words in my life.
"Not at all. In fact, I think it's quite practical. Men always do better at something they love." He shrugged. "Or at least, they're happier."
I couldn't recall ever hearing anyone other than a woman speak of happiness that way. Oh, Julia or Veronica perhaps, but not a man. As if happiness was to be expected. Some sort of right, if you will. I was not so enamored of him that I could not see the fallacy of such a philosophy. "Am I to understand that you left your position, a perfectly good position, to starve in the streets of Paris?"
"I wouldn't put it quite that way, but yes." Laughter sparked in his eyes in a decidedly wicked manner. Unexpected desire shivered through me. It was all I could do to maintain my indignation.
"Fletcher, what were you thinking?"
"I was thinking about what you said last Christmas."
"What on earth did I say?" Surely this wasn't my fault. "Try as I might, I cannot recall saying, 'Fletcher, you should quit your respectable position with Her Majesty's Foreign Service and move to France where you shall willy-nilly slap paint on canvas in the hopes that someone will pay good money for the result.'"
His mouth opened, and his eyes widened. "Are you sure you didn’t say that? I could have sworn—"
"Sarcasm, Fletcher, will serve neither of us well at the moment," I snapped.
"You’re right, of course, but it was impossible to resist." He frowned. "And I did think you found sarcasm charming."
"Not in the least." I huffed. "Fletcher—"
"Portia," he said firmly, taking my glass from my hand and setting both mine and his aside. Then he pulled me into his arms.
"What are you doing?" I glared up at him, but I made no effort to pull away.
"Obviously, we need to talk." He settled his arms tighter around me. It was not conducive to rational thought. The man was trying to distract me. "And I much prefer to talk with you in my arms. Especially about topics not to your liking."
"I have no particular problem with the topic, in general. If someone I did not know ran away from his responsibilities to paint naked women in a city whose very name is synonymous with sin—"
He laughed. "I never mentioned painting naked women."
"Nor did you need to." I sniffed. "However, I was speaking in generalities. I was talking about someone, not necessarily you." I narrowed my eyes. "Are you painting naked women?"
"Only when necessary," he said in a somber manner, but those dark eyes of his twinkled with amusement.
"Fletcher—"
"Last year," he said, "you pointed out to me that I was wasting my life in a pointless government position—"
"I'm certain I never said pointless."
He ignored me. "In a futile effort to live up to society's expectations of what is proper and respectable. You, my dear Portia, pointed out that I was living in a box of my own making but not of my own choosing."
"Did I?" I asked weakly, but I vaguely recalled I might have said something along those lines. No doubt, a direct result of wine or Strega.
"You did, indeed." He nodded. "It lingered in my mind. Gnawed at me, really."
"My apologies," I said under my breath.
"Not necessary. It was what I needed." He nodded. "A month or so after I returned to Calcutta, the head of my department announced he was retiring and would be returning to England to spend the rest of his days. He confided in me, with pride, that he considered his years of service to Her Majesty to be the best of his life. It struck me then that, when I had reached his point in life, I would prefer not to look back on a career of shuffling papers, dealing with correspondence and managing the minute details of policy that fell to men at my level, and think of them as the best years of my life. This revelation made me examine, for the first time, whether, as I did not have the familial contacts needed for advancement, I had the ambition required. The answer was no."
"No?" I said faintly.
"No." He shrugged as best he could with his arms around me. "I simply didn't care about the position, about a career doi
ng insignificant work in an equally insignificant department. And the idea of residing in India for the next thirty years or so held no particular appeal."
"So you . . . resigned," I said slowly.
"In no uncertain terms." He chuckled. "Within a month of my decision, I was living in Paris."
"And it was wonderful, no doubt."
"Hardly. Indeed, it has been much more difficult than I had expected. But exhilarating nonetheless. Challenging in a way nothing has ever challenged me before." He met my gaze firmly. "I feel as if I am a different man altogether, Portia. As if I have been released from shackles I didn't know I wore."
"I see." I chose my words carefully. "And you are happy?"
"I am," he said as if he didn’t have a doubt in the world. "Life is too short not to be happy."
I stared at him. "Are you dying?"
"Dying?" He frowned. "Why on earth would you ask that?"
"Just something my friends asked me when I was behaving irrationally."
He laughed. "I am not behaving irrationally."
"That does seem to be a matter of opinion."
"Perhaps." He grinned. "But the fact remains I have never been more satisfied with my life. And I have never been happier than I am now."
"Well, then . . ." I forced a smile and stared up at him. "I suppose that's all that really matters, isn't it?"
"Not all, but . . ." His gaze searched mine. "You're not at all pleased by this, are you?"
"You noticed that, did you?
"It was difficult to miss."
"My opinion really isn't significant, is it?"
"Of course it is." His brows drew together. "What you think is important to me."
"Why?" There was a challenging note in my voice that I did not intend.
"Because you matter to me." He stared down at me. "You matter a great deal."
Without warning, something very much like panic gripped me. I wasn't ready to throw my lot in with his. To declare my feelings. I had acknowledged in this year apart, or at least accepted the possibility, that I was in love with him. But was it enough? It was one thing to consider giving up my life for that of the wife of a respectable member of Her Majesty's government, and quite another to be the spouse of a struggling artist. Not that either of us had ever mentioned marriage. But I feared, in spite of my best efforts, my very proper background had, in the recesses of my mind, led me to contemplate marriage. Marriage was, after all, the goal of women like myself. I thrust the thought away and drew a bracing breath.
"If you’re happy, then I am happy as well." I smiled up at him, belying the heavy lump in my chest where my heart had been, and slid my arms around his neck. "Now, kiss me, and then you shall have to tell me all about life in Paris."
"I can't think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve." He grinned, then pressed his lips to mine in a kiss that promised all sorts of things that would never come to pass.
For the next few hours, Fletcher and I sat on the comfortable parlor sofa, and he regaled me with anecdotes about life in the French capital. Even I knew Paris was the acknowledged center of the art world, and he spoke of artists he had met, none of whom I had ever heard of, but who, he assured me, would be well-known someday. He talked about the international aspect of the artist community. He was not the only Englishman to try to hone his skills in Paris. Fletcher had met a fair number of Americans as well and found them at once amusing and admirable. The more I listened to him talk, the more I realized that this decision he had made to uproot his life was right for him. As silly and irrational as I still thought it was.
"I have been talking all night," he said with a wry smile. "We've scarcely spoken about your year at all."
"As much as I hate to admit it, there has been little of note that has occurred in my life this past year." I thought for a moment. "Aside from evading Aunt Helena's matchmaking and a few improvements to my house and gardens, I have done nothing especially interesting. I have, however, attended a fair number of gallery exhibits—"
His brow rose. "Have you?"
"I do like to keep abreast of the latest in artistic endeavors."
"You do?" If his brow rose any higher, it would disappear into his hair. "I had no idea. Indeed, I had the distinct impression you preferred more traditional, established schools of art."
"Preferences change, Fletcher. I am not so rigid as to not be open to new ideas," I said, almost as if I believed it myself. "And I have been studying Italian."
He stared at me. "That is a new idea."
"Wanting to master the language of a country I enjoy?"
"No." He grinned. "You acknowledging that everyone does not speak English."
"Which does not mean I do not think they should," I said primly.
He laughed. I had forgotten how much the sound of his laughter warmed my soul. It was, as well, contagious, and I laughed with him, but, in truth, my heart was not entirely in it.
A few minutes later, I rose to my feet, and he stood with me. "I think I shall retire to my rooms for the night."
"I had hoped you would be staying in my room," he said slowly.
"It has been a very long day, Fletcher, and I find I am truly exhausted." I smiled. "I would prefer to sleep alone tonight. I daresay I shall be asleep before my head hits the pillow."
"As you wish." He studied me for a long moment. "You're not happy about my change in circumstances, are you?"
"I believe I've already answered that."
"I believe you avoided answering it."
I blew a resigned breath. "I suppose you want me to be perfectly honest."
He smiled. "Preferably."
"Very well, then." I thought for a moment. "In all honesty, I'm not sure how I feel. It does not strike me as a wise decision, but then, I have a tendency to be reasonable and rational, and I have usually done whatever was expected of me in this life."
"Portia—"
"Wait." I held up a hand to stop him. "I'm not finished."
"Go on, then."
"I knew the moment I saw you that something had changed. You are more . . ." I struggled to find the right word. "I don't know, alive, I think, this year than you were last year. There is an air about you, a look in your eye of . . . self-worth perhaps. Or confidence."
He nodded.
"So, obviously, your choice was the right choice for you. The very thought of you someday looking back on your life and finding it lacking in some way . . ." I shook my head. "I could not bear that."
"Thank you," he said quietly, his gaze boring into mine.
I wanted to weep. To throw myself into his arms and cry until no more tears could come, even if I wasn't entirely sure what I would be crying about. He owed me nothing. And if my fickle heart had led me to believe there was more to our Christmas spent together than there was, it was my error. He had never made any promises to me. I had no right to be upset with him now.
I steeled myself and cast him a blinding smile. "Now, Fletcher, I believe we have some Christmas wishes to make, do we not?"
He considered me for a moment longer, then nodded. "Of course." He moved to a table near the far wall and returned with paper and pencil. He offered me a sheet of stationery and a pencil. "Did your wish last year come true?"
"Not really." I braced my paper on the wall and wrote the same wish I had written last year. It was entirely too good a wish to waste. "Did yours?"
"Yes." He scribbled on his paper and folded it.
"Oh? What did you wish?"
"I don't know that I can tell you." He shook his head in a somber manner. "I'm not sure what the rules are about telling a wish that has come true."
"If it's come true, it's no longer a wish." I folded my wish. "So, tell me."
"Very well." His gaze locked with mine, and that slow, wonderful smile of his spread across his face. "I wished to spend another Christmas with you."
My breath hitched, and I stared at him.
"Thank you for making my wish come true."
"Mer
ry Christmas," I said, forcing a lighthearted note to my voice.
He took my hand, and we moved close to the fire and dropped our wishes in together.
"I hope your wish comes true, Portia."
"As do I," I said softly. But even as I watched the wishes in the fire turn to ash, I knew there were some wishes that were not destined to come true.
Even at Christmas.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I slept later than I would have preferred on Christmas Day, but then, it had been nearly dawn when I had at last fallen asleep. I had tossed and turned most of the night, and I had come to a decision.
Fletcher's life was Fletcher's life. He had not invited me to share it, and even if he had, I did not know if that was an invitation I could accept. I had no idea if his feelings for me equaled mine for him. Given his actions, I would assume so, but he had not declared himself. Nor had I. I was a coward, really. Afraid, not only of his feelings, but afraid of my own as well. And afraid of what acknowledging those feelings would cost.
It was for the best. We were from different worlds before he had left his position in government, and our worlds were even further apart now. I had no desire to break his heart, and I certainly did not wish for my own heart to be broken, although, in spite of my best intentions, it might already be too late to prevent that.
Still, it did seem to me the only sensible, logical thing to do was to make this Christmas, this time together, as wonderful as it had been last year and give no thought as to the future. This year, this Christmas, might be all we ever had. This—Fletcher, Italy, the villa—was my adventure, my first, and quite likely, my only adventure. I was determined to make the most of it.
Margaret fetched me a cup of hot coffee and the same kind of delicious fruitcake I had sampled last year. She helped me dress quickly, all the while regaling me with an accounting of Christmas Eve dinner with Silvestro and Agostina's family. Apparently, Agostina had a widowed brother who, according to Margaret's somewhat flustered description, was quite dashing and spoke English with a fair amount of fluency. It was obvious from what she said, what she didn’t say and her suspiciously pleasant manner this morning that she was quite taken with the man. And wasn't that interesting?
Same Time, Next Christmas Page 16