by Mistletoe
Chapter Two
"No, Mrs. Harris, it is $9.32 that you owe. It says so right here," Will Goodman insisted, showing the older woman the accounts ledger where he kept track of how much credit had been extended to his customers. He brushed back the lock of brownish-blond hair that had fallen into his eyes.
"I was certain it was $14.32," Mrs. Harris protested, her brow drawn into ridges of confusion. "With the sausages from last week, plus the new shoes for Joshua and Ann, and then there were the five pounds of sugar… I thought I had kept track. I'm not forgetful; you know that, Mr. Goodman."
"Of course not. Much as I would like to take $14.32 from you, especially if you were to offer it in part as cookies and pies, I'll have to settle for the $9.32."
'I'm afraid all I have at this time is—"
"I was thinking," Will interrupted, as if he had not heard her, "that I might be needing some help around here through the month. I know this would be asking a great deal, but do you think that I could steal Joshua and Ann away from you for an hour or two after school every day?"
"I don't think they'd be much use to—"
"I know it would be an imposition, what with all the chores that I am sine wait for them at home, but I would pay them well."
Mrs. Harris blinked at him, her frown growing deeper. "What would you be wanting them for? What use could a ten and an eight-year-old be to you?"
"Well, Mis. Harris," Will said, leaning over the counter and taking on a confidential air. "You might not believe this, but oilier children are not so well-behaved as your Ann. At this time of year, what with all the shopping people are doing, they tend to let their little ones run round loose, knocking over displays, getting dirty fingers on clean goods, and making a god-awful amount of noise that distracts the other customers and affects my bottom line."
Mrs. Harris "mmmed" in sympathy, nodding her head.
"Now your Ann, she's a gentle, clever child. I was thinking that I would have her sit over by the woodstove there, with a stack of storybooks. When those rambunctious sorts of children come in, I can send them over to Ann, where she can read to them and keep them out of trouble while their mothers shop."
"She's very good with the young ones at home," Mrs. Harris agreed.
"And Joshua, well…" Will scanned the front room of his general store, his eyes lighting on the solution to this problem. "Besides for sweeping and dusting and keeping an eye out for thieves who pocket my goods— there are some who come in here, you know—"
"Ahhh?" Mis. Harris breathed, eyes widening.
"Besides that, I have a rather daring advertising campaign in mind. I have some new sleds that have come in," he said, nodding toward the bright red sled on display in the front window. "Very high-priced, and they are not selling like they should. Now that it has begun to snow, I'd like to send Joshua out with one of those sleds. When the other kids see how fast it goes, they'll be begging their own parents to buy them one for Christmas. I need an athletic boy like Joshua to show it off to its best advantage."
"And how much would you be paying for the services of my children?" Mis. Harris asked, her eyes taking on a speculative gleam.
"Let's see what we can work out, shall we?"
Will was putting his fake public account book away when Tyler Jones, his senior shop assistant, shuffled over to him, wrinkles set in disapproving lines.
"You go easy on her again?" the man asked, shaking his graying, balding head in disgust. "You're going to inn yourself right out of business, doing things that way."
"Mr. Jones," Will warned flatly.
"Shhhhh," Jones said, eyes wide, hushing himself dramatically with a finger against his lips. "I didn't see a thing. I know nothing."
"Good man."
"As long as I'm not a jobless man. Yours is not the only general store in town, you know. You have to stay competitive, or they'll drive you out of business."
Will just looked at him until the old man threw his hands up, shrugging his shoulders up around his ears.
"But you're the boss! You know what you're doing!"
"It's good to hear that you remember that."
Mr. Jones rolled his eyes and began to shuffle away. "Ignorant pup," he muttered under his breath. "Practically gives things away. What type of way to run a store is—"
"And which of us owns this place, old man?" Will called after him, then cut off the rest of what he was about to say as the bell rang over the door, and business captured his attention.
Mr. Jones's complaints did not concern Will, knowing as he did that they had no basis in truth. He was a partner in the glass factory downriver, a shareholder in an ironworks, and had invested in an import/export company that had grown to pleasingly profitable dimensions. His ties to these businesses and others helped him to stock his store at minimal expense. Few in Woodbridge knew of the extent of either his investments or his philanthropy, which was how he liked it. It went against his nature to draw attention to himself, and there was a subtle pleasure to be had in keeping his true self secret, as if by doing so he maintained some element of freedom.
The day went quickly as he, Mr. Jones, and his other clerks helped customers, stocked shelves, carried parcels, measured out cloth, fitted shoes, weighed out butter, and balanced books. They sold gloves, candy, shaving gear, pots, dye, sheet music, irons, rolling pins, toys, stockings, winter coats, eggs, and pork. He sold anything and everything that would fit inside one of the large connecting rooms, and if he didn't stock something someone desired, he would order it for them. He loved his store, and the work of running it.
All considered, it seemed that he had everything he could desire. Work that he loved, money invested to guard against misfortune, a large house newly completed on Elm Street, and the goodwill and regard of his fellow businessmen and customers. Life, he reflected as he closed up shop that evening, was complete.
"So tell me, are there any young men who have caught your eye?" Catherine's mother asked, sitting down in her accustomed seat at the end of the dining table, a cup of tea before her. She was a tall woman, more stately than slender, her dark hair dusted with gray, and she had large, warm brown eyes of a deeper shade than Catherine's own. She wore a high-necked blouse and a cinnamon-brown skirt, bustled at the back in a style slightly out of date, but that nonetheless looked fitting on Mama.
"Perhaps one or two," Catherine replied obliquely, and looked at her mother from the corner of her eyes, checking for how well the bait was being taken. She knew that Mama liked nothing better than a tale of romance. She picked over the sausages and eggs in the warming dishes on the side table, slowly filling her plate.
"That viscount you wrote to us about, in London? Is he one of them?" Mama asked.
Catherine added a few slices of toast, then brought her plate to the table, setting it on the white lace cloth and taking her place to the immediate right of her mother. "I think he has become engaged to a Boston heiress."
"Oh. How very disappointing."
"Of course, the British are not the only ones with an aristocracy," she said, and paused to take a bite of food, remaining silent while she chewed.
Mama pursed her mouth impatiently, then made a noise of frustration. "Catherine Linwood! You're teasing me. You know very well I've been waiting all morning for you to get out of bed and come tell me all about your social life. A dozen times I almost went up those stairs and woke you myself"
Catherine laughed. 'I'm sorry. I know how much you want to hear about my being courted, but there really isn't much to tell. There have been flirtations, but most have not amounted to much. The young men my own age all seem so… foolish. And the older ones are boring, with big bellies," she said, arching her back and arranging her face to match that of a self-satisfied businessman, thumb in watch pocket.
Mama's lips curled up in reluctant amusement. "You're a naughty girl."
"The best ones, of course, are already taken," Catherine said, dropping the pose.
"Did you say most flirtations have
not amounted to much?"
She had known her mother would catch that small discrepancy. She chased a piece of egg around her plate with her fork. "There is one man who seems to have a certain interest in me."
Tor heaven's sake, who?11
She gave up on the egg, and lay her fork down in the correct four o'clock position. "Stephen Rose. His family is filthy rich: They have money in railroads and shipping and ironworks and who knows what all else. Aunt Frances would scold me for speaking of their money, of course. She says it is not genteel to do so."
"It's not genteel only so long as you have enough money not to care. My sister cares about money and who has it, you can be sure, no matter her artistic airs. You'll notice she did not marry a poet," Mama added dryly.
Catherine had noticed that herself. It was amusing to think that Aunt Frances, with her elegance and sophistication, had once been a little girl having hissy fights with Mama. Although she knew they loved each other very much, Mama and Aunt Fiances had always shared something of an abrasive relationship. "Mr. Rose must have enough money even for her standards, as she allows his visits and is always most eager to see him. I have the impression she arranges to throw us together."
"Is he handsome?"
"Terribly. He's all dark hair and black eyes, tall, and has the most graceful maimers. He can charm anyone he has a mind to."
"And has he charmed you?"
She recalled the white flash of his smile, as he would lean down close to whisper something to her while listening to a concert; the skill with which he would sweep her around the dance floor in a waltz; the small thrill of pride when he led her in to dinner, and the other young women, more beautiful than her, watched in envy. "I suppose he may have," she admitted.
Her mother looked at her, eyes evaluating. "Are you in love with him?"
A nervous laugh escaped her lips. "Aunt Frances says I must be! There's no reason not to fall head over heels for Mr. Rose: He's handsome, rich, charming, and quite clever. He's considered an excellent catch."
"Mmm."
They were both silent for several moments. "Mama, how do you know if you are in love with a man?" Catherine asked, all trace of jollity gone. 'It's true that my heart beats faster when Mr. Rose comes in the room, and his is the first face I look for in a gathering. I miss his company when he does not come to call for a number of days. Does that mean I love him?"
Mama reached out and squeezed her hand where it lay in her lap. "If you're not in love, then at least you are on the path toward it."
"I suppose I don't need to worry about the question now, though, do I?" she said brightly, trying to escape thoughts of her confused feelings for Mr. Rose. "I'm home, and he's far away in New York. I have all of you to think about now."
Her mother just raised her eyebrows.
The Linwood house was alive with the murmuring voices of guests, punctuated by bursts of laughter. The rooms, always chilly in winter, were growing cozy with the heat of bodies, the happy exchange of greetings adding an additional, intangible warmth to the evening air as friends and family gathered to welcome Catherine home.
"Will, tilts is my sister, Miss Catherine Linwood," Robert said. "Catherine, William Goodman."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Goodman," she said.
Will took her gloved hand, her palm down, her fingers long and delicate as they rested lightly ova- the side of his hand. "It is a great honor to make your acquaintance," he said hoarsely, performing an abbreviated bow over her hand and earning a brief, puzzled look from her glorious eyes.
"Catherine will be with us through the holidays," Robert said. "She's been traveling the world, seeing sights that make Woodbridge look like a country backwater in comparison."
"And meeting men that make you look like a positive cave dweller," Catherine said to her brother, mischief in her eyes, and laughing at his falsely affronted expression. the sound was warm and melodious, sinking through Will's chest and wrapping around his heart.
A commotion at the door drew her attention. Will wanted to say something, but was tongue-tied, his lips parted and silent as Robert said something else to his sister. She laughed again, and then her eyes went back to the door with delighted recognition.
"Robert, Mr. Goodman, do forgive me," she apologized, and left them abruptly, hurrying toward the front hall, the scent of lily of the valley hoveling faintly behind her.
Will stared after her retreating figure. She was wearing a burgundy silk gown, trimmed in black velvet and lace, the sleeves mere strips of material across her upper arms. She wore a velvet choker, the darkness of it emphasizing the creamy expanse of exposed bosom, and the gentle rounded curves of her shoulders. Her body was tightly corseted, the horizontal folds and gathers of her skirt around her hips making her waist look minuscule in comparison, the gathers at the back of her gown trailing yards of rich burgundy that dusted the floor in a short train.
Ludicrous, to be stuck dumb by a pretty woman! He was thirty years old. He was no longer a giddy young boy. He was beyond adolescent embarrassments. He didn't believe in love at first sight.
And yet… In the space between one heartbeat and the next, when she had met his eyes and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Goodman," in a voice like mulled wine, Catherine Linwood had sparked to life a fire inside him. The pleasure of meeting her was all his. But why? Why?
Earlier today he had congratulated himself on his life being complete. God had heard him and laughed, placing this woman down before him to prove his ignorance.
She was laughing, her gestures animated, her hand touching briefly on the coated ann of the visitor at the door. Will took his eyes from Catherine long enough to examine the newcomer, and felt a flush of jealousy run through his blood.
He'd never seen such a handsome man— the word dashing came ridiculously to mind— and dressed in a manner that bespoke such careless wealth. This man came from money. He'd been born to it, and had the air of one who had discovered that anything he wanted could be had for a price.
"Will? Will!" Robert said, stirring him from his staring.
"Huh?" he grunted, articulate as an ape.
"Good lord, man, you look like you've been kicked in the head."
Will blinked, frowned, and tried to focus on his friend. Robert Linwood was a few years younger than he, but he and the Linwood family had become good friends over the past few years. Robert was a lawyer, who like many others in Woodbridge relied on the town's position as the county seat— and thus the home of the county courthouse— for his business.
"There is a saying amongst shopkeepers," Will said, still half-dazed, "that customers do not know what they want. A man may come into a store seeking only boot black, but then his eye lights upon a pocket watch and suddenly he must have it. He did not know he wanted a pocket watch. He got along fine without one for many years. But now he must have it, and if he cannot afford it he will leave the store with that watch haunting his thoughts until he finds the money to buy it."
"Are you feeling quite well?" Robert asked
Will looked back to Catherine, who was introducing the stranger to her parents. Her excitement was palpable, even from across the room. "No, not quite."
Dinner was its own unique agony. the dining table was crowded, all its extra leaves put into use. Catherine was at the other end of the table, the newcomer, Mr. Rose, seated next to her and making himself the cynosure of the gathering.
"'Well, I never!'" Mr. Rose was saying, imitating the voice of an affronted woman of the upper classes, to the great amusement of those guests seated near him. "And then she tripped on the train of her gown, falling into a servant and sending his tray of glasses crashing to the floor!" A drumming of laughter followed the denouement to the story.
Will did not laugh, watching instead how Catherine smiled, as if she had heard the tale before, and then glanced quickly at those near her, gauging their reactions as if seeking communal approval of this man. Her eyes flicked briefly down to his end of the table, s
quinting a bit, but then her attention went back to Mr. Rose, who had begun another anecdote about life among the upper crust in New York.
"I don't like him at all," Amy whispered at his side.
Surprised, Will turned to the girl with whom he had developed a small friendship during his visits to the house. She would not normally have been allowed to partake of a dinner party at her age, but an exception had been made tonight "Do you speak of Mr. Rose?"
"I don't think he's a nice man."
"He appears to be entertaining everyone very well."
"All he does is mock people. I don't think that's a kind thing to do, do you?"
At the moment, Mr. Rose was doing a wicked impression of an Irish maid who did not understand the workings of water faucets. "No, not especially."
"I don't trust people like that."
"Did he say something cruel to you?" Will asked, catching the fiery look of resentment Amy cast at the man.
"No, it's just… There's just something about him. When we were introduced he said what a 'little doll' I was, and treated me like I was still in short skirts. I think he was even considering giving me a pat on the head. Then he ignored me completely."
"He and your sister make a handsome pair."
"Don't say that!" Amy grimaced, and gave a theatrical shiver of abhorrence. "I shouldn't like to have him as a brother-in-law." She was silent a moment, her dark brows frowning as she stared down the table at the object of her loathing. Then her gaze switched to Will, and her lips curled in a mischievous smile that was a younger version of her sister's. "I would much rather have von for a brother-in-law. Then Catherine wouldn't go off again to New York. She'd stay right here."
Will choked on the swallow of wine he'd just taken, and after he finished coughing, tried to sound nonchalant. "Do you think I'd stand a chance against Mr. Rose?"
"You're a decent-looking fellow, and much nicer."
That didn't sound a ringing endorsement. "Nice" and "decent-looking" had not been known to win female hearts away from the "dashing" or "amusing" "I think your sister is barely aware that I exist. She never looks this way."