Anth - Mistletoe & Magic

by Mistletoe

  "That's because she's half-blind," Amy said.

  "What?"

  "She's nearsighted. Everything beyond about six feet gets blurry, and she refuses to wear eyeglasses. Even if she did look away from that man, she wouldn't be able to tell who was who down here. I do think that if she got to know you, she'd see that you were a much better choice than Mr. Rose. You think she's pretty, don't you?"

  He swallowed, and suddenly found the plaster moulding on the ceiling to be of absorbing interest. "Uh…" he said noncommittally.

  "You must. I think she's beautiful. And you need a wife. There's no one else you've got your heart set on, is there? Wouldn't Catherine do?"

  He brought his eyes back to her intense green ones. "I suppose she might," he admitted.

  Amy beamed at him. "I would be aunt to your children. Isn't that wonderful?"

  Will blinked at her, thinking of the neccessary steps to producing children with Catherine Linwood. "That would be… remarkable."

  Voices from below were audible through the floorboards, the party continuing even as Amy got into her nightgown, shivering in the chilly bedroom. More guests had arrived after dinner, friends stopping by to welcome Catherine back. If she hadn't had school in the morning. Amy knew she would have been allowed to stay up, but she couldn't say she particularly cared to as long as he was here.

  She couldn't put her finger on why, exactly, she did not approve of Mr. Stephen Rose. He seemed to have charmed most everyone, and she should have thought it romantic that he had followed Catherine home, taking up residence in the inn next to the courthouse so that he could be near her. Instead she found herself wondering why the man couldn't go and impose his foul presence on his own family.

  Worst of all had been the glow in Catherine's cheeks as Mr. Rose paid court to her. She deserved better than someone like that. She deserved someone kind and thoughtful, like Mr. Goodman. Even though Catherine was ten years older than Amy, she had never made Amy feel the age difference. She sent gifts from her travels, and wrote letters assiduously. Amy knew she couldn't have asked for a better sister — unless, that is, she had a sister who lived in Woodbridge, instead of in New York and over half of Europe.

  If Catherine married Mr. Rose, she would never settle here, that much was plain. Mr. Rose would be quickly bored and dissatisfied with life in Woodbridge.

  Her only hope was Mr. Goodman. She'd marry him herself if she were old enough, but she loved Catherine enough to sacrifice him to her. He wasn't as tall or handsome as Mr. Rose, and probably nowhere as rich, but he had kind, soft blue eyes that crinkled at the comers with humor. He didn't say much, but one always felt he thought you were important when you spoke to him, and deserving of his attention.

  Not like Mr. Rose.

  But Catherine, she couldn't see the truth of the two men, just as she couldn't see more than six feet in front of her. Mr. Rose had blinded her heart, with his funny stories that made you feel a bit ashamed of yourself for laughing, and with his romantic good looks. How could she ever get her sister to see the pure, hidden light of Mr. Goodman, when Mr. Rose was busy burning like a bonfire?

  A wave of laughter rose up from the parlor below. Amy wanted to stomp her feet in frustration, get all their attention and tell them to throw Mr. Rose back on the train to New York.

  She went to the window, looking out at the snow that had begun to fall once again. The lantern at the end of the front walk was lit, creating a pool of yellow light in which to watch the flakes, blowing in the wind. The neighboring houses, large and white like their own, were dimly visible, one or two windows glowing with lamplight

  If only the snow fairies were real, she'd ask them for help. She had a pure heart, after all, didn't she? She might know about ladies of the night, but she'd never been kissed, and wasn't that supposed to be part of the contract? Wishes were always meant for virginal young girls, and what use was being a virginal young girl if the legends were not true?

  A figure appeared beneath her, coated and hatted, walking down the path away from the house. She knew somehow that it was Mr. Goodman.

  What did it matter that the fairies weren't real? She could still wish, couldn't she?

  She left her room and went to the nursery, long since turned into a work and sewing room for her and her mother. She found a piece of white paper and scissors, and took them back to the slightly warmer confines of her bedroom.

  She folded and snipped the paper, tiny triangles and diamonds of white falling onto her writing desk. Minutes later she unfolded a paper snowflake, airy and delicate. She dipped her pen into ink, and very carefully, in tiny script, wrote her wish upon the spines and crystals of the flake:

  "I wish that Catherine could see Mr. Rose's and Mr. Goodman's characters as they truly are."

  There. That was an honest wish, one that had Catherine's fortune at heart, and not Amy's own selfish desire to have her sister live in the same town Amy loved her birth place, and intended to marry and raise her children here, when the time came. Life would be perfect if Catherine were living here, too.

  She went to the window and raised the sash. The wind blew and blustered, sending flakes dusting into the room, then quickly changed direction, pulling at her hair and dragging tendrils across her cheek.

  She kissed her paper flake, and threw it into the swirling snow. For a moment it dropped, and then it was caught in a gust and danced out away from the window, rising, rising, and she stuck her head out to see it go. Up it went, beyond the reach of the lantern's light, and then she could see it no more. She stayed hanging out the window for a moment more, silently asking the snow fairies to answer her wish.

  Somewhere, in the distance, she could hear the faint jingling of sleigh bells.

  "Are you asleep?" Catherine whispered, sitting on the side of her own bed, feeling weary now that the party was over. the lamp on the dresser across the room was turned low.

  Amy's eyes opened, and she smiled, her young features barely visible in the dim light. "What time is it?"

  "Nearly one AM. Everyone has gone."

  "Mr. Rose, too?"

  "To the Woodbridge Inn. He says he'll stay there through New Year's, although he'll have to go see relatives in Boston for a bit."

  "Why did he come, Cath?"

  "What a silly question!" Catherine said. "To see me, of course."

  "Doesn't it seem a bit strange to you, his following you here? It makes him seem like a dog without a home of his own."

  "Of course he has a home of his own, and family, too. Don't you like him?"

  "Are all the men in New York the same as him?"

  "The same, how?"

  Amy shrugged.

  "Come, you needn't worry about hurting my feelings," Catherine said. "You don't have to like him just because I do. What's wrong with him?"

  "He's not right for you. I don't think he's a good man."

  Amy's words touched a deep, hidden doubt about Mr. Rose that Catherine had harbored for weeks, and she reacted against them. "You don't even know him. He's very attentive to me, and mere is no scandal attached to his name. Why should you not think him good?"

  Amy gave another shrug, barely discernible beneath the blankets humped over her shoulder.

  "I think he's quite delightful, really," Catherine said crossly, and went to the dresser and began to remove her jewelry. "It was terribly romantic of him to come all this way to be near me. He charmed everyone who met him tonight. Even Papa seemed to like him."

  "Papa seems to like everyone, but if you ask him, it's not always the case."

  "I shall ask him," Catherine snapped. She tried to reach the buttons running up her back, and after a few futile tries gave a little huff of frustration and went back to Amy. "Give me a hand with these, will you?" she asked, presenting her back.

  "Don't be angry with me," Amy said softly, as she sat up and went to work on the fabric-covered buttons.

  Catherine's head bowed under the weight of that gentle plea. "I'm not, darling," she said quie
tly, and when the last of the buttons came free she turned and sat on the edge of Amy's bed, meeting her sister's eyes. "I'm tired of waiting, is all. I don't know if you can understand that. I like Mr. Rose better than I've liked any other suitable gentleman I've met, and I want to believe that he is the one for me, so I can finally stop looking. I want all of you to like him, so that I will know I made the right choice if I marry him."

  "I only want you to be happy," Amy said.

  Catherine smiled, and couldn't explain why Amy's words put the sting of tears in her eyes.

  Chapter Three

  "Catherine, you have a package!" Amy exclaimed, bounding into the kitchen, still wearing her coat and hat. The cold, clear air of the outdoors came with her, caught in the folds of her coat, streamers of it invading the warmth of the kitchen.

  "Who's it from?" Catherine asked, setting her rolling pin aside and wiping her floury hands on her apron. She was wearing a blouse and skirt, but the skirt's train had become such a trial in the kitchen that at last she had pinned it up, the peacock-blue material twisted into an awkward pouch behind her knees. The heat from the ovens had brought out a fine sheen of perspiration on her skin, and tendrils of hair stuck to the sides of her face and neck. She was enjoying herself thoroughly, her mind having been lost for hours in the immediacy of dough and spices, fruit and sugars as she worked alongside the family's taciturn cook, Mrs. Ames. there was a French apple tart cooling on the racks, as well as a variety of cookies.

  "It doesn't say. Here," Amy said, extending the small package toward her. "Ginger cookies!" she then cried, spotting her favorites, and quickly nabbed one off the cooling racks as Mrs. Ames raised a wooden spoon in mock warning.

  Catherine took the package, examining the neat copperplate writing addressing it to herself. there was no oilier mark on the brown paper wrapping, nothing to say from whence it had come. "Where did you find it? The mail has already come today."

  "Perhaps he forgot this, and came back. It was on the front step."

  Catherine turned it over in her hands, then with a facial shrug took a knife and cut through the string. She unwrapped the paper, and into her hand fell a flat box about six inches long, and less than half as wide. It was padded on its outside, and covered with a pale blue silk that shifted to silver when she tilted it. There were silver hinges at the back. "Curiouser and curiouser," Catherine said, then opened the lid.

  On a bed of white satin sat a pair of spectacles. She pursed her lips, then slid her gaze sideways to Amy, who was standing beside her, eagerly peeling in, cookie held to her lips.

  Amy looked up at her, catching her suspicious stare. "1 didn't send them! Honest!"

  Catherine looked back at the spectacles. No, Amy would not have had the money to buy them. The frames were gold, and so finely wrought that Catherine doubted their practicality. It would take barely a nudge, surely, to bend the ear pieces out of shape. The lenses themselves looked too thin to withstand a puff of air.

  There was something written on the inside of the lid. She tilted it, and brought it closer to her face. Spelled out in gold embroidery she read:

  See far

  And see near

  But let your heart's

  Sight be clear

  She repeated it aloud for the benefit of Amy and Mrs. Ames. "What do you suppose that means?" she asked, genuinely puzzled now.

  "Put them on," Amy said, her voice tight.

  Catherine glanced at her, noting the intensity of her expression. "My eyesight is not half as bad as you think it is. I assure you, I can see well enough to make my way around the kitchen without falling into the fire."

  "Please, let me see them on you," Amy asked, pleading.

  "My hands are dirty. I'll try them later," Catherine said, and shut the box with a snap. Why was her family forever after her to wear eyeglasses? She could see what was in front of her, and wasn't that all anyone needed? It wasn't like she was a hunter who needed to spot a deer two hundred yards away. "Perhaps Aunt Frances sent them," she mused aloud.

  An hour later, with the last batch of cookies in the oven, Catherine went up to the room she shared with Amy. She opened the pale blue box and looked down at the spectacles, frowning, wondering if they truly were from Aunt Frances. the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed Her aunt was as eager as she to let vanity overrule practicality in the matter.

  She set the box down and took out the spectacles, carefully unfolding the ear pieces. She had her own pair of eyeglasses, but they were graceless, heavy things compared to these. With a glance at the door to check that Amy was not waiting and watching, she put them on.

  And took in a startled breath.

  The room around her was crisp and perfect. She blinked, and stared, and turned her head left and right. Her own spectacles improved her vision, but only slightly. They were nothing like this.

  Good heavens, she thought, is this how everyone else sees the world? It was no wonder her family implored her to wear eyeglasses, if so.

  She went to the window, and looked out across the narrow front yard and the street, to the large white houses opposite, with their black shutters and doors, and the brass knockers surrounded by green wreaths. the bare trees were frosted with snow where the wind had not blown it off, and above it all the clouds were delicate streamers of candy floss across a blue-white sky. She felt tears start in her eyes. She had never in her life seen the details of real clouds, only how artists had chosen to depict them in paintings.

  These spectacles were magic, pure and simple.

  She would never take them off. She would sit here until the stars came out, and the moon, and she would see its shadowed craters for herself. She would walk in the woods, and see birds fly from tree to tree. She would go into town, and read shop signs from a block away. She would see everything as it was for the first time in her life!

  She had been staring awestruck at the drifting forms of the clouds for she didn't know how long when a movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned, and coming down the sidewalk was Mr. Rose, in his elegant topcoat and hat, swinging an ebony cane.

  She pulled away from the window, her hand going to her hair. She went to the cheval mirror, and when she looked into her own face saw something she wasn't expecting. Her eyes were sad and uneasy, not at all the way she thought she felt at this moment. She leaned closer to the minor, looking into her amber-brown eyes, and as a knock came at the door below something of panic flared deep within them.

  It was the eyeglasses, it had to be. She took them off, and immediately she looked like her usual self again, cheery and at ease. There must be something in the shape of the frames that gave her that illusion of looking like an unhappy mouse. She could not have Mr. Rose seeing her that way.

  She snapped the lid shut on the spectacles, tucked up the straying wisps of her hair, and went down to greet him.

  "You must find Woodbridge very quiet after New York," she heard Mama saying as she came down the stairs.

  "There is a certain rustic charm to the village, almost as if it were caught in a past century," Mr. Rose said. "It's quite restful. One needn't worry that one is going to miss anything of interest."

  "Indeed," Mama said.

  "Mama is a director of the Woodbridge Drama Club," Catherine said, coming into the sitting room. "Everyone looks forward to the plays they put on. Many would be sorry indeed to miss one of their productions."

  Mr. Rose made a half bow of apology toward Mama. "I can only imagine that the plays must be a great delight to the audience, with such a mistress at the helm. You bring elegance to all that you touch."

  Mama's cheeks pinkened, and Catherine wondered if it was in pleasure or because Mama found the flattery a trifle fulsome. "Thank you, Mr. Rose. Now if you'll both excuse me, I must talk with Mrs. Ames about dinner," she said, and left them alone.

  "Now why are you frowning at me, my precious lily?" Mr. Rose asked, coming to her and taking both of her hands in his own. "Are you not h
appy to see me?"

  Catherine smoothed away the frown she had not known she was wearing, and gave him a smile. "Of course I am. I just hope you are not finding Woodbridge to be terribly boring"

  "I look upon it as an adventure into the wilds, worth enduring for the pleasure of one native's company," he said, looking deeply into her eyes.

  She laughed nervously, and broke the gaze. "Did you notice the portrait on the wall, there?" she asked, seeking to divert his attention.

  "The watercolor? Yes, I could not help but recognize your inimitable style. Was she truly cross-eyed, or was that your own special touch?"

  Catherine tried to smile at the jest, going over to get a closer look at the portrait she had done of her grandmother when she herself was twelve. At the time she had not yet mastered the three-quarter profile of a face, and her grandmother did indeed look as if her eyes were not in concert with each other. One shoulder was higher than it should have been, and the hands were in an unnatural posture. Her grandmother had died a few months after the portrait was painted, though, and she knew her mother treasured it for reasons other than its artistry.

  "It doesn't show much promise for my future as a portrait painter, does it?"

  "Don't tell me you still intend to dabble?"

  She shrugged. Mr. Rose, she sensed, would not be one to put one of her artworks on the wall for sentimental reasons. He'd likely be embarrassed for his friends or family to see such a thing, for they might doubt his aesthetic sensibilities. She wondered if he was thinking a little less of her, now that he saw she came from a town that was uncultured and provincial in comparison to the great cities of Boston and New York, from whence his own ancestors had sprung.

  Mr. Rose's superior sense of what was fashionable and in good taste had been part of what had drawn her to him. He was so much more cultured and finely bred than she, she had gladly relied upon his aesthetic opinions to guide her, and had trusted his judgment as being more discerning than her own. She was afraid of appearing lacking in his eyes, an object worthy of his mocking ridicule, and in New York had constantly, subtly, sought his approval. She was surprised by the stab of resentment she now felt toward him, at his dismissal—- however warranted— of her watercolor painting.