Anth - Mistletoe & Magic

by Mistletoe

  "I was thinking we might take a stroll. You can explain to me this fine metropolis where you were raised," he said, and waggled his eyebrows comically at her, lightening the mood, and sweeping away the shadowed thoughts that lurked in her mind. "Only, I do hope it is not the fashion here to go about in public with one's skirts pinned up behind."

  She felt a bum in her cheeks, and excused herself to go let down the train of her skirt.

  Chapter Four

  The air was bright and chill, her breath freezing in her nose. A light dusting of snow last night had renewed the sparkling beauty of winter, concealing the dirty slush that had been accumulating along sidewalks and roadsides. Catherine pulled the door of the house shut behind her, and felt her heart lift at being outside and alone. Mr. Rose, who had danced attendance on her almost every day, had gone to Boston to pay a visit to cousins, and would not be back for a week. Amy was in school, Papa at the lumberyard. Mama was planning meals with Mrs. Ames, and training the new maid. She was on her own,

  Once out of sight of the house, Catherine reached into her reticule for the box that held her spectacles. Mama and Papa had denied buying them, as had her brother, Robert. Mr. Rose she had not even asked, knowing instinctively what the answer would be. She had put them on once for Amy, and it had almost broken her heart how clear the hope and youth were upon her sister's face.

  She had not yet come to terms with wearing them regularly. It was something she had resisted for so many years, she could not bring herself to give in so quickly to the seduction of that crystal vision. At least, she could not give in before her family, who had been pestering her for so long to wear eyeglasses. In private was different, and so was alone in public. Half the faces in Woodbridge might be familiar to her, but with the exception of her lifelong friends, no one else knew of her battle against ocular assistance.

  The street her family lived on was only a five-minute walk from the center of town. She put on the spectacles, and felt a thrill race across her skin as the world leaped into focus. the picket fences, the bare maple and oak trees, the brook that was visible at the backs of several houses, miming down to join the Ottauquechee River, it was all perfectly etched in sunlight and snow.

  Her skill swished along the sidewalk, the train and underskirt gathering matted clumps of snow. She knew she was smiling like a fool as she turned onto Elm Street and headed toward town. Houses gave way to shops, and then she was at the intersection with Central Street, where the tall iron fountain for watering horses stood like an island in the middle of a stream. the water was frozen now, she could see that even from the edge of the road.

  She was about to turn right, to make a circuit of the village green, but her eye was caught by bright colors in the nearest shop window. She stepped closer, putting up her hand to the glass to cut out the glare, and peered in at the Christmas cards on display. They were a reminder that she had yet to buy any, and that her Christmas shopping was only half done. She went in.

  Cinnamon-scented warmth greeted her, and for an instant she wondered if she had stepped into someone's kitchen. A woodstove sat at the center of the room, and on the braided red rug in front of it sat four or five children, all listening raptly as a girl only a few years older read to them from a picture book. The girl sat in a rocker, her black-booted feet several inches above the floor.

  Catherine moved closer to the stove, and saw that a vat of spiced cider sat simmering there, cups and cookies on a tray to the side, apparently for the customers to take as they pleased. She realized then that she had been in this store once before, a summer a few years ago, but only for a few minutes. It had been lemonade on offer at that time, and meringue cookies,

  She moved away from the stove, listening with half an ear as the girl read her story, and gazed at the goods stacked upon the shelves and arranged under the glass counters. She had seen goods in stores before, but never all at once, the sheet music twenty feet away as plain to her vision as the roll of ribbon in front of her. There was a young clerk helping a woman across the room, and up on a ladder a boy was arranging cans. A few other shoppers milled about.

  Catherine wandered through a doorway into a room displaying house wares, then into another with dry goods. She heard an odd, irregular rapping sound coming from behind a curtained doorway, and idly wandered toward it, her curiosity prompting her to pull the edge of the curtain aside and see what was making the noise.

  A man stood in a storeroom, facing half away from her. In his hand was a can of peaches, and as she watched he turned it slightly, then with a hammer whacked a dent into the side of it. He set it in a box along with several others, then searched the shelves. It was potted beef this time that fell to the hammer.

  She stared, transfixed by the odd behavior. He was slightly taller than average, his frame strong, his hair a dark brownish blond. When he turned the right way she could see part of his face, and could not help but think that it was a good countenance, something level and steady in his features that spoke of a well-grounded man. The impression made it all the more difficult to understand what he was doing

  "Pardon me, sir," Catherine found herself saying, and the man tensed. "Is the owner of the shop aware that you are damaging his goods?"

  He turned around, and she met the loveliest pair of soft blue eyes she had ever seen. It was as if the first warmth of spring resided within them, and she was struck speechless.

  "Miss Linwood," he said, his cheeks taking on a faint tinge of pink. "You've surprised me."

  "I beg your pardon—" she began, then stopped herself. "Mr. Goodman?" she asked, astonished, and not at all certain the name she had dredged out of her memory was the right one. Surely if she had been introduced to this man once before, she would be more certain of it. She could not have forgotten him!

  "Did Robert not tell you that this was my store?" he asked.

  "Oh! I see!" But she did not see. Her eyes went again to the box of canned goods,

  He grimaced "I don't suppose you could pretend not to have seen me doing that?" he asked.

  "It is no business of mine what you do with your goods," she replied. "I should not have disturbed you in the first place. My apologies, Mr. Goodman. Good day." She started to let the curtain fall back into place.

  "Wait!"

  She opened the curtain again. "Yes, Mr. Goodman?"

  He put his hammer down atop a box. "Was there something you were looking for?"

  "Excuse me?

  "In the store," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the room behind her.

  "Oh. Well, yes. Christmas cards. I have suddenly recalled that I have yet to write a single one. Those in your window are quite lovely."

  He came toward her, and she stepped out of the way, feeling suddenly a trifle embarrassed that this man she had met in her own home was now going to wait on her in his shop. It felt a peculiar and awkward situation.

  "I ordered them from Louis Prang, the lithographer in Boston. I wasn't certain they would sell well. Not so many here have caught on yet to the fashion of sending them."

  She let him lead her back to the front room, and to the small collection of cards. One was of a girl lighting candles on a tree, one of a striped stocking stuffed with toys, there was a trio of trumpeting angels, and last a row of tiny toddlers alternating with songbirds on a branch, with the title "A Christmas Carol." Mr. Rose would have chosen the trumpeting angels, she was certain, but the silly, sentimental toddlers made her smile. "These will do, I think," she said. "Could I have sixty?"

  His eyebrows went up. "You'll have cramped fingers when you're done with that lot."

  1 suppose I shall."

  He began to count out the cards, but was interrupted by a raw female voice.

  "Mr. Goodman! There you are. Where is my order? I've been waiting these past twenty minutes, wondering where you'd gone off to."

  He paused in his counting, casting a wide-eyed look at Catherine.

  "Go ahead," Catherine said. Til count them out myself."


  "I'll be back in a moment. Do forgive me."

  She nodded, and took his place at the drawer of cards, her mind only partially on what she was doing. From the comer of her eye she watched him hurry to the discontented woman, confer with her for a moment, and then disappear into one of the back rooms.

  She had her cards counted out by the time he came back, carrying the small crate with the dented cans and placing it on the wooden counter next to several oilier goods, most of which were already wrapped in brown paper and string Catherine moved slowly closer, keeping her eyes averted, her ears straining to catch their exchange.

  "It's a good thing there are people like me who are willing to take damaged goods off your hands," the woman was saying.

  "Indeed I am fortunate in that regard," Mr. Goodman said. "Every shopkeeper knows that it would not do to have such as these sitting on the shelves, giving an impression of poor quality. You, however, are a Vermont woman through and through, and know the value of your money."

  She sniffed, her chin going up. "A pretty can makes no difference to me, so long as the contents are as they should be. Half off, you say?"

  "One third."

  The woman grumbled, then nodded her consent. Catherine surreptitiously looked the woman over, noting the faded fabric of her skirt and her aged coat, the seam at the corner of the pocket having clearly been mended. Her eyes went back to the woman's face, and the tough jawed pride evident there, and finally comprehended Mr. Goodman's peculiar behavior with the hammer.

  Mr. Goodman called over one of the younger clerks to finish wrapping the woman's parcels, and then he came back to her.

  I've taken half your cards," Catherine said as he came up to her.

  "No matter," he said, pulling out a sheet of paper and stacking the cards neatly in the center. He would not meet her eye, his attention all upon the engrossing task of wrapping her Christmas cards. She thought she could detect a tinge of red color in his neck and cheeks, contrasting with his white collar. A lock of his hair fell forward over his brow.

  He doesn't like anyone knowing what he does, she intuitively understood. He'd rather people thought him a poor businessman, than that they be aware of Ins charitable nature. How very peculiar.

  "I'll put these on your family's account, then," he said, tying the string and finally looking at her.

  "Yes, thank you." It would save the awkwardness of handing him money, turning him into a clerk who waited upon her. "I must congratulate you on your store, Mr. Goodman. The stores in New York may be larger, but they have not half the atmosphere of congeniality as yours."

  "Thank you, Miss Linwood," he said, and favored her with a smile that transformed his face, taking his regular features for a moment into the realm of masculine beauty. Coupled with that warm gaze, it was a powerful combination.

  Something stirred deep within her, a gentle shifting of she knew not what. She gave an uncertain smile, and picked up her package, suddenly feeling ill at ease and eager to be gone. "Good day, Mr. Goodman."

  "Good day, Miss Linwood. I do hope we meet again soon."

  Will watched her as she left his store, the sleigh bells he had put above the door for Christmas jingling at her departure. He saw her pause outside the door for a moment, then turn to the right, toward the village green. When the last glimpse of her figure, gowned in dark chocolate brown and a coat edged in mink, disappeared from sight, his shoulders sagged. He gave a quiet moan and grimaced, hitting himself upon the forehead with the heel of his hand.

  What a dolt she must think him. Hammering at his own cans, babbling on about Boston lithographers and Christmas cards— what did she care if his cards sold well, or where they came from?— men grinning like a simpleton when she had complimented his store. "I do hope we meet again soon," he'd said, eager as a puppy. "You'll have cramped fingers."

  "Did Robot not tell you this was my store?" Lord save him from himself. He must seem crude as clay in comparison to the urbane Mr. Rose.

  "Joshua!" he called, and a moment later the ten-year-old appeared from a back room. "I think we're in need of Christmas greenery. Round up a couple of your friends, and we'll take the wagon into the woods to fetch some."

  "Yes, sir?" Joshua whooped, and ran for his coat.

  "Ann, do you want to stay or come with us?" he asked the girl who was sitting in the rocker.

  "I'll stay if I may, Mr. Goodman."

  He nodded, having expected the answer. He'd never known a child more in love with books. "Give Mr. Jones a shout if you need anything," he told her.

  He barked orders to his clerks, desperate now to escape the shop. Heat burned his cheeks at the thought of his encounter with Miss Linwood, and it seemed the only way to extinguish it was to throw himself into the cold of outdoors. He couldn't stand to remain here at the scene of his humiliation, replaying it over and over in his mind.

  "Did you want to make those deliveries, since you'll be out?" Greg, one of his clerks, asked.

  "Yes, fine." It was an excuse to stay outdoors even longer, so he might as well.

  It was half an an hour before the team was hitched, the orders loaded, and the boys all installed with blankets amidst the groceries, gunnysacks, pinning shears, and handsaws. Will pulled on his monstrous bearskin coat and matching hat, and climbed up onto the buckboard. Behind him, the boys were already bragging about what they'd buy with their wages from the outing, their daydreaming far outmatching their imagined income. Their enthusiasm brought a half-smile to his face. He remembered what it was like to be ten and fundless, and how exciting the prospect of earning pocket money could be.

  As his mood lightened, his bumbling with Miss Linwood began to seem less of an irretrievable tragedy. She had said she liked his store. She had been quite complimentary on that score, and that was after all the rest, including leaving her to count out sixty cards herself. He clicked to the horses and gave them a light slap of the reins, and the wagon lumbered out from behind the store and onto Elm Street.

  She had not recognized him immediately, but he imagined he must look different to her now that she was wearing spectacles. Perhaps Amy was correct, and Miss Linwood had never properly seen him at all. He thought she looked quite fetching in those fine gold frames, her liquid brown eyes gazing intently and, he assumed, clearly. He felt, somehow, that the spectacles made her a fraction more accessible to him, and a bit less an untouchable angel from another realm.

  A bobbing set of feathers and a swishing brown skirt, dragging in the snow like the tail of an exotic bird, caught his eye. His heartbeat thundered, and perspiration broke out under the heavy bearskin. Ridiculous! He had but barely made her acquaintance, and he was mooning over her as if he were in love.

  He slapped the reins again, the horses picking up to a trot. He eased them over to her side of the street, and slowed their pace.

  "Miss Linwood!" he called, not giving himself a chance to think better of what he was about to do. "Miss Linwood!

  She turned, stopping, her expression one of utter surprise. "Mr. Goodman!"

  He was calling to her on the street from a wagon buckboard. He knew it was not the behavior of a gentleman to a lady. He drew the horses to a complete halt. "Miss Linwood! We're going up to the woods to gather greenery. Would you care to join us?"

  She gaped at him, eyes going to the wagon load of boys, then back to his bear skinned self

  He welcomed the gaping. Let her see that he was not Mr. Rose! Let her reject him outright, and avoid his company forever after, thus freeing him of any hope that she might someday greet his arrival with the same pleasure she had shown for her wealthy suitor.

  I—

  He waited. Let the ax fall swiftly, the stroke clean!

  "I suppose I might," she said.

  Oh, good lord. He sat frozen for long seconds, immobilized by those simple words of acceptance. What new hell had he bought himself, full of false hopes?

  Dazed, he jumped down from the buckboard and took her parcels, handing them up to one of the boys
. "Miss Linwood, may I introduce to you Joshua, Tommy, Eli, and George."

  "My pleasure," she said, nodding her head to the lot.

  the boys had fallen silent, shy where moments before they'd been swaggering young cocks. He remembered that feeling as well, and wished it were further in his past. Miss Linwood was neither sister nor classmate, mother nor teacher. She was a woman full-grown and lovely to look upon, and the boys were scared to death.

  There was a mumbled, barely discernible chorus of "Nice to meet you." Will helped her up onto the buckboard, then climbed up beside her. He snagged a blanket from the wagon bed, and unfolded it over her lap.

  She smiled at him, arranged her skills, then settled her gloved hands atop the blanket, her back straight as if held by an iron yardstick. "I had been intending to see the woods," she said. "Thank you for inviting me to join your excursion."

  "The pleasure is mine," he said, and put the wagon in motion.

  Catherine swayed with the motion of the wagon, and held her chin up. As Aunt Frances had said, one could do the slightly scandalous as long as one behaved as a lady whilst one did it. She was chaperoned by four young boys, and Mr. Goodman was a friend of the family. There was no reason she should not be sitting here.

  She felt her lips twitch. Aunt Frances would not have approved, however much she tried to persuade herself otherwise. One did not ride wagons into the countryside with men of brief acquaintance.

  So why had she said yes? To see the woods through her new spectacles without her family to observe her, perhaps. Perhaps because she hadn't felt like returning home yet, despite the cold that had seeped through her thin boots and was numbing her toes. Perhaps, just perhaps, because Mr. Goodman had piqued her curiosity, and now that that instant of startled attraction had faded, she wanted to know a little more about him.

  She turned her head slightly, trying to watch him without appearing to. He looked like a flustered bear, his blue eyes peering out with consternation from beneath his bushy black hat. He appeared, now that he had her in his wagon, to be not entirely certain of what to do with her. Mr. Rose would never have been at such a loss. It gave her a sense of power, to think that for once she was the one with the greater social ease. She was the one who was one step ahead, whereas she never was with Mr. Rose.