by Mistletoe
Mr. Goodman looked what he was, a shopkeeper in a town of middling size, shorter and broader than Mr. Rose, his coloring unremarkable. On the surface, there was nothing to set him apart from the dentist three doors down, or one of the innumerable law clerks at the courthouse.
Then his eyes met hers, and in an instant she found what she had seen before: kindness and understanding, humor that crinkled the comers of his eyes, and a quiet happiness in the soft blue depths that drew her with its promise.
"We saw you wave from across the green," Mr. Rose explained, then took a considering look around the front room. "I've never seen a store like this. I almost want to steal the rocker from that old man, and settle down for a nap myself. You should take your business to New York. Such a style of store would make shopping a great deal more pleasant for gentlemen forced to accompany their ladies. You would make a fortune!" Catherine felt certain Mr. Rose was offering false flattery. He preferred his shops to have marble floors, and clerks who fawned.
"Neither I nor my store are made for a large city. The pace here pleases me quite well," Mr. Goodman said, and then added with a straight face, "My only regret is that there is no front porch on which old men can whittle and play checkers in the summer."
Mr. Rose stared at Mr. Goodman for long seconds, and then burst out laughing, slapping him on the shoulder. "There's more going on than meets the eye with you, isn't there?"
Catherine found herself embarrassed for Mr. Rose and Mr. Goodman both, for what they must think of each other. She sensed a wire-thin tension between them, growing stronger by the minute. She shifted in discomfort.
"I am no more than you see," Mr. Goodman said. "I should very much like to continue our conversation, but I'm afraid I must man the counter. Miss Linwood," he said, bowing his head toward her. "Mr. Rose."
"Mr. Goodman," she said in parting, hoping he could see in her eyes that she regretted the subtle incivility of this encounter. the comer of his left eye twitched, in the bare hint of a wink, and she tightened her lips to keep from smiling.
"I'm in need of new gloves," Mr. Rose said to her as Mr. Goodman went back to his counter. "Do you suppose I might find some here that suit me?" he asked, and began to drift toward the glass-topped counters with their drawers of goods beneath.
"I told Mama I would not be gone long," Catherine said. "Would you mind terribly if we returned to the house?" She felt that Mr. Rose was but looking for the chance to find fault with the store, for no preordered gloves would pass the judgment of a man who had his sewn for his hands alone, at a cost ten times that of those to be found here. She could not bear the thought of standing by while he had Mr. Goodman bring out pair after pair, each found wanting, except for maybe one that he would deign to buy, if only to put Mr. Goodman more firmly in the ungentlemanly role of merchant by placing money in his hand.
"As you wish," he agreed amiably, and held out his hand for her to see the small place where the stitching in his glove had come undone. "I'll return later on my own."
She closed her eyes, shamed by her own thoughts about Mr. Rose and his motivations. She could no longer tell what was real, and what was imagined from her own doubts.
They walked back to her house, the sidewalks shoveled clear of snow but slick spots still making her glad to have Mr. Rose's arm for support. She wished she could wear her spectacles, and enjoy the light of the early afternoon sun on the snow.
At her door Mr. Rose stopped her when she would have reached for the latch, gently turning her to face him as they stood on the step. "You know that I care for you, don't you, Catherine?" he said, his gloved fingers touching lightly at the side of her cheek. It was the first time he had used her given name, and she was too struck by the look in his dark eyes to protest the familiarity.
Was this what love looked like? He gazed at her with pleading, as if she were the sun, and all his world would be winter without her. It seemed to her in that moment that despite his wealth and good looks, despite his social standing and charm, he needed her to save him from some dark emptiness hidden deep within.
She took hold of the hand touching her cheek, and squeezed it. "You have become a dear friend," she told him. Propriety limited her to such a gentle declaration, but she did not know if she could in truth have said more. She was thankful she did not have the option, and thus was not forced to reject it with him gazing at her in such away.
"I brought you a gift," he said, and reached into a pocket inside his coat.
"I could not—"
"Please, Catherine," he said, taking out a small package wrapped in red paper. "Do not decline me this pleasure. Take it."
Reluctantly, she took it from his hand and held it against her chest, feeling that her acceptance was creating a tie by which she did not wish to be bound. "Thank you. Shall I open it now?"
He touched her cheek again, briefly. "Open it later."
She nodded. He smiled, and leaned closer. Her eyes widened and she tensed, sensing that he wanted to kiss her. A moment later he had leaned away again, and then was leaving, touching the brim of his hat to her as he sauntered down the path. She stared after him, and then, not wanting him to turn and catch her doing so, she quickly let herself into the house, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"Catherine, is that you?" Mama called from the small sitting room that served as her office.
"Yes, Mama." She followed her mother's voice, finding her sitting at her desk with various lists and Christmas cards spread over it.
"No matter how much one accomplishes in preparation for Christmas, there is always something more to do," Mama complained as she came into the room. Catherine dropped the gift and her coat on the small settee, then went to the fire and lifted the front of her skirts to let the heat reach her legs. "It seems I spend the entire month of December preparing, and then when it is all over I spend another month cleaning up. It gets worse every year. We didn't have Christmas trees when I was a little girl, you know. things were much simpler. And now there are cards I must send as well! 'Twas an evil fellow who dreamed that up."
"You must let me help you more."
Mama waved her hand, shooing away her concern. "I have it all organized up here," she said, and tapped her temple. "I have your duties mapped out, do not worry yourself on that score. What's that?" she asked then, spotting the red box.
Catherine let her skirts drop and sat on the settee, lifting the box onto her lap. "A gift from Mr. Rose. He insisted I take it."
"Did he?" Mama said, brows raised suggestively.
Catherine undid the ribbon, pulled off the paper, then opened the flat box inside. "Oh," she said softly. Mama was craning her head trying to see, so she lifted the hair comb out of the box.
"Good gracious," Mama said.
"Indeed." The long comb was carved of tortoiseshell, and set with cabochons of a clear yellow stone. She did not know enough to tell what the stones were, but given Mr. Rose's wealth, she doubted he had bought her polished glass.
"It's lovely, and Mr. Rose has exquisite taste, but Catherine…"
"I know, Mama." Although neither Mania nor Aunt Frances had ever expressed any rules of etiquette specifically concerning hair combs, the item was perilously close to jewelry, and as such was far too personal a gift. Wearing it in her hair would, in some way, be like inviting Mr. Rose to touch her hair himself "Should I return it to him?"
Mama was silent, a frown on her forehead as she considered. "He might take that as a rejection of more than just his gift."
"I know." She put the comb back in its box, and set it aside, then slouched down against the settee, her corset holding her torso straight even as her chin doubled, settling atop her chest. She let her hands flop to her sides.
"Catherine?" Mama said, coming over to sit beside her. "Has something changed since last we spoke of Mr. Rose?"
She flexed her hands in a minimal-effort shrug. "I don't know. Perhaps." She frowned, and rolled her head to the side to look at Mama. "I fear he is much more attach
ed to me than I to him. He has put his heart on his sleeve, and I find myself wishing he would put it back inside his vest, out of sight. Why, Mama? Why should I feel that way? He is handsome and charming and rich, and I should be delighted that he has lost his heart to me. Is mere something amiss with my own heart, that I do not respond as I should?"
"Perhaps he is not the man for you, and your heart knows it."
"I must be a very spoiled sort of girl if I am not satisfied with the likes of Mr. Rose. Perhaps the next man who catches my interest, I will grow tired of just as quickly. Mr. Rose has everything: Why have I lost my regard for him?"
"Catherine, you cannot force yourself to love someone simply because he seems to everyone else to be a perfect choice. If you do not love the man, then all the good looks and money in the world are not going to make you happy."
"I am not completely certain I could not love him," she said doubtfully. "And I do like him very much. Or I did. I do not understand why I have lately found myself so annoyed by his presence."
Mama patted her on the knee. 'I think you will come to the right decision in time concerning Mr. Rose."
"What do you think I should do, Mama?"
Her mother smiled cryptically. "It would be of no use for me to say. Rest assured, when you come to your own conclusion, it will likely be the same I would have advised."
"Sometimes it is comforting being told what to do."
"And when have you ever wanted to do what you were told? No, I shall save myself the trouble and let you figure this out for yourself. If you want the comfort of being told what to do, you may smile prettily while I give you your chores tomorrow."
Chapter Six
"Mr. Rose isn't coming with us, is he?" Amy asked, fastening the side buttons on her skating skirt. They were in their bedroom, dressing for the outdoors.
"I did not invite him, although I think perhaps I should have."
"Why would you have wanted to do that?"
"Amy! Because it would have been a small enough gesture, especially as the poor man has been alone here all this week, thanks to me." After giving her the hair comb, Mr. Rose had come daily to the house inviting her to walk or go for a sleigh ride, but each time she had put him off with protestations that there was too much to do in preparation for the holiday. She had not even let him in the house, or offered refreshments, her discomfort with the gift and all it implied making her uncomfortable in his presence, and yet she was too cowardly to be frank about her feelings. After several days of such treatment, he had ceased calling.
For the past few days Catherine had been free of either the sight or sound of Mr. Rose, but with his absence had come a sense of guilt and obligation toward the man, for he had only made the journey to Woodbridge because of her, and had held her in high enough regard to pour out the secrets of his heart. It had been callous of her to brush him off as she had, and with no explanation. She had formerly believed herself a friend to the man, and knew she owed him a face-to-face conversation on what could and could not be between them.
The guilt she felt over her unspoken rejection of Mr. Rose was only compounded by her growing attraction to Mr. Goodman. For the past week her only break from making wreaths, ornaments, centerpieces, and decorated cookies had been walks to Mr. Goodman's store to purchase items that she convinced herself were utterly necessary to the completion of the projects Mama had set for her. She had taken to dawdling there, chatting with him when he was free, or watching him help a customer from the comer of her eye if he was busy, as she pretended to page through the most recent Harper's Weekly. Yesterday she had made certain to mention, as if in passing, that she and Amy would be skating today.
She wondered if Mr. Goodman thought her a pest, or at least a trifle strange, to be spending so much time in his store. She was likely making a spectacle of herself to those who noticed her repeated, lingering presence, but Mr. Goodman himself showed no sign of thinking her visits remarkable. He treated her, she supposed, with the same kindness with which he treated everyone. When he looked at her, there was no hint of the needydog look that had haunted Mr. Rose's eyes as he declared his love to her. Mr. Goodman was self-contained, and for all that his character was clear to see on his face, his innermost passions were still private.
She pushed her spectacles up her nose. She had started wearing them earlier in the week, and after a few surprised comments, her family had largely forgotten them, acting after a day or two as if she had always worn them. Except for Amy, that is. Catherine thought her sister possessed of an obsessive fascination with the spectacles, and Amy had given a wide-eyed shiver of excitement when Catherine had let her try them on.
"Are you two ready, then?" Papa called up the stairs. "The horse will freeze to death if it has to wait much longer."
Catherine rolled her eyes, and caught Amy doing the same. Papa liked to blame an animal for his impatience or bad temper, whenever the situation allowed.
Papa dropped them from the buggy at the edge of the road, the pond no more than a hundred yards off. A dozen or more townsfolk, children and adults, were already there, skating round the oblong that had been cleared of snow.
They trudged down the path to the side of the pond, and sat upon the logs that had been arranged there for putting on skates. A fire had been built behind one of the other logs, to warm those who either tired or had come only to watch. Catherine searched the skaters for an upright bear, disappointed when there was none to be seen. The disappointment lessened when she took a moment to remind herself what a wonder it was to be able to see the faces of skaters thirty feet away. She was in danger already of taking her new clarity of vision for granted.
"Have I caught you coming or going?" a familiar voice asked, as a bulk of bearskin sat down next to Amy.
"Mr. Goodman!" Amy exclaimed. "We've just arrived. It's been ages since Catherine skated here, you know."
"Has it now?"
"'Twould be best if you showed her which places to avoid." And then, all innocence, "Is that Becky over there?" she asked, peering across the pond. She finished fastening her skates onto her boots, and stood up. "You don't mind if I go join her, do you, Cath?"
Catherine raised her brows at her. "No, not at all," she said, and Amy skated off.
"Did that wire work as you wished, for the wreaths?" Mr. Goodman asked companionably as he bent down to put on his own skates. It was as if they were simply carrying on where their conversation had left off the day before in the store.
"It was just what I needed, thank you. Papa is using what was left for fastening the candles to the tree." Had Mr. Goodman come to the pond because she had told him she would be here, or would he have come anyway? she wondered.
"I don't suppose you have much opportunity to skate in New York."
"On the contrary, the ponds in Central Park are quite crowded with skaters throughout the winter. They are an especially popular place for courting couples," she said, and to her embarrassment found herself giving him a coy, sideways look.
"Are they?" he said mildly. "I would have to say the same use is made of the pond here." He nodded his head toward the skaters, and following his gaze she saw a young couple, the man taking great care as he guided his companion's efforts upon skates, reaching out to catch ha* when she seemed in danger of falling. the young woman shrieked and laughed as she stumbled awkwardly about, clinging to her beau's arm.
I'd wager my best hat that she skates better than she lets on," Catherine said.
Mr. Goodman laughed. "But that's not the point, is it? Shall we?" he asked, standing and holding out his hand to her.
"I warn you now I am not going to slip and fall like that young woman, and neither do I shriek."
"I did not expect that you would, although laughing is not forbidden, so long as it is not at me," he said, giving that smile that turned his average face glowingly handsome, and made her heart contract
She took his hand, gazing up at him and wishing he showed some sign of wanting to court her. From t
he way he behaved, she had no reason to think he thought any more of her than that she was the sister of a friend, the daughter of a family he respected, and perhaps a pleasant person with whom to converse. Had he even once looked at her as a potential sweetheart? she wondered.
Looking into his eyes, there was such understanding and interest, even admiration, it hurt to admit that he probably shared the same look with everyone. She knew somehow that he was a man whose kindness would not be limited to those he liked, and it ate at her that she could not tell if there was anything in that look meant especially for her.
"I shall have no limits placed upon my laughter, Mr. Goodman," she said, reaching the edge of the pond and releasing his hand as she glided out onto the ice. "If you fall, I shall laugh myself silly."
"Not if I pull you down with me," he said, and glided toward her.
She shrieked, then dashed away, and felt a flaming heat bloom on her cheeks. Had she truly just shrieked, after saying she would not? Oh, God… She glanced over her shoulder, and saw the bear was almost upon her. Another shriek pealed forth, and she dug her skates into the ice, racing to evade him. Her heart was beating wildly, perspiration breaking out, her muscles electrified by the thrill of being chased around the pond.
Will skated after Miss Linwood, the playful fun of pursuing her knocking up against the thought that she might be flirting with him. Might she be? It hardly seemed possible, but…
He caught up to her and grabbed her hand, swinging her around. She made another of those laughing shrieks, and he took her other hand as well, swinging her around him in a circle. "Stop! Stop!" she cried, laughing. "I'm going to fall."
He slowed, then brought her to a halt. She swayed, dizzy, and he pulled her closer, her feet motionless as she glided to him. She released his hands and grabbed higher up his arms for support, blinking her warm brown eyes at him as her vertigo passed.
"That was most unfair of you, Mr. Goodman," she said. "If I had fallen, it would not have counted, as it would have been entirely your fault."