by Mistletoe
"All's fair in love and war," he said, the words out before he could stop them.
She grinned mischievously at him. "And we both know which this is," she said, and skated away before he could respond, leaving him watching dumbly after her.
No, he didn't know which it was, not for her! And did she have any notion of what he felt for her, mat it was deeply, desperately love, and not war?
She cast him one backward glance, as if daring him to follow and capture her again.
The shyness that had overcome him upon first meeting her was still with him, making it nearly impossible for him to show her that his interest was more than platonic. His natural reserve, which such a short time ago he had enjoyed, was in this case a torturous barrier that he did not know how to surmount.
The only way to prevent himself from gibbering like an ape in her presence was to pretend to himself that she was already a close friend. When she came to the store, he struggled to shut away his shyness into a dark, locked box, and refused to second-guess his actions and words. He coaxed her into talking about herself and her family's Christmas preparations, and as she talked he gradually forgot about his locked-away shyness. He teased her gentry, making her laugh in those rich tones that grabbed at his heart. He helped her to find the goods on her list, discussions of each item wandering off into uncharted realms. The circuitous route of conversation led from ribbons to favorite desserts, from oranges to the time she had climbed Mt. Tom, from cloves to their mutual love of the novels of Wilkie Collins.
There was always one more topic to discuss, one more direction in which to take the conversation, and then she would take a glance at the watch pinned to her breast and give a start, apologizing for keeping him so long from his work. Each extra minute she stayed afterward was a victory, the visible reluctance with which she left him a boost to the morale of his advancing army.
He watched her figure gracefully moving though the other skaters at the opposite end of the pond, pausing briefly to skate a circle around Amy and her friend.
Miss Linwood's visits had given his attachment to her a deeper basis than a pretty face and infectious laugh. Her conversation was informed and perceptive, her mood usually one of quiet merriment. She was vivacious without being vulgar, mischievous without being cruel, intelligent without condescension. His heart had somehow known, at first sight, what it would find in her.
Even with her hints of flirtatious encouragement, though, the thought of openly courting her, exposing his heart for all to see, left him feeling ill. There was something within him that would not permit such a display.
He would not, could not try to persuade her to love him with sweet words and gifts of candy and flowers. He could not call on her, sitting like a lovesick fool in her parlor, while her mother hovered nearby as chaperone. By embarrassing himself, he knew that he would embarrass her, and put in jeopardy any fondness that she held for him. No, it was better to continue his attack of stealth.
"You shall become a snowman if you stand there much longer," Miss Linwood said, skating up beside him and scraping expertly to a stop. She had made the circuit of the pond while he stood frozen, contemplating his adoration of her. It had begun to snow, and glancing down he saw that a fine layer of it covered his coat.
"Of what were you thinking, to transfix you so?" she asked.
"Of how best to catch you, of course," he said, and raised his arms as if to do so. She gasped, and in her haste to back away lost her balance. He moved quickly, doing exactly as he'd said before she could fall. She was a welcome weight in his arms, her cheek pressed to his chest, her hands clinging to the fur of his coat, but he released her as soon as she had regained her feet. He skated away at a gentle pace, and after a moment she followed, gliding easily into place at his side as they circled the pond.
"You tricked me," she accused.
"I did nothing."
"Yes, and it was quite clever of you." He smiled, but did not answer.
Chapter Seven
Catherine settled into her seat between Amy and Mr. Rose, They were in the McMahon family's old bam, converted two years ago into the drama club's theater. Doves and chickens were known to roost overhead, and the place would never completely escape the faint scents of its former use, but the fowl had been chased out for this night, and likely no one but Mr. Rose minded the smells of chickens and dust
"My friends will never believe this," Mr. Rose said, shifting on his hard wooden chair and peeling into die raftered gloom
Catherine felt a spark of irritation invade her good mood. "Are you going to mock my mother's production to diem?" she whispered fiercely, casting him a narrow eyed glare.
"I would never do such a thing!" he exclaimed in a whisper, and grasped her gloved hand in both of his. "Catherine, you know I would not," he said, and gave her the wounded look that turned her stomach more each time she saw it.
"This play means a great deal to her," she said, and gently pulled her hand away.
"I know it does. And to you, too, so you may rest assured that I will applaud mightily at the final curtain."
Even those words annoyed her, sounding to her as if he doubted the play could possibly merit such grand regard. She wished she had not invited him along, but guilt had made her do so. After returning from skating, she had found a note waiting from him, explaining that he had fallen ill with some maimer of ague and was only now near recovery, and that he was more sorry than he could say that he had been unable to call on her those past several days.
She felt it was too sad for anyone to be ill and alone during the Christmas season, as he had been. And so, the invitation to the play. He had accompanied her, her father, and Amy to the barn theater.
She hoped for some point later in the evening to have a chance to speak privately with him. It was easy enough to see that he had not been well, although he claimed now to be fully back to health. His skin was colorless, his eyes bloodshot, and when he moved she sometimes caught a strange scent wafting from him. A devil in the back of her mind wondered if he had spent those days of "illness" drinking himself prone. She quashed the thought as unworthy.
The last of the audience straggled in, finding places in the seats that remained. The hard wooden chairs sat on risers that thumped hollowly under their feet, and the rustling and whispering began to settle as the lantern lights were lowered. When all had quieted to an expectant silence, and all eyes and ears waited for the curtain to rise, there came a deep, guttural cry from off-stage: "Bah, humbug!"
Catherine put her hand to her lips, smothering the laugh that wanted to slip forth as she recognized Mr. Goodman's voice under the grouching exclamation of Scrooge. The curtain lifted upon the stark scene of Ebenezer Scrooge's counting house, the bare furniture and the meager coal scuttle, and she joined the others in applauding a welcome to the two actors sitting at their worktables.
Catherine rummaged in her reticule for her spectacles, slipping them on in the safety of the dark. She'd leave them on, too, and never mind what Mr. Rose might think. She ought to have more backbone than to let his likely opinion of a pair of spectacles alter her behavior. If he saw fit to mock them, well, then, let him, she thought, lifting her chin and giving a little sniff. Perhaps he would find them so unattractive he would go back to New York and leave her to enjoy Christmas with her family in peace, with her having to say nary a word.
Mr. Goodman was all but unrecognizable in his costume, his hair colored gray and lines of miserliness drawn into his cheeks and under his eyes. He played the role of Scrooge with enthusiasm, being as sour and bad natured as Dickens could have wished, if not more so.
Scrooge's nephew had come into the counting house, and for some minutes had been arguing cheerily with Scrooge about the worth of Christmas. "So 'a Merry Christmas,' Uncle!"
"Good afternoon!" Mr. Goodman barked, for the third time trying to dismiss the happy man.
"And 'a Happy New Year'!" the nephew gaily chirped, to the laughter of the audience. Catherine thought s
he even heard a reluctant snort of amusement from Mr. Rose.
"Good afternoon!" again, from Scrooge.
Catherine caught Amy's eye, sharing a smile with her. "He's good," Amy whispered. Catherine nodded. Seeing Mr. Goodman onstage, even playing the part of a despicable miser, had the curious effect of magnifying his attraction. She felt a queer sense of possessive pride over him.
The play progressed, flour-faced ghosts arrived and went, and then Mama was on stage, as Mrs. Cratchit serving the Christmas goose and pudding to her family as Scrooge and the ghost of Christmas Present watched from the side.
Catherine and Amy both giggled to see Mama in costume, and then Bob Cratchit made his toast.
"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"
The Cratchit family repeated the toast, and into the following silence came Tiny Tim's voice, "Dog bless us everyone!"
Mama stared wide-eyed at the little boy, as did the rest of the Cratchit family. Scrooge winced in sympathy. The little boy's face turned scarlet, as he realized what he'd said.
"Mr. Goodman!" Mr. Cratchit said, trying to gloss over the boy's error by hurriedly raising his glass in the next toast.
Mr. Goodman, startled at hearing his own name onstage, uttered an audible, "Eh?"
Suspicious coughing sounds rippled through the audience.
"Mr. Scrooge! Mr. Scrooge, I mean to say," Cratchit corrected, waving his glass and spilling his drink over both his hand and Tiny Tim, who looked on the verge of tears at this further insult to his pride. "I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Bounder of the Beast!"
"The founder of the feast, indeed!" Mama cried, to more muffled coughing. "I wish I had him here," Mama continued. "I'd give him a beast of my mind™ piece of my mind, damn it!-" Mama swore, as the Cratchit family bowed their heads, their shoulders shaking, "—to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it!"
"My dear, the children!" Bob Cratchit reproached softly, covering Tiny Tim's ears, his face as tenderly disappointed as a saint's.
"Christmas day."
Hoots and snorts of laughter burst out, both onstage and in the house. Catherine, Amy, and Papa joined in, safe under the cover of the crowd from the wrathful glare Mama sent out into the darkened theater.
"It should be Christmas day, I am sure," Mama said with vehemence and a withering look cast over the audience as she carried on with her speech. By force of will she seemed to settle them all, although Catherine heard a whispered, "Piece of my mind, damn it!" behind her, amidst shushing and giggling. She bit her own lips to keep from joining in.
The play made it safely to its conclusion with only minor mishaps, the cast all assembling onstage as a narrator read out the ending of the story, explaining how Scrooge became a good man, who kept Christmas well and avoided spirits ever after. Tiny Tim stepped forward and with extreme care enunciated the final line. "God bless us, everyone!"
Tiny Tim's real parents, in the audience, leaped up and shouted "Hurrah!" and applauded wildly as the curtain came down. Catherine joined them, and then the whole audience was on its feet, clapping and cheering as the curtain came up again upon an empty stage. The actors re-emerged, one by one, accepting their applause with great grins upon their faces.
When Mr. Goodman came out, the applause turned into as much of a roar as could be gotten from a crowd of such small size, and Catherine found herself stomping on the echoing risers in her approbation, and then she yanked off a glove and stuck two fingers in her mouth to give a piercing whistle.
"Good Lord, Catherine, control your enthusiasm!" Mr. Rose hissed beside her.
"Control yourself, Mr. Rose!" she snapped back, and gave another whistle, twice as long as the first.
Mr. Goodman put his hand to his mouth, then threw a kiss to the audience, his eyes meeting Catherine's as he did so. She laughed, delighted, and was aware of Mr. Rose stiffening beside her.
The applause finally quieted, and the curtain fell for the final time. The lights were raised, and people began to leave, slowly, mingling near the exit and in front of the stage, talking about the performance as they inched their way outside. Some, like Catherine and her group, lingered inside, waiting for a cast member. Someone raised the curtain again, and a crew member appeared with a broom, quickly sweeping the stage and then disappearing behind the panels that formed the rear of the stage.
"She told me earlier she would need about fifteen minutes to change and put away her things," Papa said.
Mr. Rose touched Catherine's ann, lightly, and bent near her. "I'm going out for a breath of air. Would you care to join me?"
She shook her head, not looking at him, and pulled away just enough that his hand dropped from her sleeve. It would be a good chance to speak with him, but she was in no temper to do so civilly, after his attempt to shush her applause.
Mr. Rose hesitated, the answer plainly not what he had expected, then turned and pushed though the remaining crowd to the exit. Catherine saw that Papa was watching her, and she gave him a forced smile, trying to hide what she was feeling. He was usually obtuse to what the females of his family felt, but he had that look that said this was one of those rare occasions where his intuition and observations had come together to form a correct conclusion.
"Shall we take a look at the props?" Catherine asked Amy, for distraction. It was bad of her to snub Mr. Rose, after she had invited him here tonight, and yet she could not seem to help behaving coldly toward him.
She and Amy climbed the two steps up onto the stage, and inspected the furnishings of Mr. Scrooge's counting house. They could hear the excited chatter of the cast and crew behind the panels, as they changed clothes in the converted stalls and put all in order for tomorrow's matinee performance.
A few minutes later the cast began to depart, their earlier air of excitement subdued now as tiredness took hold. When Mr. Goodman came out, Catherine slid off Bob Cratchit's tall stool where she had been sitting, playing out the clerk's role to Amy's amusement. "You were wonderful, Mr. Goodman, wonderful!" she said. "I should never have thought you would make such a perfect Scrooge if I had not seen it for myself."
"That is high praise, coming from one who has likely seen the best actors that London has to offer."
"High praise, but deserved." She smiled up at him, her twinges of guilt about Mr. Rose vanquished for the moment by the warmth of Mr. Goodman's presence. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself onstage."
He ducked his head slightly, the lock of hair falling over his forehead. "I am surprised myself by my enjoyment. Except for in the theater, I do not like to be the center of attention. It is as if there is a side to me that only comes out upon a stage."
"Does that mean you aren't quite the reserved, noble man you seem?" Catherine asked in a purr.
He shot her a quick look, one that asked if that question was meant to be as flirtatious as it sounded. "We are none of us exactly as we might seem, nor are we as we might wish," he said.
She was about to ask him what he would change about himself— she could imagine nothing in him that was in need of alteration— when she felt a hand on her arm. It was Mr. Rose. She had not heard him come back in, so absorbed was she in Mr. Goodman.
"Come, Catherine," Mr. Rose ordered, and started to pull her away. "It is time you went home."
She jerked her arm out from under his hand. "Mr. Rose, I am not yet ready to depart," she said, and looked up at him from behind her spectacles. She did not like what she saw. Every suspicion she had had of his character was written more plainly on his features tonight than ever before. there was something wild and unstable in his eyes, something desperate and needy that repelled her. She sniffed the air, catching again that strange scent coming off him. "Mr. Rose," she asked as quietly as she could. "Have you been drinking?"
He took her ann again, pulling her away from Mr. Goodman and leaning down to whisper at her. "If I have, whose fault is that?" Mr. Rose said, his breath making her step back. "You have been playing games with me, Catherine, fir
st enticing me to follow you to this backwater town, then snubbing my attentions and trying to make me jealous by making eyes at that sorry shopkeeper. And what manner of affectation are these?" he asked, and pulled the spectacles from her face. "I don't know what joke you're making, except on yourself by wearing them."
She couldn't speak for astonishment at his temerity, and then her chest filled with air as that astonishment gave way to hot, poisonous fury. "How dare you, Mr. Rose!" she accused, her voice louder than she had intended. She could not recall ever being so incensed, and in a distant way was astounded by the rising, angry pitch of her own voice. "You have no right, no right, to lay your hands upon my person so! You have no right to blame me for your drunkenness, and you certainly have no right to address me by my Christian name. Mr. Rose." Her next words were exactly enunciated. "Have I made myself clear?"
"You've made yourself clear enough, and shown your true colors, too," Mr. Rose said as angrily back. "Be careful, Mr. Goodman," he called past Catherine's shoulder, "if you allow such a one as this to lead you a merry chase. She has the heart of a whore, and won't be happy until she sees you grovelling in the dust for her favors."
Catherine heard her father give an angry shout, but it was Mr. Goodman who was first to respond, coming immediately to her defense. "No one may speak of Miss Linwood in such terms, sir," Mr. Goodman said in a steady, hard voice. "No one. You will apologize to her and to her family."
"Or what?" Mr. Rose sneered. "You'll make a play at chivalry and hit me? That will do nothing to change the truth."
"If you do not apologize," Mr. Goodman said lowly, "then we will all know that you are no gentleman, and a disgrace to your family's good name."
"No gentleman? Ha! And who are you to be judging who is and is not a gentleman? A shopkeeper! A peddler!"
"Do not make this more difficult than it has to be," Mr. Goodman warned.
"You want a fight, do you? You think you can best me?" Mr. Rose tossed Catherine's spectacles to the side, where they landed under a worktable and skidded along the floorboards. "Til show you what gentlemen are made of." He lowered his head and charged.