A Magical Christmas Present

by Eugenia Riley

  She heard Amy moving behind her, the bed creaking as she climbed off.

  “Cath, look! It’s snowing!”

  She went to the window, where Amy was already raising the pane, heedless of the additional chill to the room. Catherine stuck her head out beside her sister’s, watching the fluffy flakes fall silently in the light from the window.

  “It’s the first snow of December,” Amy said. “Do you remember what that means?”

  “Of course I do. Wasn’t I the one who told you in the first place?” Catherine said, remembering the myth her grandmother had told her. “With the first snow of December, the snow fairies come to celebrate the Christmas season. They grant the wishes of those with pure hearts, and then with the ringing in of the New Year, they return to their lands in the north.”

  “I’m too old to believe it anymore, but I like to pretend it’s true.”

  “I do, too,” Catherine admitted. She put her hand out, catching a cluster on her palm and watching it melt. The breeze picked up, and she shivered. “It’s too cold to be hanging out a window in my underthings,” she said, and withdrew into the room.

  Amy lingered a moment longer, then followed, pulling shut the sash. “I’m glad you’re back, Cath.”

  “I am, too.”

  The clock in the hall below was striking half past three when she finally blew out the lamp and pulled up the covers against the cold of the room. Amy slept in the bed next to hers, her final “good night” followed quickly by deepened breathing, her gray cat, Quimby, nestled at her feet.

  Home, at last. It had been nearly two years. Catherine had been living and traveling with Aunt Frances, her mother’s wealthy, artistically inclined sister, since shortly after Catherine’s graduation from Mount Holyoke. Last Christmas had been spent in London, there had been months in Paris, long stays with friends in Italy, and weeks at a spa in Switzerland. For the past several months they had been in New York, in Aunt Frances’s large town house, entertaining poets, painters, writers, and the more daring of the New York social elite, all while Uncle Clement had happily busied himself with his business affairs, remaining in the background of his wife’s social world.

  Aunt Frances had wanted to give her an education of a different sort than the scholastic one offered at Mount Holyoke, and Catherine had to admit that her aunt had succeeded. Perhaps she had succeeded too well, and home would now seem small-minded and provincial in comparison to such grand sights as the canals of Venice and the palace of Versailles, not to mention the dancers of Paris. Maybe she would no longer fit in here.

  She stared into the darkness, listening to the faint creakings of the house and to Amy’s breathing. There were no sounds from the street, Woodbridge asleep for the night. She was tense despite her exhaustion, the room feeling less familiar than the opulent bedchamber she had left behind in New York, with the mementos from her travels on the walls and strewn about on small tables. Would this house ever feel like home again?

  She scolded herself for even thinking the thought. Surely she would feel more a part of things in the morning, after a good night’s sleep, and after a few days she would find herself once more in step with the rhythms of her family’s life. She would cease noticing the changes, and would forget that she had been away.

  After all, if she didn’t belong at home, then where did she belong?

  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 sure 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, Mrs. Harris,” Will said, leaning over the counter and taking on a confidential air. “You might not believe this, but other 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 wood-stove 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?” Mrs. 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?” Mrs. 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 run 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. J
ones’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.”

  “For heaven’s sake, who?”

  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 Frances 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 manners. 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, this 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 over 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 fro
nt hall, the scent of lily of the valley hovering 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 struck 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 arm 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.