by Erica Ridley
“Jump in,” Angelica whispered. “It’s the only way.”
No wonder her quiet little jeweler’s shop had seemed eerily silent to her. There were at least four enthusiastic stories being told at once, along with a heated argument over a missing doll, two warring Christmas carols, and some sort of rhyming game involving the complex clapping of hands.
“Family, this is Jonathan.” Angelica introduced him to each new face in turn. “My cousin Letitia. If she challenges you to hopscotch, it’s a trick. Uncle Maurice, who normally preaches in London but holds a special service in the castle every Christmas. Aunt Octavia, who cooks the most delicious... well, everything, really.”
“How can you eat that castle food all year long?” Aunt Octavia fussed at Angelica’s pelisse. “No wonder you’re so skinny. When I get you back to London—”
“I weigh five pounds more than I did when I left home,” Angelica whispered to Jonathan. “But I’d be three stone heavier just from breathing in the aroma from her kitchen. It might be the thing I miss the most about home.”
“I thought you missed us the most!” clamored the nieces Jonathan had met previously, a claim that was at once challenged by three other nieces and a small army of nephews.
He repeated everyone’s names over and over again in his mind, determined to commit them all to memory. Not just names, but faces. The sensation of having so many people inspecting him all at once was dizzying.
Some of her relatives were smiling.
Some were not.
He didn’t blame them. He could only imagine their experiences with those that would judge them based on the color of their skin. The sight of him with their beloved relative must have come as a shock.
His throat tightened. If ever someone had cause to reject him, it was this close-knit family who clearly adored Angelica. In their shoes, he would no doubt feel the same.
What must she have told them?
This is Jonathan MacLean, an overly friendly Scotsman who barged into my shop and plied me with pies until I got used to his canty blether and no longer wanted to shoo him out. He’ll be leaving soon enough, though. No need to get used to him.
Jonathan was used to being an outsider. Yet he had never wanted to belong as much as he did in that moment. He wanted them to like him. Wanted to taste the aunt’s cooking, wanted to participate in a cutthroat game of hopscotch, wanted to find the missing doll.
But the thought of having all those things was frightening. If he ever did belong somewhere, or to someone, leaving would feel like ripping his heart in two.
Missing one person would be torture enough. Missing an entire family... He could not allow himself to get attached.
“Jonathan MacLean, at your service.” he began, as he always did, smiling at each one in turn. “Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”
The smiling relatives spoke over each other at once.
“Angelica says you’re well-traveled. Have you ever seen—”
“Angelica says you’re selling fancy clothes from a catalogue. What about—”
“Esther and Florence said you gave them a mountain of biscuits. Did you bring any for us?”
The tension in his shoulders eased. Had he worried about thinking up things to say? Young and old alike peppered him with questions the entire winding path around the castle.
“Angelica says you’ve been to our neighborhood. Do you know the haberdasher on the corner of—”
“Angelica says you’re quite the artist. Can you draw—”
“Where’s your tartan? Do you play the bagpipes?”
Jonathan answered each question as thoroughly and entertainingly as possible, providing detail and making exaggerated faces and funny voices to go along with each story.
By the time they emerged from the other side of the evergreens, what had started as somewhat of an interrogation was now a hotchpotch of teasing and banter across all parties. No wonder Angelica had missed being in the midst of such loving chaos. Jonathan had never experienced anything like it.
Before he knew what was happening, he was seated amongst a row of nieces and nephews atop tiny, precarious, flat wooden sleds at the top of a hill.
Angelica grinned at him. “Off you go, vagabond!”
She gave his shoulder a little push, and his sled went flying down the icy-slick slope. Luckily, the children’s shrieks drowned out his own.
“Again!” they cried after they tumbled into an inglorious heap at the bottom. “Let’s do it again!”
“My heart...” Jonathan clutched at his lapel. “I think it’s a triple apoplexy...”
“Last one up to the top has to buy chestnuts for everyone else,” one of the lads called as he scrambled up the hill.
Jonathan couldn’t be expected to let that stand. He grabbed the ropes to a few sleds and scooped up the smallest little girl, then charged up the hill to be first in line to purchase chestnuts.
Somewhere between the snowball fight and the fifth round of hot chocolate, he realized the two hours of Yuletide activities he’d begrudgingly promised to tolerate had turned into an entire day full of merriment and laughter. His lips were chapped and his back was sore and his face hurt from all the smiling.
“Admit it,” Angelica said as she pulled him onto the frozen pond in rented skates. “My family is utterly mad.”
“I have never had a better day in all my life,” he confessed.
“In that case...” She spun in a half-circle so that she was facing him. She joined their gloved hands together so she could pull him along with her as she skated backward around the edge of the pond. “Come over to my house after Uncle’s Christmas sermon. He’ll destroy you at whist while my aunts and I cook dinner.”
As much as he yearned to take part in a family meal, Jonathan had purposefully neglected to agree to the church service. He’d planned to spend Christmas locked alone in his guest chamber.
“I’m sorry.” Her smile faltered. “I shouldn’t ask you to do so much.”
“I’ll be there,” he blurted out.
What on earth was he saying?
She grinned at him as she guided him over the ice. “It will be the best Christmas dinner you’ve ever had. Or at least, the most memorable.”
“It’ll be the only one I’ve ever had,” he mumbled. “Scots don’t make a big fuss for the Yuletide, and even if they did… For me, there’s never been any cause to celebrate.”
She stared at him as though he’d accidentally spoken in Gaelic. “No reason to celebrate Christmas?”
His throat grew thick.
“It happens to be my birthday, as well.” He was the gift that had ruined lives. “My father was gone long before my birth. Mother believed he would have married her, had she not embarrassed him by becoming pregnant before they could announce the wedding.”
Angelica’s eyes flashed. “I doubt she managed that feat all on her own.”
“He was never going to marry her,” Jonathan agreed. “She was poor and expendable. He was a laird and important. He was already promised to another bride, whose land would double his own.”
Instead, all his mother got was Jonathan.
“The laird sounds dreadful,” Angelica said flatly.
He shrugged. “So I presume.”
“You never met him?” she asked in surprise. “It sounded like you knew who he was.”
“Aye, I knew who he was,” Jonathan agreed. “He was the man who sent my mother into a melancholy from which she never recovered. His man of business was concerned about quashing inconvenient gossip that might impede the wedding. A trust was created in my name to appease any hurt feelings.”
It had done the opposite. He was a problem neither of his parents had wanted.
Most of their money was spent on laudanum to dull her pain. Jonathan was left to raise himself, with no choice but to watch his mother’s slow, inevitable decline, courtesy of his own inheritance. The money was cursed, and perhaps so was he. If he hadn’t been born, if there’d been no
inheritance, she would still be alive.
He had lived with that knowledge every day since.
Mother had never been loving, but Yuletide was the worst. She disappeared completely into her laudanum every December and didn’t emerge until January.
For Jonathan, there was no escape at all. He was too young to live on his own. Until the day the choice was taken from him. The Christmas his mother died, the trust became Jonathan’s. There was only one thing to do.
“I was a problem paid to disappear,” he said. “When my mother lost her battle with laudanum, I lost my mother. So I left and never looked back. Not at that place or anywhere else.”
It had taken years after her death for Jonathan to accept that although his conception had caused his mother’s melancholy, Jonathan’s existence was not solely to blame. It was the laird who had provided the cursed inheritance, the laird who had lain with an innocent girl with no intention to marry her.
The laird had destroyed her just as surely as the laudanum.
Happy Christmas.
“You used your inheritance to start a successful investing operation?” Angelica asked.
“I did not.” Each syllable was chipped ice. “I give my sire’s money away freely to anyone who will take it. I forged my own way however I could. No task too menial; no pay too small. I took risks. I got better at choosing them. I invested in myself, and then in others.”
People who were unseen. People whom no one believed in. People who needed someone to say, I see you. You have value. You’re important to the world.
“And you never met him?”
“I did try once.” The words came out scratchy. “I didn’t expect him to recognize my face, but it was worse than that. He didn’t remember my name, or that I had ever existed.”
That was the day Jonathan had decided everyone would know his name. He would become so important and so successful that his father would not be able to avoid hearing Jonathan MacLean this, and Jonathan MacLean that, from every angle.
He would eclipse his father’s fame, without aid of a title, without the trust the laird had set up and forgotten, just like he’d forgotten the son he never wanted and hoped would disappear.
“It’s human to feel hurt,” Angelica said softly. “Even if you wish others didn’t have the power to hurt you.”
How he hated that his father still wielded that much power over his life.
The man had never known him. Jonathan had been disavowed whilst still in the womb. His birth, proof of failure. The reason he had lost his mother, on a day just like today.
“That’s why I don’t like Christmas,” he said, his words thick. “There’s naught to celebrate.”
Not yet, anyway. The day he was finally richer and more successful than his father, he would raise his fist to the sky in satisfaction.
Until then, he would just keep moving.
Chapter 11
The next morning, Jonathan did not go straight to Angelica’s jeweler’s shop, as had become their delightful custom. Just as he was tying his cravat, a handsome coach-and-four bearing an extravagant family crest pulled to a halt in front of the cottage.
The Duke of Nottingvale had arrived. The English aristocrat whose public endorsement would ensure Fit for a Duke’s commercial success. The wealthy nob whose initial investment into the fledgling company would finance materials, wages, tens of thousands of catalogues, and operating expenses for up to a full year. The influential man whose popularity and handsomeness was the bedrock upon which Jonathan’s bright future rested.
He had never been more disappointed to see a carriage in his life.
Nottingvale’s arrival precipitated Jonathan’s departure. Once the presentation was over and the contract signed, it would be time to move on.
Even if it hadn’t been for his visceral aversion to Christmas, which was two days hence, Jonathan’s place was on the road.
Nottingvale’s contributions were his name and his money. Calvin’s contribution was his genius with fashion. Jonathan’s contributions were his feet and his mouth. He was to spread the word far and wide. The sooner he started, the quicker the path to success.
Of course, all that would happen once Calvin arrived. He had Jonathan’s sketches for the catalogue as well as prototypes of the latest designs.
The duke would be eager to move forward with the plans. The idea was excellent and Calvin’s artistry undeniable. Nottingvale was lucky to be considered as a founding investor. The duke was no fool.
Jonathan might be.
He should be preparing for what might be the most pivotal meeting of his life, not mooning out of the window because he’d rather be reading geology texts aloud on a hard wooden stool at Angelica’s counter than making small talk in a duke’s sumptuous parlor.
Nottingvale’s retinue was breathtakingly efficient. In no time at all, the duke’s trunks were carried inside, the duke himself trimmed and cleaned and starched, and Jonathan trundled into the dining room to join him for nuncheon.
He’d forgotten about the dining room. For the past fortnight, he’d taken almost every meal with Angelica.
The duke’s dining room could seat two dozen. It seemed improbably big and impossibly lonely. Perhaps that was the real reason Nottingvale hosted an annual party. He couldn’t bear sitting at the head of that enormous mahogany table all alone.
That was the best part about not having a home, Jonathan decided. One never had to confront one’s loneliness.
Just when he began to despair of Calvin ever arriving, a significantly less grand carriage pulled up before the cottage, and the most talented tailor in the world leapt out.
“We’ll have to be quick,” said the duke. “Guests could arrive at any moment.”
“Of course,” Jonathan said. “We just need a moment.”
A moment in which there would be no rehearsing, which was bound to worry nervous Calvin. There would also be no time to sort through the sketches and paint the best ones to look like fashion plates. Nottingvale would have to use his imagination—or trust in theirs.
Jonathan met Calvin at the door and ushered him into the parlor, where they worked quickly to set up Calvin’s life-sized manikin with the latest fashions Calvin had designed. Jonathan’s dream of making his fortune on his own was finally within his grasp. Without his father’s coin. Only then would he be able to think about making a home.
The presentation almost went off without a hitch, except for the part where the duke’s sister crashed the meeting, which only caused the duke to even more stubbornly insist in taking part in the venture. He agreed to Angelica’s involvement at once, as well as to only using suppliers with no involvement in the slave trade, even if it meant higher prices for materials like cotton.
“The designs are magnificent. Let’s start production on the catalogues.” The duke turned to Jonathan. “How soon can you start putting them into people’s hands?”
“Tomorrow,” Jonathan said automatically. He could have said today, but he wasn’t leaving Cressmouth without seeing Angelica one last time.
The duke laughed. “Even if I poach the castle’s printing press, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I doubt we can start production in earnest until Twelfth Night. You’re not leaving before then, are you?”
Twelve days of constant Yuletide under one roof. Twelve days of partiers, partying. Tra-la-la, all day long. Happy Christmas this, and Merry Christmas that.
Nothing could entice Jonathan less.
He wouldn’t think about that now. He would think about telling Angelica the good news about her involvement with the project. Politely, he took his leave from Calvin and the duke.
And soon, he must take his leave from Angelica.
His chest seized at the thought. Jonathan flung out a hand to the wall for balance. Never see her again. Never come back, because every moment here was a moment he wasn’t out there spreading the word.
Never see each other again.
The idea was insupportable. Unfathomable. He c
ouldn’t breathe at the sudden sense of loss. He loved her too much to—
God help him. Of all the untimely, foolish complications, Jonathan had fallen in love.
He raked trembling fingers through his hair. He was in love. Did it change anything? Or ought he now to be even more determined to give this project every beat of his heart, knowing it would help Angelica reap all the success she deserved?
Perhaps he was looking at this backward. His heart lightened. He needed to travel as far and wide as possible, but he didn’t need to do it alone.
Angelica had said herself that her seven-year contract expired on Christmas. Only two days remained. Come Sunday, she wouldn’t be tethered to Cressmouth anymore. She could come with him. Perhaps not every second of every day for the rest of their lives—she was a jeweler, and would want to spend some time in her shop creating jewelry—but their paths could intersect.
Instead of Jonathan wandering the world alone, they could build their future together.
Chapter 12
It was past ten when Angelica awoke the next morning, but she did not rush into her shop to prepare for business. It was Christmas Eve. She would spend the next two full days with her friends and family and, if he wished to join them, with Jonathan.
He had helped her to realize that she worked better and faster when she took time for herself, to rest and make merry. Waiting until the work was done was a mirage—the work would never be done. She had to take time for the things that mattered. Her family, Jonathan, and herself.
Closing her eyes again, she stretched her limbs out like a starfish, reveling in the freedom of not having to do anything at all. Not only had she delivered the last of the outstanding jewelry orders last night, today marked the last day in her seven-year contract with Mr. Marlowe.
At midnight tonight, the shop would be hers.
Better yet, her life would be hers. Visits with her family would no longer be limited to Yuletide. She could travel to London whenever she pleased. She would spend the busiest months here in Cressmouth, of course, but the thought of seeing Vauxhall fireworks again, of being able to celebrate the births of nieces and nephews, of enjoying her aunts’ cooking... it was almost too wonderful to bear.