Blake kicked at a rock, dislodging it from its blanket of snow. He'd dug quite a hole for himself this Christmas. Instead of spending the season in New York with the people he could claim as family, he'd be stuck in Indianapolis with the ragamuffin band whose story he'd yet to discover. When they'd chattered to him at the breakfast table, he felt exasperated at first, but once he got past the shock of sharing his morning, he found it wasn't as bad as he thought.
Had he been banished from the Court in order to feel pity for these people? Hell, he needed to quit thinking before his brain exploded.
A movement at the window captured his attention. John stood looking out with the brocade drapes wrapped around him like a cocoon. His breath fogged the glass and provided an excellent place for him to practice writing his name, which he did but then apparently found drawing stick people much more exciting.
A grudging smile pulled at Blake's lips. He remembered the Christmases of his own childhood, full of laughter, music, games, presents and food. Later, when he was a young man and full of potential, life in the Northern Realm meant social functions, kisses and courtships and, always there was the work for the Sovereign.
And happiness.
Back then, his parents were in love and family gatherings were always pleasant. Where had his current cynicism come from? When had he ceased to believe in the magic of the season? Most likely, it had come from too many outings with the Sovereign on his Christmas Eve journeys and watching the world's inhabitants throw life's simple treasures away in the face of greed and avarice.
In spite of his dark thoughts, he lifted a hand and waved to the boy. An absurd stab of pleasure wormed through his stomach when John waved back and gave him a wide grin. Bethany was right. Christmas was for children. Somehow, she—a mere human—had managed to grasp a concept he barely understood. He knew an insane urge to provide just that for these kids he hardly knew. Maybe that would make up for the heartless offer of money he'd given her earlier.
The slamming of his neighbor's door snapped him out of the fog. He turned back to his window but John was gone. Like a man going to the gallows, Blake ambled along the sidewalk to meet Mrs. Abermarle, his long time neighbor of ten years and keeper of most of his secrets.
He half suspected she'd moved in next door to keep an eye on him, but he could never ascertain why she even cared. Many times he’d prodded for the reason why she watched him, but she wasn't giving up the information.
Oh, Lord. She still had the rags in her hair that were supposed to curl her graying locks. Her navy skirt was wrinkled and her lace-trimmed blouse appeared dingy with age. As always, she looked as if she'd recently fallen out of a dirty clothes hamper, yet he pasted a grin on his face and patted her hand. "Mrs. Abermarle. How wonderful to see you out and about."
She swatted the air as if batting his words away. "I am too old to waste my time on empty pleasantries, especially when they are not genuine. Tell me who the skirt and the brats are. Woke me up last night with the entire racket."
"Uh," Blake hedged. He ignored the heat that rose on the back of his neck. How to explain? "She is a friend who has fallen onto hard times. Eviction, limited funds, etcetera. When she arrived on my doorstep, I could not very well turn her away, could I?"
"Somehow, I do not believe you, sonny." She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of woman would I be if I let you continue this farce? I have a duty to protect that innocent young lady from womanizers like you."
"I am hardly a womanizer. If you must know, it has been months since I found a woman who interested me." Blake mentally berated himself for the revelation. The less ammunition his neighbor had, the quieter his life would be.
She pursed her lips and eyed him with speculation.
He swallowed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Believe me when I say certain females do interest me. However, I do not think I need to settle down quite yet." Now he was babbling like a schoolboy.
"Your sexual persuasion does not impress me." She crossed her thin arms over an equally thin chest. "What do you plan to do with your instant family? Think carefully before you answer."
And just like that his earlier musing collided with his neighbor's nosy nature. "I have not decided."
Mrs. Abermarle snorted. "For once in your life, play the part of the hero. Be honorable and give them shelter because they need it. Perhaps you can learn something from them as well. Lord knows you can use the help." She unbent enough to poke him in the shoulder. "I have my eye on you. If you so much as hurt them in any way, I will be scarier than the wrath of God."
"What about virtues and the rules?" He glanced again toward the house and his stomach twinged to see both children in the front window, palms flat against the glass as they played. "What if, with their innocence, they discover what I am?" Belatedly, he realized he’d spoken the thought aloud. He stared at his neighbor with a hefty dose of fear.
"Are you afraid you will be compromised, or are you more afraid that someone will believe what you are—a lonely, disenchanted man?"
He relaxed by degrees. Thank goodness she didn’t appear to question his slip. "Even you must admit that my story is farfetched."
"You will never know unless you trust again. Perhaps this family will be the one thing that can redeem you." The older woman chuckled as he gaped at her. "Listen, sonny. I know everything that goes on around this block." Her beady eyes bore into his. "I can pop in on you at unexpected times, but then, I do not anticipate you will get into trouble. You will have your hands plenty full and not just with the children."
This conversation needs to end now before it hits uncomfortable territory.
Blake took a step back. "That is something else I have not decided on." Liar. He cleared his throat. "Miss Cundiff works in a restaurant. At times, we will need someone to watch the boy when we are both away while the girl goes to school. Would you be interested?"
A genuine smile broke over Mrs. Abermarle's face and gave her an animation he'd never seen before. "I would be delighted. It's been a dog's age since I had young ones underfoot. Just rap on the door when you need me. Besides, I clean your home twice a week anyway. The boy can help me and earn a few cents for Christmas presents."
"Thank you for the kindness." He breathed a sigh of relief. At least one problem had been taken care of.
"My pleasure, sonny. Remember, sometimes miracles do not come from the heavens. On occasion, they need our help to make them possible."
"I will bear that in mind." Bidding her goodnight, Blake wandered back to his own front door.
The kids scampered from the window and by the time he opened the portal, they were both sitting calmly side by side on the sofa as if they'd been there all along.
He allowed his laughter to slip out. "Somehow I do not think you two are the cherubs you wish me to believe." Removing his overcoat, he hung it on the rack behind the front door. Bethany emerged from the kitchen wearing her white ruffled apron and his throat went dry, his palms sweating when she gave him a tentative smile.
"I made pot roast, potatoes, and country bread. I hope you like it." She twisted the hem of the apron in her fingers. "It has been my experience that most men like meat and vegetables."
Only then did he smell the heavenly aromas of beef and just baked bread. His mouth watered from the temptation. He nodded. "It is one of my favorite things." He met her gaze and this time her blue eyes held a tiny smile. His chest tightened with a smidgeon of anticipation. "Thank you. Cooking was not necessary."
"Nonsense." She ducked her head and a becoming blush stained her cheeks. "Consider it my way of thanking you for sharing your home with us." She moved into the room and touched Sarah's shoulder. "Go help your brother wash his face and hands then come to the table. We shall all talk to Mr. Wenchal about his day."
Warmth filled him as if he'd stepped too close to the fireplace. When was the last time he'd ever shared tidbits of his day with anyone, let alone people who were genuinely interested? The enormity of the simple act overw
helmed him. "Miss Cundiff?"
She swung around and looked at him. "Yes?"
"Please call me Blake. Mr. Wenchal puts me in mind of my father."
"Thank you. Please call me Bethany."
He nodded. "Thank you." Maybe Christmas wouldn't be as bad as he thought.
Chapter Four
Bethany laid the dishtowel on the lip of the sink then removed her apron and hung it on a peg near the back door. Anxiety rolled through her stomach and threatened to expel the little dinner she'd eaten not an hour earlier.
A cozy quiet enveloped the house now that the children had gone to bed. She knew Blake was reading in the front room; the rattle of the newspaper gave him away. The kitchen was back to rights and there was nothing left to clean or delay her joining him.
Moving to the doorway, she paused and watched him, unobserved. The oil lamp at his elbow cast a warm golden glow over the area, lending his face a softness that it didn't have during the day. The wire spectacles gave him a studious air. She wondered what he did for a living. In fact, it felt a tiny bit odd to be in a strange man's home and know next to nothing about him.
Again, the niggling doubt from their financial agreement wormed its way to the forefront of her mind. Would he expect her to join him in his room when he retired? If he did, would she go willingly?
If she didn't, would he force the issue?
Perhaps that fleeting connection she'd felt for him earlier had been her imagination after all and fate had absolutely no bearing on putting him in the restaurant that evening.
The paper crackled. He cleared his throat and glanced at her. "Do you plan to stare at me with that frown for the rest of the night? If so, I would prefer you do it sitting near the fire. Seems winter has really dug in a foothold for the moment."
As if nature had been waiting for a cue, a gust of wind whistled through the bare trees outside and snow hissed against the window glass.
"I was not aware I was frowning." Wishing for an ounce of the bravery that had accompanied her to his doorstep, Bethany crossed the room. "I apologize." She sat in a well-worn rocking chair and took a piece of embroidery from her basket. It was the one truly personal thing she owned and had brought with her.
"For what? Having thoughts and feelings of your own? Never apologize for being an individual. Most humans don't understand the value of that gift."
She looked at him sharply. "Humans?"
"Oh, yes, I should have said most people. Sometimes my mind wanders." He folded his paper with a fluid movement, rose from the wingback chair, and stuffed the sheets into a basket near the hearth. "I want to thank you for the wonderful dinner."
"I do so enjoy having other people to cook for. John and Sarah are always appreciative, but even I know they enjoy building towers with their vegetables more than eating them at times." Or, in John's case, stuffing them into his napkin to dispose of later.
Blake chuckled, a deep, rich sound that warmed her belly, then returned to his chair. "I remember being young." When he removed his glasses and laid them on the table at his elbow, he smiled and tingles joined the warmth in her belly. "Perhaps we should tell each other a few basic facts about ourselves. Christmas arrives in mere days. That is a lifetime with houseguests if we cannot get along." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, apparently deep in thought. "Since you care for the children, there must have been extenuating circumstances that brought you to this pass."
The accustomed sadness she thought she'd feel never materialized. Instead, as she held his gaze, the warmth in the pit of her stomach intensified like flame to dry tinder. "Their parents were killed in a carriage accident. At first, I was in shock. Who would not be? I moved directly from funeral preparations into being a mother with no experience. The circumstances took their toll. Now, with my job and seeing to the children's' needs, I am exhausted all the time." She shrugged. "But I would never change any part of it. I love them more than anything in the world."
"From all I have seen, a passing observer would never guess they are not your own." He rested an ankle on his knee. "Had fate not intervened in your life, what would you have done with yourself? Teach, paint, search for a husband?"
She raised an eyebrow. "That is a chauvinist comment."
"All right. Perhaps journalism or the fight for women's rights. If you were not obligated to care for the children, where would the world have taken you? Where would you find your destiny?"
"I never had cause to think beyond this reality." She absently traced the stitches on the fabric in her lap. "I love to sing. Perhaps I would have pursued a career on the stage. I am so busy now I never sing much lately." When he continued to stare, she shrugged. "Do you not believe me?"
"I have no doubt you are serious. Even while talking, your voice is melodious. Promise me you will never forget those aspirations. Someday, you will have the freedom to meet your dreams and you will be glad you could follow your heart."
Bethany kept her own counsel, confused by his encouragement. She concentrated on the crackle and heat from the fire. Searching out his laughing brown eyes or his lips that could easily become sensuous with just the right smile was dangerous to her peace of mind. She stifled a sigh. He was the wrong sort of man to develop a schoolgirl crush on. He was mysterious and strange, and she again felt a tremor of the original connection.
Who exactly was he? She wondered at his motivation behind making his initial offer.
"What do you work so diligently?"
Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn't seen him stand, and she started. He waited near her shoulder, peering at her handiwork. "It is the sixth of seven handkerchiefs I am embroidering for Sarah. Each has a day of the week. It is easy work for me and calms my nerves after a hectic day." For some inexplicable reason, Bethany held up the white cotton square for his inspection, anxious for his approval. "She is growing up so fast. I want her to feel like a lady despite her trying circumstances."
"Such attention to detail." He reached out and removed the square from her hands. "I can see each petal of the flower as if it were real."
"Thank you. I am rather pleased with it." She smiled as he traced the design with a fingertip. "Mr. Wenchal, how do you make your living?" Belatedly, she realized she'd forgotten to use his given name and when she lifted her eyes to his face, she knew he'd caught the slip.
"My name is Blake. Say it." Placing the embroidery on a low table, he grasped her hand and pulled her up. "I need to hear you say it."
Another round of tingling sensation crawled along her skin when he didn't release her hand. Intensity burned in his eyes and her cheeks heated. "Blake." The sensations increased tenfold as he traced circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. "I will not forget again."
For long seconds, he held her gaze. Her breath stilled. Her knees wobbled from his nearness and she felt the force of that searching look through every inch of her body. Alive. That was how he made her feel. With only a touch, a glance, suddenly she was very much aware of how his presence filled the room, of his scent, the very way she imagined his heartbeat accelerated in time to hers. For a handful of moments, she understood him as if she'd known him his entire life.
They belonged together. But why?
Finally, he released her hand and returned to his chair, breaking the tension—or at the least postponing it.
She uttered a disappointed sigh, nearly crying at the loss of physical contact. She berated herself as she sank onto the rocking chair. What did you think would happen, silly girl?
To cover her embarrassment, she rooted around her sewing box for a different color of thread. "What is your job?"
"I make a living as a banker. Long hours, decent pay, but most of the time boring and conservative. It is not my chosen career path but merely a replacement for something I cannot do any longer." His jaw worked as if he longed to say more yet debated with himself. A smile curled his lips. "To counteract the hours shut into a cheerless office with no windows, I come home and paint."
"Portraits? Lands
capes?" She looked at him with new respect. He didn't appear the creative type of man.
"No." His smile widened. "Something more lighthearted." He sprang from the chair and stood before her. "Would you like to see?"
The excitement in his expression was infectious. "Yes." The word barely passed her lips before he pulled her from the chair and tugged her across the room.
"Only a few other people know about my secret, so you can understand why I must ask you to never tell anyone." His grip on her hand was firm.
Down the hall past the stairs, he stopped at a closed door toward the back of the house. "At one time, this room used to function as a parlor but since I rarely entertain, I converted it to my work studio." Slipping a key ring from his trouser pocket, he dangled them and selected one that appeared to be brass.
The lock turned and Blake pushed open the door. "Let me light a lamp. One day, I would love to build a house with electricity. For now, candles and oil lamps are fine since it is, or was, just me."
She had no idea what he was jabbering about, but she hated to put a damper on his enthusiasm. A match flared in the darkness then a soft glow filled the space as he lit a lamp. Once the shade was in place, he turned toward her and his eyes danced with the shadows.
"Look, Bethany. This is what I fill my time with." He beckoned her forward.
As the room came alive with the illumination, she sucked in a surprised breath. "You make toys?" A table was shoved under the only window. Plain, wooden toys covered the surface, all bereft of color. Items from trains, to dolls to toddler blocks, all glossy with the look of new paint filled a shelf on the connecting wall.
She half expected to see a red velvet suit or a pair of black boots hiding in the corner. Clearing her throat, she threw another glance around the room. "This is astonishing."
"Actually, someone else builds them. I paint them. Give them life as it were."
As he did when he came too close to her. Gave her life.
She stood staring then slid a glance back to him. "What do you do with all of these toys?"
Disenchanted Christmas Page 4