I must dwell no more upon it. Especially since I ought to be writing my directives.
Ten minutes to seven. — Though mustn’t it be said that, were I his wife, the matter surely would be a legitimate concern for me?
For I, too, would be obliged to live next door to a ghost—and accept my share in all the attendant nonsense. When word goes round the neighborhood, how would I hold my head up? What would I tell my new neighbors? What would we tell our children? What if they wished to know their grandmother?
And if Jonathan cannot face a quarrel, what of the quarrels that inevitably arise in marriage? Would he shut his eyes to all my little foibles and mistakes until the day I go too far—and become a ghost myself?
Five after seven. — And by-the-by, what did he mean about hearing a hint of my “softening” toward him?
Did Noah write him that I was softening?
I suppose it does not signify, given said softening never occurred.
Ten after. — Though if Noah did write something of the kind, I cannot but take it as further proof that he’s never cared a whit for me.
What motive could prompt him to tell such a lie? Merely desiring a reunion with his friend? Or was he perhaps, in the loss of a high-ranking connection, feeling the blow to his own consequence? Whatever its basis, I can scarcely conceive a more egregious betrayal! It boils my blood!
But I really must get on writing these notes. Others will soon be stirring.
A quarter after. — How I long to confront Noah and learn the truth! Yet I dare not risk a scene with the house full of company. So long as this dratted party continues, I must play the gracious hostess and keep my mouth shut.
Come the end of Christmas, however, he shall have much to answer for!!!
Half past. — Men are a plague. Every last one of them. Hang Noah and his lies, Lord M and his proposal, Jonathan and his…well, existence.
A pox on them all!
A quarter to eight. — Sun is coming up, and it appears to be a rare sunny winter day. Hurrah!
Oh no, voices in the corridor, and my notes yet unwritten! Ahh!
Frantically,
Claire
Ten
Jonathan awoke—or rather, opened his eyes—when the first glimmer of morning spilled across his face. He very much doubted whether he’d dozed off even once, curled as he was on a short sofa with his greatcoat spread over him. His legs were stiff, his neck cricked, his eyes stinging with fatigue.
But when he peeped out a window, the answering view seemed to cure half his ailments. A glorious winter’s day—crisp, clear, and blanketed in fresh snow—followed last night’s storm. The immaculate stretch of white looked to Jonathan like a fresh start.
Yesterday may not have gone to plan, but today was a new day.
And the late-night brush with Claire had not been an outright failure. She may have refused his hand, but at least she’d accepted his apology. He could fancy he’d seen one or two layers of frostiness thaw away, and then, just before she’d bolted, a flare of…something.
A small and fleeting something, but something nonetheless.
He had seen it. He was sure of it.
He’d followed her surreptitiously to ensure she found her room, then returned to the kitchen to rebank the fire. After a slow and bleary march back to his own chamber, he’d gratefully crawled into bed—only to leap right back out.
He’d staggered away, coughing till his eyes watered, for some unpleasant and thoroughly pungent odor—camphor oil?—enveloped him. Claire and her sister must have soaked the bedclothes in it, the treacherous fiends! Were he not already retching, he might have laughed himself sick. Camphor, of all things! Someday he would have to ask those two where they’d got their inspiration.
Assuming he survived their Christmas party, that was. It appeared the tricks were not finished, after all, and Jonathan feared his endurance had reached its limit. He could only hope the bedclothes were a parting shot, and henceforth Claire would keep her word.
His faith was soon rewarded.
Well, not too soon, because first came the long hours spent languishing on a too-small sofa, awake and uncomfortable and muttering stronger oaths than treacherous or fiends. But upon stumbling bleary-eyed and muddle-brained into the breakfast parlor (from which Claire was mysteriously absent), he at last found reprieve—for he was both graciously allowed to partake of the general fare and mercifully spared the trouble of talking to anybody.
