Page 32 of The Winter Companion

The other servants joined in with laughs and foolery. “‘Let nothing you dismay!’”

By the third verse, Tom, Alex, and Laura were singing, too. And so was Miss Hartwright, in a clear melodic voice. “‘From God, who is our Father, a shining angel came.’”

His heart clenched. Having her on his arm, bright and beautiful, and singing so sweetly. There was a rightness to it that was almost painful. He wanted to keep it close. To save the moment forever, like a winter flower pressed between the pages of a book.

But such feelings couldn’t last. Miss Hartwright would be gone in a fortnight. And he would be…here.

Always here.

It was no revelation. It was a fact. One he’d accepted long ago. The recollection of it, nevertheless, served to dim the light glowing inside of him.

He felt, all at once, the full weight of his condition. Of being lonely, if not alone. Stuck in the same place while the rest of the world surged ahead at a startling rate of speed.

Miss Hartwright squeezed his arm. “Only five days until Christmas. The holiday will soon be over.”

He stared down at her, his chest tight with conflicted emotion. “Yes. But n-not yet.”

On returning to the Abbey, Clara hoped to find that the post had come, and with it, a letter from her mother. But though Clara’s own letter was sure to have arrived in Edinburgh by now, no reply awaited her.

It wasn’t entirely surprising.

As efficient as Mama was in other respects, she was woefully inadequate when it came to attending to her personal correspondence. Amid the chaos of lessons, and other professional responsibilities, her family was inevitably prioritized dead last.

An unfortunate fact, and one that Clara had little time to dwell upon at present.

The rest of the afternoon and evening was taken up with preparing the pine boughs, holly, and ivy to be hung. Footmen arranged card tables in the drawing room on which the maids set out ribbons, tinsel, and bowls of murky white liquid.

“We’ve all been lamenting the lack of snow,” Lady Helena said, “so we shall make our own.” She guided them to their tables. “The mixture in the bowl is boiled water and alum. We’ll use it to frost the leaves and branches.”

“It’s very thin,” Mrs. Bainbridge remarked as she sat down.

“At present.” Mr. Boothroyd took a seat next to her. “But by tomorrow it will have dried to crystals.”

Lady Helena smiled. “Quite right. And then we can begin to decorate the house.”

“A daunting proposition.” Mr. Archer joined the table at which Mrs. Archer and Teddy were seated. “Have we enough pine boughs?”

Mr. Thornhill pulled a chair out for his wife at a table by the hearth. The two mastiffs lay stretched out nearby, dozing in front of the fire. “We don’t decorate every corner of the Abbey. If we did, we’d need more than five days to do it.”

Lady Helena sat down, settling her skirts about her. “We’ll focus on the main rooms. The drawing room of course, and the dining room, and library. And then there are the halls, and the stairs.”

“And the corners and the alcoves.” Mrs. Finchley sat down beside her husband. “Lots of hidden places to hang mistletoe.”

Everyone laughed. Clara, too, albeit a little self-consciously. She was glad Mr. Cross wasn’t present. He was busy helping the servants to carry in the remainder of the pine boughs. She supposed he’d join them shortly to decorate the leaves and branches, though it was difficult to imagine him engaged in such delicate work. He seemed the sort of man who was more comfortable out of doors, performing physical labor.

“I shall leave that to you and Tom, my dear,” Lady Helena said, provoking more laughter. She glanced across the room at Clara. “You must bring your pug down to join us, Miss Hartwright.”

Clara looked to Mrs. Bainbridge for permission.

“Go on, my dear,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “It will do no harm.”

Clara was up in a flash. She thanked Mrs. Bainbridge, and Lady Helena too, as she made her way from the drawing room and out to the hall beyond. She’d gone as far as the main staircase, leading up to the third-floor bedrooms, when she encountered Mr. Cross.

He was coming up the stairs from the main hall, his arms full of pine boughs. He stopped when he saw her, the two of them meeting on the landing.

He took a step toward her, only to halt again. Hesitating, as if he was uncertain of her. “Are you leaving already?”

He was close enough that she could touch him if she wished. So close she could feel the warmth emanating from his large frame. The scent of fresh pine tickled her nose, and the scent of him—horses, leather, and the wild fragrance of the sea.