Opening the drawer, Polly pulled a length of ribbon from it and strung the ring about her neck, securing it firmly. It warmed against her skin and it gave her the illusion of being close to him again.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she held onto that feeling for as long as she could. When it faded, as all good things must, she tidied her hair, dressed in one of her serviceable wool dresses, and then made her way downstairs to the kitchen. There was a Christmas feast to prepare, after all. Her brother was home just as she had said he would be. Her home was safe and secure once more. And her heart—well, it wasn’t hers anymore.
Hours later, when Claymore entered the kitchen, she was elbow-deep in dough. Fueled by her own muddled emotions, she had her mince pie already in the oven. There were sauces simmering on the stovetop for the hen she had plucked and prepared for their dinner. Cooking normally gave her peace, but there was none to be had.
“For what it’s worth,” Clay said, stepping forward and stealing an apple slice where they lay soaking in a bowl of water, “He looked as unhappy to leave as you are for him to have gone.”
Petulantly, Polly slammed her fist into the ball of dough once more. “It doesn’t make me feel better. I have no wish to see him miserable.”
Clay pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Are you certain of that?”
Polly’s wrists drooped, her hands resting on the wooden surface of the pastry board. She looked and felt completely dejected. “No. I do want him to be miserable. I want him to feel perfectly wretched without me. Am I so horrid?”
“No,” Claymore said. “But he is miserable. And whatever my misgivings were, he told you he’d return, and I believe that he will. But he’s not a man to live at Mansford Hall. He’d not take up residence in another man’s home, Polly. So you have to decide if you’re willing to leave it. It’s the only home you’ve ever known—the only place that was yours.”
“It doesn’t feel like home now. It feels lonely, Claymore,” she admitted. “Even with you here, it feels lonely.”
“Then when he comes back, you will leave with him.”
Polly felt the panic then. “I cannot live in London, Clay. It would drive me mad.”
Her brother smiled at her. “I don’t think you will have to. I imagine that when Oliver Hawthorne returns, he will have something else altogether in mind. Now, clean your hands. I want to give you your Christmas present early. I have a feeling it will come in very handy in short order.”
“You are my Christmas present,” she protested, even as she began wiping her hands on her apron and then draped a cloth over the ball of dough. “Having you safely home is all that I could ask for.”
“You may change your mind when you see it,” he insisted.
Dutifully, Polly followed him into the parlor where a paper-wrapped package rested on the floor before the Christmas tree that Oliver had dragged in for them. With an eagerness and excitement that momentarily wiped away her maudlin thoughts, Polly sank to the floor and tugged at the twine which held the wrapping closed.
When the paper parted, it revealed a swath of white silk with delicate embroidery. “It’s beautiful, Claymore. But where on earth would I wear such a thing?”
“Not to the barn,” he snapped mockingly. “Every woman deserves to be a beautiful bride, Polly.”
“You’re that certain he will return?”
Her brother laughed then. “Am I not a Winters? You, sister, are not the only one who simply knows things!”
Polly lifted the white silk gown from the package and stared at it, hope blooming inside her. “Happy Christmas, Claymore,” she whispered.
“Happy Christmas, Polly.”
EPILOGUE
CHRISTMAS EVE
Oliver stared at the strange cat-shaped door knocker just as he had when he first arrived at Mansford Hall. All the snow had gone, but the rain had come in its wake. It slicked the wool of his green, caped coat, the water rolling off of it, and dampened his hair. Lifting the knocker, he let it fall heavily against the plate. Almost instantly the door opened inward and Mavis greeted him with an arched eyebrow.
“It’s about time you showed up,” she said. “Get in here out of the cold.”
Ushered inside by the slightly gruff but still welcoming servant, Oliver shed his heavy coat. She took it from him and hung it on a peg in a small cupboard below those same narrow stairs he’d first noted upon his initial visit.
“Where is Poll—Miss Winters?”
“She’s in the kitchen, sir,” Mavis said. “Captain Claymore is out back with Hampton. Fetching the Yule log. Miss Polly’s heart is not in the festivities as they usually are. I imagine you’ve got something to do with that. I hope you turning up here today means you plan on fixing it.”
Oliver had no intention of having that conversation with Mavis before he had it with Polly. “Perhaps I could speak with Miss Winters first.”
Mavis sneered. “Miss Winters! As if you weren’t locked up here cozy and tight together for nearly five whole days—just the pair of you! And what happened to your face?”
