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“I'll sing with you,” William whispered, playing alongside me more potently. I lifted my voice to fill the air with the music. The soprano song flowed easily along with the notes from the piano, complimenting it with smooth and soft tones. William sang along, his tenor surpassing my volume and the music to create a sound all its own.
It should have been unsurprising to me he should possess such a talent, and yet I still I stared for a moment in awe, barely playing at all. He winked, singing louder still until out of the corner of my eye, I spied my father sat, rubbing his head. Mother's footsteps padded across the wood floor and just a moment later as she entered the room, grinning widely.
I sang with William again when I saw her enter. We played merrily, Mother accompanying us enthusiastically. It felt like before the war, light and carefree. Father requested more coffee.
We let the last note drag out as long as we could and took a breather, laughter filling the space as its own music. Mother came behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders, and kissed my cheek. I kept my hands in my lap, scared to have her see my ring after this morning.
“I am so happy you decided to play this year, Rose. I knew you missed Adam, and I will be honest, I thought this would bring back memories of him,” she explained. William raised his eyebrows at me proudly, I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow. I would chastise him later for being smug.
“I always loved doing this, Mother, and I don't think Adam would have wanted us to stop,” I told her honestly, she nodded in agreement while Father waved us off.
“I am sorry to be a Scrooge, but I have the worst headache and must retire,” he mumbled, leaving the parlor and marching up the stairs to his bedroom. Mother pursed her lips.
“Continue!” she encouraged. I began to play once more, splaying my fingers across the keys. William took up his side of the piano, but our song halted when Mother snatched my left wrist in her small fingers. “What is this?” she asked, using her pinky to rub the emerald of the ring.
“My ring,” I whispered, terrified of her reaction. Had William asked their permission? I wondered if this would fuel her suspicions, the town’s suspicions. Mother looked at William incredulously, but he nodded once.
“I talked to Mr. Abbott about it when we came back from our sleigh ride after your illness. He seemed genuinely pleased; however, he wanted it to be up to Rosemary,” William informed us. Comforted by the fact that he’d asked my father, my shoulders relaxed. Mother chuckled happily.
“I'm so glad you finally found a fine young man, Rose. I was worried you would become an old maid, so absorbed in your books.” She kissed the top of my head, “I’m sure there will be hell to pay with the McCloudes!” William offered me a wry look, taking off into song once more.
***
We sang all the carols I could remember, and found ourselves—excluding William—crackly and dry throated by supper time. I enjoyed it though, for the first time since Adam. We laughed when someone went flat and clapped when the other did a fine job. William's voice was perfect, never even breaking once. He seemed extremely musical and took over the piano when my fingers tired.
I could tell Mother was wary, but she could easily have loved him as much as I did—maybe more. She watched him closely and smiled with approval at the little things he did. I believe wholeheartedly that she wanted him to fill the space left by my brother, and Williamwasperfect for the job.
“You sing most alluringly, Rose,” he commented when Mother left to bring father down for dinner. “Angelic.” He rose from the stool, offering me his hand.
I scoffed, “I am afraid not, Mr. Blackwell. You are a far more talented a singer than I.” We walked out into the hallway. William only laughed, squeezing my hand, and leading me into the dining room.
Our dining room ceiling was not as high as at the Quinn Estate, but still rather imposing. The walls were creamy, two wide windows draped with soft golden curtains which filtered a bit of the twilight sunset. In the center of the room was our long, oak table. We had chairs for the four of us, though normally there were enough to easily seat sixteen.
The golden table runner which usually matched the curtains was replaced with a white one. There were red bows stitched on the two ends in celebration of the holiday and in the center of the table, between the pillar candles and rose bouquets, was a roast pig on a large silver platter. Bowls of green beans with cranberries, New England stuffing, mashed potatoes, yeast rolls, and stewed carrots. This was our usual Christmas Eve supper, Christmas itself would be much more elaborate with goose and puddings.
I took a seat on the left side of the table, while Father took his seat at the head, Mother on his right and William on his left. William took his seat next to mine, and we placed the off-white napkins in our laps. He grabbed my hand and held gently onto it. Mary came in with wine.
She poured the red nectar into our glasses one by one, smiling at us as she went by. William quickly grabbed his wine and sipped slowly.
“I hope you enjoy your meal, Mr. Blackwell. Mary is quite the cook,” my father said, sipping his spirits.
“Absolutely, Mr. Abbott, this looks quite delightful,” William replied as Mary served his plate. She piled each of ours high before curtsying and taking her place at the table with Michael, the two of them joining in our feast at Mother’s request.
The food was divine, a fare we’d too long denied ourselves. Mother and I exclaimed at how delicious and filling it all was, a treat for the season. William took but one bite of his roast pig while distractedly talking with my father about business. Concern edged its way into my mind, how little I ever saw him eat.
“William,” I whispered when Mother and Father began to recount something from the ball. He turned his attention to me.
“Yes, darling?” he whispered, leaning in.
“You’ve hardly touched your food,” I pointed out. His eyes hardened; lips pursed in a thin line. I raised my eyebrows, he’d never given me such a vexed expression. “William?”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Abbott.” He rose abruptly, swigging back the rest of his wine. We were all taken aback by his sudden departure and did not see him for the rest of the evening.
As the night wound down and I had bathed for bed, I rushed to dispose of my sheets. I flung the duvet back, my breath catching in my throat.
Fresh sheets.
Not a drop of blood, not a stain, not a lingering scent of our love making. I cursed, tossing the duvet to the side. When had she come to change the sheets? Nausea gripped me at what she would think, if she would tell Mother. I fretted, worrying my lip as I paced the room.
