by Cach, Lisa
“I wouldn’t say that, Papa, but I trust your judgment and Mama’s.”
He gave the popper a shake. “He’d be able to provide for you, there looks to be no question of that. He’s personable, and cuts a fine figure. He seems to have taken quite a fancy to you.” He chewed the inside of his lower lip, eyes focused on the distance.
Catherine waited. “And?” she prompted.
“Hmm?” he said, pulled from his reverie.
“And what else?” she asked.
“And nothing else. He appears an eligible enough young man.”
“But—What of his character? What type of husband would he make?” Catherine complained, unsatisfied. “Is he a good man? Would he be a good father?”
“I don’t have a crystal ball, Catherine, and I barely know the man. You are the one who has spent time with him. You know the answers better than I would.”
She gave a little grunt of frustration. Why was it a parent never had an opinion when you most wanted one, but was free enough with advice when you were in no mood to hear it?
“Damn me!” Papa cried again, and Amy shrieked in laughter as another batch of popcorn went up in flames.
*
“You have no idea how jealous I am of you right now,” Melinda whispered into Catherine’s ear. “I think he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.” They were standing in the doorway to Melinda’s house, Mr. Rose a few steps away on the short, bricked path through the yard.
Catherine smiled at her friend, and at the baby she held bundled in her arms. “Nor have you any idea how jealous I am of you.” Her childhood friend was married and a mother twice over. Her house was small and untidy, and she could only afford one maid-of-all-work, but she looked content.
“Hurry up and go now, or some Woodbridge spinster will lose her senses and kidnap him right before our eyes,” Melinda said.
“I’ll call on you again soon.”
“Do. I can never seem to get out of the house when I have a baby underfoot.”
Catherine pressed a kiss onto the downy forehead of the child, said her final farewells, and joined Mr. Rose where he waited, leaning his right hand atop his ebony and gold cane.
“Your friend is quite charming,” he said as she took his arm and they began to walk.
“I am glad you think so. She was taken with you, as well.”
“Such a sweet, simple girl. I can see how you would like her.”
“I’ve known her since we were two, and she is not entirely as simple as she may seem,” Catherine said, a faint touch of annoyance spoiling her mood. Was that a patronizing tone she had heard in his voice?
Mr. Rose laughed. “I’ve offended you! My dear,” he said and, tucking his cane under his arm, he reached over to pat her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. “I meant ‘simple’ in the best of all possible ways. She is unspoiled, and possessed of those ‘simple’ virtues that any man would wish for in a wife.”
“Then I apologize,” she said, and wondered what was wrong with her. If Melinda was to be believed, she was the envy of every unwed young woman in Woodbridge—and not a few of the married ones as well—and yet she was not entirely pleased to be walking beside Mr. Rose at this moment. He had returned from Boston the night before, and today when he came to the house had expressed his profound happiness to be once more in her company. He had made her mother laugh with stories about his Boston relatives, and then had readily agreed to accompany Catherine on her visit to Melinda. So why was it that she found herself ever so slightly irritated by his presence? Why, when he was so perfect a choice for a husband, did she find herself wishing he would go away?
“Your apology is most graciously accepted,” he said playfully, and they turned a corner and began walking along the side of the village green. They had gone some distance in silence when he spoke again, somewhat puzzled. “Catherine, I do believe that man is waving to you,” he said.
Catherine squinted into the distance, trying to make out of whom he spoke. She was not wearing her spectacles, and everything except the sidewalk a few feet in front of her was a blur. Her irritation rose a notch, for if Mr. Rose were not with her she would be wearing them, and seeing for herself who waved, thank you very much.
She knew it was her own vanity at fault, and not Mr. Rose, but that realization did nothing to improve her humor. “I cannot make him out,” she admitted.
“He’s stopped now. He’s going into a store.”
“Is he?” she asked, her grip tightening on Mr. Rose’s arm. “Which one?”
“I cannot tell, the tree branches block the sign. Does it matter?”
“I thought it might have been a friend of the family, Mr. Goodman. He owns a general store at the corner of Elm Street,” she explained.
“Did I meet him at your welcome-home party? Perhaps it was he. Shall we go say hello? I wouldn’t like him to think you had cut him.”
“No, that wouldn’t do…” she said, her voice trailing off. Mr. Rose seemed not to notice, leading her briskly toward the store. She did not like the idea of seeing him in Mr. Goodman’s store, the men speaking to each other and shaking hands. There was something to it that made the skin on the back of her neck shrink in discomfort.
Mr. Rose opened the store door to the jingling of sleigh bells, and stopped short when they had taken but a few steps inside. “Here now, this is quaint.” The spruce from the woods was standing near one of the front windows, partially decorated with popcorn strings and paper figures. On a low table in front of it sat pots of paste, scissors, colored paper, popcorn, thread, and other materials for making decorations. Two small children, too young for school, were diligently snipping and pasting together a haphazard paper chain, as well as snacking surreptitiously from the popcorn bowl. “No one would believe this at home,” Mr. Rose said. “Cookies and cider! And a rocking chair!” Someone’s grandfather was sitting in the rocker, head on his chest as he snoozed near the warmth of the woodstove.
Catherine wondered what mocking stories Mr. Rose would tell his friends in New York about “quaint” Woodbridge when he returned. Would she have to sit and listen while he imitated Mr. Goodman and his quiet ways to the guests at the dinner table?
A figure approached, and even before he was clear to her eyes, she knew it was Mr. Goodman. “Miss Linwood, Mr. Rose. It’s a pleasure to see you,” he said, and as he came within her field of vision she saw that he was wearing a grocer’s apron over his vest and shirt. His hair flopped down over his forehead as he shook hands with Mr. Rose, and Catherine could not help but think—and feel traitorous and small for the thinking—that Mr. Goodman suffered for standing next to Mr. Rose, tall and elegant in his well-tailored clothes, his wavy hair as black as midnight.
Mr. Goodman looked what he was, a shopkeeper in a town of middling size, shorter and broader than Mr. Rose, his coloring unremarkable. On the surface, there was nothing to set him apart from the dentist three doors down, or one of the innumerable law clerks at the courthouse.
Then his eyes met hers, and in an instant she found what she had seen before: kindness and understanding, humor that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and a quiet happiness in the soft blue depths that drew her with its promise.
“We saw you wave from across the green,” Mr. Rose explained, then took a considering look around the front room. “I’ve never seen a store like this. I almost want to steal the rocker from that old man, and settle down for a nap myself. You should take your business to New York. Such a style of store would make shopping a great deal more pleasant for gentlemen forced to accompany their ladies. You would make a fortune!” Catherine felt certain Mr. Rose was offering false flattery. He preferred his shops to have marble floors, and clerks who fawned.
“Neither I nor my store are made for a large city. The pace here pleases me quite well,” Mr. Goodman said, and then added with a straight face, “My only regret is that there is no front porch on which old men can whittle and play checkers in the summer.”
Mr. Rose stared at Mr. Goodman for long seconds, and then burst out laughing, slapping him on the shoulder. “There’s more going on than meets the eye with you, isn’t there?”
Catherine found herself embarrassed for Mr. Rose and Mr. Goodman both, for what they must think of each other. She sensed a wire-thin tension between them, growing stronger by the minute. She shifted in discomfort.
“I am no more than you see,” Mr. Goodman said. “I should very much like to continue our conversation, but I’m afraid I must man the counter. Miss Linwood,” he said, bowing his head toward her. “Mr. Rose.”
“Mr. Goodman,” she said in parting, hoping he could see in her eyes that she regretted the subtle incivility of this encounter. The corner of his left eye twitched, in the bare hint of a wink, and she tightened her lips to keep from smiling.
“I’m in need of new gloves,” Mr. Rose said to her as Mr. Goodman went back to his counter. “Do you suppose I might find some here that suit me?” he asked, and began to drift toward the glass-topped counters with their drawers of goods beneath.
“I told Mama I would not be gone long,” Catherine said. “Would you mind terribly if we returned to the house?” She felt that Mr. Rose was but looking for the chance to find fault with the store, for no preordered gloves would pass the judgment of a man who had his sewn for his hands alone, at a cost ten times that of those to be found here. She could not bear the thought of standing by while he had Mr. Goodman bring out pair after pair, each found wanting, except for maybe one that he would deign to buy, if only to put Mr. Goodman more firmly in the ungentlemanly role of merchant by placing money in his hand.
“As you wish,” he agreed amiably, and held out his hand for her to see the small place where the stitching in his glove had come undone. “I’ll return later on my own.”
He really did need new gloves. She closed her eyes, shamed by her own thoughts about Mr. Rose and his motivations. She could no longer tell what was real, and what was imagined from her own doubts.
They walked back to her house, the sidewalks shoveled clear of snow but slick spots still making her glad to have Mr. Rose’s arm for support. She wished she could wear her spectacles, and enjoy the light of the early afternoon sun on the snow.
At her door Mr. Rose stopped her when she would have reached for the latch, gently turning her to face him as they stood on the step. “You know that I care for you, don’t you, Catherine?” he said, his gloved fingers touching lightly at the side of her cheek. It was the first time he had used her given name, and she was too struck by the vulnerable look in his dark eyes to protest the familiarity.
Was this what love looked like? He gazed at her with pleading, as if she were the sun, and all his world would be winter without her. It seemed to her in that moment that despite his wealth and good looks, despite his social standing and charm, he needed her to save him from some dark emptiness hidden deep within.
She took hold of the hand touching her cheek, and squeezed it. “You have become a dear friend,” she told him. Propriety limited her to such a gentle declaration, but she did not know if she could in truth have said more.
“I brought you a gift,” he said, and reached into a pocket inside his coat.
“I could not—”
“Please, Catherine,” he said, taking out a small package wrapped in red paper. “Do not decline me this pleasure. Take it.”
Reluctantly, she took it from his hand and held it against her chest, feeling that her acceptance was creating a tie by which she did not wish to be bound. “Thank you. Shall I open it now?”
He touched her cheek again, briefly. “Open it later.”
She nodded. He smiled, and leaned closer. Her eyes widened and she tensed, sensing that he wanted to kiss her. A moment later he had leaned away again, as if coming to his senses, and then he was leaving, touching the brim of his hat to her as he sauntered down the path. She stared after him, and then, not wanting him to turn and catch her doing so, she quickly let herself into the house, shutting the door firmly behind her.
“Catherine, is that you?” Mama called from the small sitting room that served as her office.
“Yes, Mama.” She followed her mother’s voice, finding her sitting at her desk with various lists and Christmas cards spread over it.
“No matter how much one accomplishes in preparation for Christmas, there is always something more to do,” Mama complained as she came into the room. Catherine dropped the gift and her coat on the small settee, then went to the fire and lifted the front of her skirts to let the heat reach her legs. “It seems I spend the entire month of December preparing, and then when it is all over I spend another month cleaning up. It gets worse every year. We didn’t have Christmas trees when I was a little girl, you know. Things were much simpler. And now there are cards I must send as well! ‘Twas an evil fellow who dreamed that up.”
“You must let me help you more.”
Mama waved her hand, shooing away her concern. “I have it all organized up here,” she said, and tapped her temple. “I have your duties mapped out, do not worry yourself on that score. What’s that?” she asked then, spotting the red box.
Catherine let her skirts drop and sat on the settee, lifting the box onto her lap. “A gift from Mr. Rose. He insisted I take it.”
“Did he?” Mama said, brows raised.
Catherine undid the ribbon, pulled off the paper, then opened the flat box inside. “Oh,” she said softly. Mama was craning her head trying to see, so she lifted the hair comb out of the box.
“Good gracious,” Mama said.
“Indeed.” The long comb was carved of tortoiseshell, and set with cabochons of a clear yellow stone. She did not know enough to tell what the stones were, but given Mr. Rose’s wealth, she doubted he had bought her polished glass.
“It’s lovely, and Mr. Rose has exquisite taste, but Catherine…”
“I know, Mama.” Although neither Mama nor Aunt Frances had ever expressed any rules of etiquette specifically concerning hair combs, the item was perilously close to jewelry, and as such was far too personal a gift. Wearing it in her hair would, in some way, be like inviting Mr. Rose to touch her hair himself. “Should I return it to him?”
Mama was silent, a frown on her forehead as she considered. “He might take that as a rejection of more than just his gift.”
“I know.” She put the comb back in its box, and set it aside, then slouched down against the settee, her corset holding her torso straight even as her chin doubled, settling atop her chest. She let her hands flop to her sides.
“Catherine?” Mama said, coming over to sit beside her. “Has something changed since last we spoke of Mr. Rose?”
She flexed her hands in a minimal-effort shrug. “I don’t know. Perhaps.” She frowned, and rolled her head to the side to look at Mama. “I fear he is much more attached to me than I to him. He has put his heart on his sleeve, and I find myself wishing he would put it back inside his vest. Why, Mama? Why should I feel that way? He is handsome and charming and rich, and I should be delighted that he has lost his heart to me. Is there something amiss with my own heart, that I do not respond as I should?”
“Perhaps he is not the man for you, and your heart knows it.”
“I must be a very spoiled sort of girl if I am not satisfied with the likes of Mr. Rose. Perhaps the next man who catches my interest, I will grow tired of just as quickly. Mr. Rose has everything: Why have I lost my regard for him?”
“Catherine, you cannot force yourself to love someone simply because he seems to everyone else to be a perfect choice. If you do not love the man, then all the good looks and charm and money in the world are not going to make you happy.”
“I am not completely certain I could not love him,” she said doubtfully. “And I do like him very much. Or I did. I do not understand why I have lately found myself so annoyed by his presence.”
Mama patted her on the knee. “I think you will come to the right decision in time concer
ning Mr. Rose.”
“What do you think I should do, Mama?”
Her mother smiled cryptically. “It would be of no use for me to say. Rest assured, when you come to your own conclusion, it will likely be the same I would have advised.”
“Sometimes it is comforting being told what to do.”
“And when have you ever wanted to do what you were told? No, I shall save myself the trouble and let you figure this out for yourself. If you want the comfort of being told what to do, you may smile prettily and say ‘thank you’ while I give you your very long list of chores for tomorrow.”
Chapter Six
“Mr. Rose isn’t coming with us, is he?” Amy asked, fastening the side buttons on her skating skirt. They were in their bedroom, dressing for the outdoors.
“I didn’t invite him, although I think perhaps I should have.”
“Why would you have wanted to do that?”
“Amy! Because it would have been a small enough gesture, especially as the poor man has been alone here all this week, thanks to me.” After giving her the hair comb, Mr. Rose had come daily to the house inviting her to walk or go for a sleigh ride, but each time she had put him off with protestations that there was too much to do in preparation for the holiday. She had not even let him in the house, or offered refreshments, her discomfort with the gift and all it implied making her uncomfortable in his presence, and yet she was too cowardly to be frank about her feelings. After several days of such treatment, he had ceased calling. For the past few days Catherine had been free of either the sight or sound of Mr. Rose, but with his absence had come a sense of guilt and obligation toward the man, for he had only made the journey to Woodbridge because of her, and had held her in high enough regard to pour out the secrets of his heart. It had been callous of her to brush him off as she had, and with no explanation. She had formerly believed herself a friend to the man, and knew she owed him a face-to-face conversation on what could and could not be between them.
The guilt she felt over her unspoken rejection of Mr. Rose was only compounded by her growing attraction to Mr. Goodman. For the past week her only break from making wreaths, ornaments, centerpieces, and decorated cookies had been walks to Mr. Goodman’s store to purchase items that she convinced herself were utterly necessary to the completion of the projects Mama had set for her. She had taken to dawdling there, chatting with him when he was free, or watching him help a customer from the comer of her eye if he was busy, as she pretended to page through the most recent Harper’s Weekly. Yesterday she had made certain to mention, as if in passing, that she and Amy would be skating today.
