by Cach, Lisa
She wondered if Mr. Goodman thought her a pest, or at least a trifle strange, to be spending so much time in his store. She was likely making a spectacle of herself to those who noticed her repeated, lingering presence, but Mr. Goodman himself showed no sign of thinking her visits remarkable. He treated her, she supposed, with the same kindness with which he treated everyone. When he looked at her, there was no hint of the needy-dog look that had haunted Mr. Rose’s eyes as he declared his love to her. Mr. Goodman was self-contained, and for all that his character was clear to see on his face, his innermost passions were still private.
She pushed her spectacles up her nose. She had started wearing them earlier in the week, and after a few surprised comments, her family had largely forgotten them, acting after a day or two as if she had always worn them. Except for Amy, that is. Catherine thought her sister possessed an obsessive fascination with the spectacles, and Amy had given a wide-eyed shiver of excitement when Catherine had let her try them on.
“Are you two ready, then?” Papa called up the stairs. “The horse will freeze to death if it has to wait much longer.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, and caught Amy doing the same. Papa liked to blame an animal for his impatience or bad temper, whenever the situation allowed.
Papa dropped them from the buggy at the edge of the road, the pond no more than a hundred yards off. A dozen or more townsfolk, children and adults, were already there, skating round the oblong that had been cleared of snow.
They trudged down the path to the side of the pond, and sat upon the logs that had been arranged there for putting on skates. A fire had been built behind one of the other logs, to warm those who either tired or had come only to watch. Catherine searched the skaters for an upright bear, disappointed when there was none to be seen. The disappointment lessened when she took a moment to remind herself what a wonder it was to be able to see the faces of skaters thirty feet away. She was in danger already of taking her new clarity of vision for granted.
“Have I caught you coming or going?” a familiar voice asked, as a bulk of bearskin sat down next to Amy.
“Mr. Goodman!” Amy exclaimed. “We’ve just arrived. It’s been ages since Catherine skated here, you know.”
“Has it now?”
” ‘Twould be best if you showed her which places to avoid.” And then, all innocence, “Is that Becky over there?” she asked, peering across the pond. She finished fastening her skates onto her boots, and stood up. “You don’t mind if I go join her, do you, Cath?”
Catherine raised her brows at her. “No, not at all,” she said, and Amy skated off.
“Did that wire work as you wished, for the wreaths?” Mr. Goodman asked companionably as he bent down to put on his own skates. It was as if they were simply carrying on where their conversation had left off the day before in the store.
“It was just what I needed, thank you. Papa is using what was left for fastening the candles to the tree.” Had Mr. Goodman come to the pond because she had told him she would be here, or would he have come anyway?
“I don’t suppose you have much opportunity to skate in New York.”
“On the contrary, the ponds in Central Park are quite crowded with skaters throughout the winter. They are an especially popular place for courting couples,” she said, and to her embarrassment found herself giving him a coy, sideways look.
“Are they?” he said mildly. “I would have to say the same use is made of the pond here.” He nodded his head toward the skaters, and following his gaze she saw a young couple, the man taking great care as he guided his companion’s efforts upon skates, reaching out to catch her when she seemed in danger of falling. The young woman shrieked and laughed as she stumbled awkwardly about, clinging to her beau’s arm.
“I’d wager my best hat that she skates better than she lets on,” Catherine said.
Mr. Goodman laughed. “But that’s not the point, is it? Shall we?” he asked, standing and holding out his hand to her.
“I warn you now I am not going to slip and fall like that young woman, and neither do I shriek.”
“I did not expect that you would, although laughing is not forbidden, so long as it is not at me,” he said, giving that smile that turned his average face glowingly handsome, and made her heart contract.
She took his hand, gazing up at him and wishing he showed some sign of wanting to court her. From the way he behaved, she had no reason to think he thought any more of her than that she was the sister of a friend, the daughter of a family he respected, and perhaps a pleasant person with whom to converse. Had he even once looked at her as a potential sweetheart?
Looking into his eyes, there was such understanding and interest, even admiration, it hurt to admit that he probably shared the same look with everyone. She knew that he was a man whose kindness would not be limited only to those he liked, and it ate at her that she could not tell if there was anything in that look meant especially for her.
“I shall have no limits placed upon my laughter, Mr. Goodman,” she said, reaching the edge of the pond and releasing his hand as she glided out onto the ice. “If you fall, I shall laugh myself silly.”
“Not if I pull you down with me,” he said, and glided toward her.
She shrieked, then dashed away, and felt a flaming heat bloom on her cheeks. Had she truly just shrieked, after saying she would not? Oh, God… She glanced over her shoulder, and saw the bear was almost upon her. Another shriek pealed forth, and she dug her skates into the ice, racing to evade him. Her heart was beating wildly, perspiration breaking out, her muscles electrified by the thrill of being chased around the pond.
Will skated after Miss Linwood, the playful fun of pursuing her knocking up against the thought that she might be flirting with him. Might she be? It hardly seemed possible, but…
He caught up to her and grabbed her hand, swinging her around. She made another of those laughing shrieks, and he took her other hand as well, swinging her around him in a circle. “Stop! Stop!” she cried, laughing. “I’m going to fall.”
He slowed, then brought her to a halt. She swayed, dizzy, and he pulled her closer, her feet motionless as she glided to him. She released his hands and grabbed higher up his arms for support, blinking her warm brown eyes at him as her vertigo passed.
“That was most unfair of you, Mr. Goodman,” she said. “If I had fallen, it would not have counted, as it would have been entirely your fault.”
“All’s fair in love and war,” he said, the words out before he could stop them.
She grinned mischievously at him. “And we both know which this is,” she said, and skated away before he could respond, leaving him watching dumbly after her.
No, he didn’t know which it was, not for her! And did she have any notion of what he felt for her, that it was deeply, desperately love, and not war?
She cast him one backward glance, as if daring him to follow and capture her again.
The shyness that had overcome him upon first meeting her was still with him, making it nearly impossible for him to show her that his interest was more than platonic. His natural reserve, which such a short time ago he had enjoyed, was in this case a torturous barrier that he did not know how to surmount.
The only way to prevent himself from gibbering like an ape in her presence was to pretend to himself that she was already a close friend. When she came to the store, he struggled to shut away his shyness into a dark, locked box, and refused to second-guess his actions and words. He coaxed her into talking about herself and her family’s Christmas preparations, and as she talked he gradually forgot about his locked-away shyness. He teased her gently, making her laugh in those rich tones that grabbed at his heart. He helped her to find the goods on her list, discussions of each item wandering off into uncharted realms. The circuitous route of conversation led from ribbons to favorite desserts, from oranges to the time she had climbed Mt. Tom, from cloves to their mutual love of the novels of Wilkie Collins.
Ther
e was always one more topic to discuss, one more direction in which to take the conversation, and then she would take a glance at the watch pinned to her breast and give a start, apologizing for keeping him so long from his work. Each extra minute she stayed afterward was a victory, the visible reluctance with which she left him a boost to the morale of his advancing army.
He watched her figure gracefully moving through the other skaters at the opposite end of the pond, pausing briefly to skate a circle around Amy and her friend.
Miss Linwood’s visits had given his attachment to her a deeper basis than a pretty face and infectious laugh. Her conversation was informed and perceptive, her mood usually one of quiet merriment. She was vivacious without being vulgar, mischievous without being cruel, intelligent without condescension. His heart had somehow known, at first sight, what it would find in her.
Even with her hints of flirtatious encouragement, though, the thought of openly courting her, exposing his heart for all to see, left him feeling ill. There was something within him that would not permit such a display.
He would not, could not try to persuade her to love him with sweet words and gifts of candy and flowers. He could not call on her, sitting like a lovesick fool in her parlor, while her mother hovered nearby as chaperone. By embarrassing himself, he knew that he would embarrass her, and put in jeopardy any fondness that she held for him. No, it was better to continue his attack of stealth.
“You shall become a snowman if you stand there much longer,” Miss Linwood said, skating up beside him and scraping expertly to a stop. She had made the circuit of the pond while he stood frozen, contemplating his adoration of her. It had begun to snow, and glancing down he saw that a fine layer of it covered his coat.
“Of what were you thinking, to transfix you so?” she asked.
“Of how best to catch you, of course,” he said, and raised his arms as if to do so. She gasped, and in her haste to back away lost her balance. He moved quickly, catching her before she could fall. She was a welcome weight in his arms, her cheek pressed to his chest, her hands clinging to the fur of his coat, but he released her as soon as she had regained her feet. He skated away at a gentle pace, and after a moment she followed, gliding easily into place at his side as they circled the pond.
“You tricked me,” she accused.
“I did nothing.”
“Yes, and it was quite clever of you.”
He smiled, but did not answer.
Chapter Seven
Catherine settled into her seat between Amy and Mr. Rose. They were in the McMahon family’s old barn, converted two years ago into the drama club’s theater. Doves and chickens were known to roost overhead, and the place would never completely escape the faint scents of its former use, but the fowl had been chased out for this night, and likely no one but Mr. Rose minded the smells of chickens and dust.
“My friends will never believe this,” Mr. Rose said, shifting on his hard wooden chair and peering into the raftered gloom.
Catherine felt a spark of irritation invade her good mood. “Are you going to mock my mother’s production to them?” she whispered fiercely, casting him a narrow-eyed glare.
“I would never do such a thing!” he exclaimed in a whisper, and grasped her gloved hand in both of his. “Catherine, you know I would not,” he said, and gave her the wounded, vulnerable look that turned her stomach more each time she saw it.
“This play means a great deal to her,” she said, and gently pulled her hand away.
“I know it does. And to you, too, so you may rest assured that I will applaud mightily at the final curtain.”
Even those words annoyed her, sounding to her as if he doubted the play could possibly merit such grand regard. She wished she had not invited him along, but guilt had made her do so. After returning from skating, she had found a note waiting from him, explaining that he had fallen ill with some manner of ague and was only now near recovery, and that he was more sorry than he could say that he had been unable to call on her those past several days.
She felt it was too sad for anyone to be ill and alone during the Christmas season. And so, the invitation to the play. He had accompanied her, her father, and Amy to the barn theater.
She hoped for some point later in the evening to have a chance to speak privately with him. It was easy enough to see that he had not been well, although he claimed now to be fully back to health. His skin was colorless, his eyes bloodshot, and when he moved she sometimes caught a strange scent wafting from him. A devil in the back of her mind wondered if he had spent those days of “illness” drinking himself prone. She quashed the thought as unworthy.
The last of the audience straggled in, finding places in the seats that remained. The hard wooden chairs sat on risers that thumped hollowly under their feet, and the rustling and whispering began to settle as the lantern lights were lowered. When all had quieted to an expectant silence, and all eyes and ears waited for the curtain to rise, there came a deep, gutteral cry from off-stage: “Bah, humbug!”
Catherine put her hand to her lips, smothering the laugh that wanted to slip forth as she recognized Mr. Goodman’s voice under the grouching exclamation of Scrooge. The curtain lifted upon the stark scene of Ebenezer Scrooge’s counting house, the bare furniture and the meager coal scuttle, and she joined the others in applauding a welcome to the two actors sitting at their worktables.
Catherine rummaged in her reticule for her spectacles, slipping them on in the safety of the dark. She’d leave them on, too, and never mind what Mr. Rose might think. She ought to have more backbone than to let his likely opinion of a pair of spectacles alter her behavior. If he saw fit to mock them, well, then, let him, she thought, lifting her chin and giving a little sniff. Perhaps he would find them so unattractive he would go back to New York and leave her to enjoy Christmas with her family in peace, with her having to say nary a word.
Mr. Goodman was all but unrecognizable in his costume, his hair colored gray and lines of miserliness drawn into his cheeks and under his eyes. He played the role of Scrooge with enthusiasm, being as sour and bad-natured as Dickens could have wished, if not more so.
Scrooge’s nephew had come into the counting house, and for some minutes had been arguing cheerily with Scrooge about the worth of Christmas. “So ‘a Merry Christmas,’ Uncle!”
“Good afternoon!” Mr. Goodman barked, for the third time trying to dismiss the happy man.
“And ‘a Happy New Year’!” the nephew gaily chirped, to the laughter of the audience. Catherine thought she even heard a reluctant snort of amusement from Mr. Rose.
“Good afternoon!” again, from Scrooge.
Catherine caught Amy’s eye, sharing a smile with her. “He’s good,” Amy whispered. Catherine nodded. Seeing Mr. Goodman onstage, even playing the part of a despicable miser, had the curious effect of magnifying his attraction. She felt a queer sense of possessive pride over him.
The play progressed, flour-faced ghosts arrived and went, and then Mama was on stage, as Mrs. Cratchit serving the Christmas goose and pudding to her family as Scrooge and the ghost of Christmas Present watched from the side. Catherine and Amy both giggled to see Mama in costume, and then Bob Cratchit made his toast.
“A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”
The Cratchit family repeated the toast, and into the following silence came Tiny Tim’s voice, “Dog bless us everyone!”
Mama stared wide-eyed at the little boy, as did the rest of the Cratchit family. Scrooge winced in sympathy. The little boy’s face turned scarlet, as he realized what he’d said.
“Mr. Goodman!” Mr. Cratchit said, trying to gloss over the boy’s error by hurriedly raising his glass in the next toast.
Mr. Goodman, startled at hearing his own name onstage, uttered an audible, “Eh?”
Suspicious coughing sounds rippled through the audience.
“Mr. Scrooge! Mr. Scrooge, I mean to say,” Cratchit corrected, waving his glass and spilling his
drink over both his hand and Tiny Tim, who looked on the verge of tears at this further insult to his pride. “I’ll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Bounder of the Beast!”
“The founder of the feast, indeed!” Mama cried, to more muffled coughing. “I wish I had him here,” Mama continued. “I’d give him a beast of my mind—piece of my mind, damn it!-” Mama swore, as the Cratchit family bowed their heads, their shoulders shaking, “—to feast upon, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it!”
“My dear, the children!” Bob Cratchit reproached softly, covering Tiny Tim’s ears, his face as tenderly disappointed as a saint’s. “Christmas day.”
Hoots and snorts of laughter burst out, both onstage and in the house. Catherine, Amy, and Papa joined in, safe under the cover of the crowd from the wrathful glare Mama sent out into the darkened theater.
“It should be Christmas day, I am sure,” Mama said with vehemence and a withering look cast over the audience as she carried on with her speech. By force of will she seemed to settle them all, although Catherine heard a whispered, “Piece of my mind, damn it!” behind her, amidst shushing and giggling. She bit her own lips to keep from joining in.
The play made it safely to its conclusion with only minor mishaps, the cast all assembling onstage as a narrator read out the ending of the story, explaining how Scrooge became a good man, who kept Christmas well and avoided spirits ever after. Tiny Tim stepped forward and with extreme care enunciated the final line. “God bless us, everyone!”
