An Old-Fashioned Christmas Romance Collection

by DiAnn Mills

  “Yes,” she heard herself murmur. “I’ll marry you.”

  His strong arms enveloped her and ever so tenderly drew her near.

  Any second thoughts Angelina might have expected vanished as Gabe’s heart pounded against hers. She knew they were rushing things, that a lifetime commitment such as marriage should be entered into after great deliberation—yet she was consumed by the greatest peace she had ever felt in her life. She had felt drawn to him and to Noely since the first time their paths had crossed. Surely God had brought them all together…and He wanted them to stay together always.

  Gabe never imagined the world could contain this much joy. He had no idea how on earth he had gathered courage enough to propose to this enchanting young woman who had so recently become such a part of his life. He had tried to ignore the attraction he had felt for her from the first, had tried to deny it even as it grew stronger with each meeting. Somehow she seemed to have always been there, just beyond his dreams, part of himself that he had never hoped to find—and yet she was reality.

  Angelina’s courage in suffering had touched him more deeply than anything else about her, even more than the loneliness lurking in her beautiful eyes. Everything about her made him want to protect her and keep her safe from anything that might bring her further pain. And to think she had actually accepted his offer of marriage! He grinned to himself and shook his head. Mr. Lawrence was surely a mighty man of prayer.

  Of course, Gabe’s own prayers had been no less fervent, he had to admit. Both Angelina and Noely desperately needed someone to look after them. To love them. Maybe they needed him just as desperately as he needed them and their love.

  Love. Dare he speak that word aloud again after having had it thrown back in his face by someone else he had once thought he loved? Looking back, he could see the feelings he had known then paled in comparison to what filled him now. Letting his gaze devour Angelina’s features, he decided to take the chance.

  With the edge of his finger, he tipped her face upward. “I—” He swallowed and sucked in a breath. “I know you love Noely. You want to do what’s best for her, and so do I. But I wanted you to know that this isn’t just about Noely. I know it’s too soon to expect you to—Well, what I mean is…” He rubbed a big hand across his face and then said in a rush, his voice barely louder than a whisper, “I just wanted you to know—I love you, Angelina. With all of my heart. More with every passing day.”

  He hardly dared to look at her, but when he did, he saw that her tears had come again…but this time, with a sense of wonder, he recognized them for what they were.

  “And I love you,” she whispered with a misty smile.

  Clara, with Noely in hand, stood beside Angelina and Gabe as the pair faced Mr. Lawrence in the gentleman’s parlor later that evening. Having returned home from an hour’s play with the exuberant child, the news of an impending wedding was almost more than Clara’s old heart could contain. But observing the couple, seeing the breathless smiles and exchanges of expression, she could do naught but thank the Lord for His wondrous working—and for the influential justice of the peace’s abilities to make swift arrangements.

  Her nephew had seemed much more settled since these two dear ones had shown up on the doorstep. Noely had provided a new avenue for his attention, one that was separate from his ministry, one far more personal which put his faith into action. And Angelina, precious soul that she was, had brought to the fore a gentle, caring side of him which Clara knew he had buried deep inside long ago. They would be good for each other. All of them.

  “You may kiss your bride,” she heard Mr. Lawrence say.

  Gabe smiled down at Angelina with heart-stopping tenderness, and she, with shining eyes, melted into his embrace. Their lips met…tentatively at first, then again with the greatest of joy, and they embraced for a long moment.

  Noely leaned against Clara with a big grin, and Clara gave the child’s tiny hand an encouraging squeeze.

  Who would have thought this foundling would bring together two people who once considered themselves undesirable? Strange what love could do—and right before Christmas, too.

  Christmas. Ever so special…ever so precious. From the very beginning the most wondrous of days.

  And all for the love of a Child.

  Paper Roses

  JoAnn A. Grote

  Chapter 1

  Minneapolis, Minnesota, 1893

  How can life have gone from perfect to perfectly awful in only two weeks? Vernetta Larson wondered, seating herself at the luxuriously appointed Thanksgiving dinner table. The crystal and china glinting in the light of the gas chandelier seemed to mock her with their reminder of the life of wealth she’d taken for granted for so long.

  Her tall, broad-shouldered Swedish father took his usual seat at the head of the table and bowed his head. His voice rumbled out with the same humble gratitude to the Lord as always.

  How can he sound so sincere? Vernetta asked herself. Is he truly thankful, even now? In all her nineteen years, she’d not found it this difficult to be thankful, and things must seem worse to him.

  “Hmph!” Her mother snapped her lace-edged napkin open with a plump, well-manicured hand and laid the napkin across the lap of her ice-blue satin gown. “Thanking God, indeed! We should demand to know why He let this happen instead.”

  No need to ask what her mother meant by “this.” The financial depression, commonly known as the Panic, had finally reached its tentacles into their home. The bank Vernetta’s father had started twenty-five years ago had failed two weeks earlier. Hundreds of other banks across the country had failed, but Vernetta hadn’t expected her father’s bank to fail.

  The gray color of her father’s face cut her to the quick. He’d looked poorly since the bank collapsed. Must her mother grind salt into his wounds? She bit her bottom lip hard to keep from expressing her thoughts. Her father wouldn’t tolerate criticism of her mother, even in his defense.

  “Now, Lena,” he was saying in the strong Swedish accent that lingered even after twenty-five years in America, “I know you don’t mean that. It isn’t our Lord’s fault that I and the other bank officers invested our depositors’ money unwisely.”

  Her mother’s blue eyes snapped. “And how were you to know railroads were a bad investment, I’d like to know, with tracks being laid from here to yon and back again?”

  A grin spread across her father’s broad face and twinkled in the blue eyes beneath his graying blond hair. “Now that’s the woman I married, defending her man against the world.”

  A delicate flush swept over Mother’s round face beneath the heavy, dark hair that was piled in a loose bun. “Anton, honestly!” Her lashes swept her suddenly rosy cheeks.

  Father had often told Vernetta she looked like her mother had at her age. She’d never been able to see the resemblance between herself and the portrait of her mother at eighteen that hung above the parlor fireplace. Vernetta’s long hair, which she wore up with a fashionable fringe of curly bangs, was not-quite-brown and not-quite-blond, certainly not the rich brown of her mother’s. Her eyes weren’t blue like her parents, but a striking, unusual violet. She had the traditional wide Scandinavian face but had a narrow chin instead of the rounded, broader chin of her mother.

  Mother was fingering the fluted edge of the bud vase that held a single red rose. Father had given her that rose. There was one by each of their plates. They were beautiful, but Vernetta knew it was hard for her parents, seeing the single roses. For as long as Vernetta could remember, her father had bought two dozen red and white roses for the Thanksgiving table and for the Christmas table also. It was a tradition he’d started the first year he’d made enough money to more than meet the young couple’s expenses.

  Vernetta smiled at her mother’s flustered attitude. She looks like a young bride, very much in love, she thought. She couldn’t recall ever seeing her mother look that way. It was sweet but cut into her heart with fresh pain.

  Would her own face
ever fill with love for another that way? Love had walked out of her own life last evening. She pushed down the pain that had filled her chest since she awoke. She’d thought she might receive an engagement ring from Andrew Reed for Christmas. He’d been courting her for six months and had profusely proclaimed his affection for her.

  Last night he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t be escorting her in the future. He’d actually told her that his parents wouldn’t allow him to see a young woman whose father had embarrassed himself by losing his business and his family fortune. I’m better off without him if his love is based on my father’s money and position, she told herself for the twentieth time since he’d spoken the awful words. The thought helped her hold her head up in pride but didn’t help her wounded heart.

  She hadn’t told her mother of Andrew’s decision yet. Mother had been thrilled that a future lawyer, the son of a state senator, was courting her daughter. “The best marriage prospect in the state,” she’d said. Vernetta sighed.

  The swinging door between the kitchen and formal dining room opened, and a maid entered with a large china soup tureen. Along with her came a welcome drift of warmth from the large cookstove and the smell of wood smoke mixed with the mouth-watering odors of pumpkin pie and roast turkey.

  Dora was the only servant left in the household. She wouldn’t be here, Vernetta remembered, if she hadn’t offered to work for room and board. Jobs were almost impossible to find in these days of high unemployment.

  Dora moved smartly as always. The white apron covering her black dress was crisp, as was the small white hat she wore pinned behind the blond braid that circled her head. She set the tureen in the middle of the lace-covered, mahogany table and served the three Larsons.

  Vernetta accepted a steaming bowl of rich oyster stew, the usual first course in their Thanksgiving meal. “Thank you, Dora.”

  The front-door chimes sung through the house, and Dora hurried to answer them. She was back in a minute with a calling card on a small silver tray.

  Father took the card and frowned. Vernetta thought his face grew grayer. His broad shoulders drooped beneath his fine jacket. “A newspaper man?” he growled. “Haven’t they torn me apart enough? Must they also invade my home and family on Thanksgiving?”

  Vernetta’s heart felt like it was being squeezed. She pushed back her chair and stood in one smooth motion. “I’ll ask him to leave.”

  “The gentleman said he wishes to speak with you about boarding, Mr. Larson.” Dora’s quick, softly spoken clarification stopped Vernetta before she reached the door to the hallway. She swung around, staring at her father.

  Mother slapped her napkin onto the table beside her plate. “He is no gentleman if he interrupts us on Thanksgiving, Dora.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Dora murmured, retreating to the kitchen.

  Mother leaned forward, glaring at Vernetta’s father. “Anton, I told you I won’t have my home turned into a boardinghouse!”

  Father’s huge chest lifted in a sigh. He looked so tired that Vernetta’s chest clinched in pain for him. “Lena, I cannot possibly afford to keep this house without some kind of income. I didn’t think the ad would be in the newspaper until tomorrow. I apologize for this intrusion.” He handed Vernetta the gentleman’s calling card. “Please ask him to come back tomorrow.”

  Hurrying down the walnut-paneled hall, the sound of her footsteps hidden in the depths of the carpet runners, Vernetta could hear her mother’s angry voice through the closed door. Her cheeks grew hot. Could the possible boarder hear the tirade?

  She set her thin lips firmly and lifted her chin. No matter how bad things become, I won’t allow myself to become bitter like Mother, she promised herself. She barely knew the woman her mother had become since the bank failure. Starting tonight, each evening I will find something for which to be thankful, no matter how trivial, and write it down in my diary. I won’t allow my soul to become warped.

  The man, who had been seated on the upholstered mahogany chaise near the door, almost leaped to his feet when he saw her, his brown derby in his hands. A few snowflakes still sat on the camel-colored wool coat covering his brown, high-buttoned business suit. His black hair was a tumble of curls he’d obviously tried and failed to repress.

  Vernetta found herself responding immediately to his friendly brown eyes and quick smile. Remembering their roles, she suppressed the smile that had come to her lips in answer to his own. She glanced at the card. “Thank you for your interest in our ad, Mr.—”

  “Thomas Michael McNally.” He bowed from the waist with a flourish of his derby that brought back her smile.

  “Yes, so your card states. It is Thanksgiving, Mr. McNally. Could you please return tomorrow?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t, Miss Larson. I have to catch a train for an out-of-town assignment in an hour. I won’t be back until midnight tomorrow.”

  Was this true, she wondered, or was it Irish blarney? In spite of his Irish last name, there was no hint of an accent. His people must have been in America for a long time.

  “One of the men who works in the advertising department at the Tribune knows I’m looking for a room,” he continued. “He knew from the address this would be a fine place to stay and, that is…” His fingers played with the edge of his derby, and he stumbled over his words.

  Vernetta felt blood seep from her face. He recognized Father’s name as the one placing the ad, she realized. Once it would have been a sign of the station her father had achieved. Now it was a sign of his failure. Mr. McNally’s knowledge of her father’s business affairs was likely also the reason he knew she was Miss, not Mrs., Larson.

  She lifted her chin, folded her hands together at her waist, and watched him. She wasn’t about to offer him a way out of his predicament. The newspapers hadn’t been kind to her father. I’d have thought when they reported his bank’s failure to the world, they’d have also remembered all he’s done for this city through the years.

  Their gazes met. She thought his eyes surprisingly honest—for a newspaperman. He spread his arms slightly and lifted his thick, dark eyebrows. “I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to stay in such a fine home. Most boardinghouses aren’t anywhere near this nice, though I expect a lady like yourself wouldn’t know that firsthand. I realize it’s inexcusable, intruding on your family at Thanksgiving, but—”

  “But you aren’t above offering an excuse, just the same,” she ended for him, unable to control her grin at the obvious.

  His laugh filled the hall. She decided she quite liked the sound of it and the way his eyes almost shut in a mass of crinkles when he laughed. “You’re quite right, Miss Larson. Ungentlemanly behavior, at the very least. I most humbly apologize.”

  “Let me show you a room.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure the room will be more than adequate. However, I would prefer the quiet of a room at the back, if you have one, after the noise of the news office.”

  She told him the rental amount in the most businesslike voice she could muster. Her father had decided to charge more than most places, knowing the value of their location.

  He nodded without hesitation at the price, as if agreeing it was fair, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief. With greater confidence, she explained the boarders would be eating in the kitchen and would have the use of the family living room. Father knew Mother wouldn’t allow the invasion of their formal dining room and parlor.

  Vernetta showed the young man to the living room, which was across the broad hall from the dining room. The living room was comfortable, with wallpaper striped in shades of mauve and pearl, mauve plush-covered furniture, and a welcoming fireplace. “You may wait here while I ask my father if we might accept you as a boarder, Mr. McNally.”

  He seemed a pleasant young man. Crossing the hall, she whispered to the Lord, “Perhaps his cheerful spirit would be contagious, Father. Our home could use a little cheer!”

  Entering the formal dining room, she avoided looking at h
er mother, whose disapproval seemed to fill the room. Mother had not been able to change Father’s mind about renting.

  “I’ll trust your judgment,” he assured Vernetta. “If you believe him to be a man of high character, rent him a room.”

  Mother’s voice rang in disapproval as Vernetta left the room. Vernetta couldn’t remember ever before hearing her mother’s voice raised so high in anger. Would nice Mr. McNally hear those derogatory comments about the class of people from whom boarders came and about newspapermen in particular?

  Upon entering the family room, Vernetta realized immediately that he could not help but hear. He looked almost as embarrassed as she felt. His brown eyes were filled with sympathy. His dark brows lifted. “Your mother?”

  She nodded, trying to swallow her embarrassment. Her fingertips played with her rose-colored gown’s silk skirt. “Her manners aren’t usually so…so unacceptable. It’s difficult for her, opening our home to strangers.”

  “Change is always frightening. We often react with bitterness or anger to the things that frighten us, don’t you think?”

  His words surprised her as much as the gentleness in his voice. He’d never met her mother, yet in only a moment he’d helped her understand her mother better. She smiled slightly. “Yes, we do.”

  He cleared his throat. “You, um, haven’t said yet whether your father gave his approval.”

  “Oh! Yes, he did.”

  Mr. McNally’s smile filled his face. “That’s grand! I’ll move in Saturday, if that’s acceptable.”

  She assured him it was and walked him to the door. Snow was still falling in large, drifting flakes. A nice start to the holiday season, she thought.

  Mr. McNally shifted his derby in his hands and cleared his throat. “I want you to know, Miss Larson, that you needn’t fear I’ll invade your family’s privacy because I’m a newspaperman. I won’t print anything derogatory about your family. I wouldn’t print anything about your family at all without your father’s approval.”