An Old-Fashioned Christmas Romance Collection

by DiAnn Mills

  Cora entered the room. Vernetta, her cheeks bright red, protested quietly but followed along. What else could she do with Cora’s hand clamped tightly about hers? Thomas stifled his grin with difficulty, laid aside the paper, and stood up. Captain Rogers rose also, leaning on his cane.

  Cora stopped in the middle of the room. “Miss Vernetta is going to a Christmas party. I knew you’d all want to see how pretty she looks.”

  Cornelia pushed herself from the sofa and hurried across the room. “What a beautiful gown!” Her fingers caught the edge of the material that stood out over the top of the puffed sleeves. “Such a perfect shade of brocaded silk. Petunia it’s called, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” Vernetta admitted quietly. “Thank you.”

  Cornelia stood back, admiring the gown. “That deep purple gore of velvet with the lace trim in the middle of the skirt adds so much.”

  “Turn around,” Cora insisted.

  Vernetta obediently turned, careful to lift her train.

  The captain cleared his throat. “Lovely, my dear. Simply lovely.”

  Vernetta stepped quickly to his side and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  Cornelia waved a hand toward Thomas. “Well, aren’t you going to tell her what you think?”

  “Perfect. You are perfect, Miss Larson.” The words came out almost a whisper. He was surprised they made it out at all past the painful lump in his throat.

  Her unusual violet eyes widened slightly, and his gaze tangled in hers. All he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears.

  “I like the paper rose you’ve pinned in your hair,” Cora said.

  Vernetta’s fingers touched the edge of the white rose, and Thomas’s gaze followed. “Lily made it,” she told them.

  “Perhaps your escort will want you to wear the flowers he brings instead,” Cornelia suggested.

  Vernetta’s smile looked a little tight. “No escort tonight. I’m attending with friends.”

  Thomas’s heart clenched. He pressed his lips together firmly and caught his hands behind his back. He wished he were of her social class. If he were, he could escort her to the party and see that she had real roses to rest in her beautiful hair. The paper rose was a fine example of where her heart lay, but would her friends look down on it?

  He watched out the front door’s etched glass window as Vernetta and her friends left, but what he saw was her eyes when he told her she was perfect. I’m falling in love with her. The thought caught him by surprise, but he recognized the truth of it immediately. Forget it, McNally. She’s out of your league, even with her father’s present financial situation. Besides, she’s still nursing a broken heart over Andrew. Dora had told him all about Andrew, the family’s expectation that he and Vernetta would marry, and the breakup. He couldn’t imagine any man walking away from Vernetta.

  He heard Dora’s step in the hall behind him and turned, forcing a grin. “How about going ice-skating with me, Dora? It’s a fine evening for it.”

  “My young man is taking me skating, but you’re welcome to join us.”

  “I think I will, if you don’t mind a third party.” Thomas started up the stairs to get his skate blades, wishing Vernetta would be joining them at the pond, her gaze lingering in his mind.

  Chapter 7

  Thomas was in the living room when Vernetta returned from the party. Unable to sleep, he’d taken a volume of Dickens from Mr. Larson’s library shelves and settled in a wing chair before a dying fire. His efforts to read had been futile; his mind was filled with Vernetta.

  He hurried to the hall when he heard the front door close. He knew there would be no one else to greet her; her parents and Dora had been in bed for hours.

  She jumped slightly, startled, when she saw him, but recovered quickly and smiled. “Hello.”

  “Hello. Let me help you with your cape.” She turned her back to him, and he lifted the soft black velvet from her shoulders. The smooth ivory curve of her neck tempted him. What would it feel like to press his lips to her neck? He pushed the thought away. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh yes! It was such fun!” Her eyes sparkled up at him in the light from the opal gas lamps on the walnut walls. “When my friends asked about the paper rose in my hair, I put on my best surprised face and said, ‘Why, paper roses are all the rage for Christmas this year, haven’t you heard?’ “Her laugh rang out.

  Thomas grinned. “How did your friends respond to that?”

  “Skeptical at first. Then I explained that during the financial troubles, using paper roses was a way to decorate themselves and their homes, be fashionable, be thrifty, and be charitable all at the same time.” She laughed again. “I was so convincing that a girl who is hosting a party next week asked my assistance in buying the flowers she will need to decorate. I can’t wait to place the order when I see the flower girls at Sunday school!”

  “They’ll be thrilled. Perhaps you should write a newspaper article about this current rage for paper roses. That would ensure your friends that you are telling the truth! Of course, you wouldn’t want to use your real name for the byline.”

  She clapped her hands. “What a wonderful idea! Do you think your editor would print it?”

  “I’ll try to convince him to use it.” It was fun acting the conspirators. “I was telling Dora tonight at the skating pond that—”

  “You and Dora went ice-skating?”

  “Yes, I—” Something in her eyes made him lose his train of thought. Why was she looking at him that way?

  “I love ice-skating.” Her voice was quiet, and the light had left her eyes. “It was a beautiful night for it. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll retire. I’m awfully tired.”

  “Of course.” He watched her climb the stairs. What had he said to take the life out of her that way?

  Vernetta slipped into bed. She piled the pillows between her and the ornately carved headboard, then leaned back against them and picked up her journal. She pulled the pale pink satin comforter over her knees and opened the journal. It was her usual bedtime ritual. Normally she began writing as soon as she opened the book. She should have had a lot to write about tonight, after the Christmas party, but the only thing in her mind was a picture of Dora and Thomas skating together.

  “Likely Mother was very happy to see them go off for an evening together,” she whispered. Her heart burned at the thought of Dora and Thomas skating hand-in-hand, laughing together in the moonlight, enjoying hot cider and popcorn, standing around the fire that was always kept going for the evening skaters.

  Every night she made it a practice to record one thing for which she was grateful. Usually she couldn’t stop at one! Tonight, she couldn’t remember anything for which to be thankful.

  “Lately, Father,” she spoke quietly into the softly lit room, “it seemed life was beginning to turn around. Working with the flower girls has been so rewarding. The boarders have brought in a little money and also added cheer and fun to our house. Thomas has befriended Father. And…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and her throat ached. “I thought Thomas was beginning to care for me.”

  She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them, letting the pain wash over her. Finally she swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Things no longer seemed to be improving. Tonight the difficult things seemed harder than ever to bear: Her parents were still dealing with the pain of the bank failure, the newsboys and flower girls lived in poverty’s gray depths from which there appeared little hope of escape, the entire country remained in the middle of financial chaos.

  “On top of everything else, I’m falling in love with a man whose romantic interests lie not with me, but with my maid!” A tiny smile tugged at the edge of her lip and caught the hot, salty tear that rolled over her cheek. She couldn’t help seeing the irony in her situation. Never in her wildest imaginations had she ever thought she would be jealous of her maid!

  With a sigh, she put out the light in the lamp beside her bed, too preoccupied to notice the prett
y roses painted on the china shade. She slid down between the sheets and pulled the comforter about her shoulders.

  “I’m trying to trust You, God,” she whispered into the shadows, “but I don’t understand how You can allow so many hard things.” Guilt wrapped around her fears and questions like a fog. If her faith and that of other Christians in the country were strong enough, wouldn’t it have meant an end to the hard times?

  The next morning, Vernetta spent hours at the delicate writing desk beside the window in her bedroom, working on the article Thomas had recommended that she write. When he came home for lunch, she handed it to him. Fear swamped her as she watched him read the short article. What if he thinks I’m a terrible writer? She wanted to snatch back the paper over which she’d labored so diligently.

  He looked up from the page with a grin. “This is great! I’ll show it to the editor this afternoon.”

  All afternoon, she tried to find things to occupy her mind and stop worrying what the editor would think, but she was unsuccessful. When the hour neared for Thomas to return home, she pretended to do needlework in a chair by the parlor window. She dropped the needlework and hurried to the front door when she saw him coming up the walk. If it was bad news, she didn’t want to hear it in front of others.

  Thomas laughed when he walked in the front door and found her standing just inside. From the sympathetic twinkle in his eyes, she guessed that he could read the hope and dread that filled her as she waited for his report.

  He rested a hand on her shoulder. “The editor liked your article. It will be in the Sunday paper.”

  Vernetta rose to her toes and clapped both hands over her mouth. Excitement and pleasure coursed through her. She slid her fingers down just enough to ask, “Oh Thomas, truly? This isn’t Irish blarney?”

  She saw his expression soften and the laughter in his brown eyes quieted to a tender glimmer. Even his voice softened. “No, my lo…No, lass. No blarney.” His hand moved from her shoulder to touch her cheek. The touch warmed her in spite of the cold that lingered on his fingers from the outdoors. Her breath caught in her throat and her emotions tumbled about in her chest in wild and wonderful confusion.

  He dropped his hand and began unbuttoning his coat. Was he as flustered as she by his touch? she wondered.

  Thomas opened the door to the hall closet. “The editor said if you wish to write other articles for the society and home pages, he’ll be glad to consider them.”

  Joy flooded her. She clapped her hands lightly. “It seems too good to be true!”

  “I almost forgot the best part!” Thomas reached into his coat pocket, withdrew some coins, and held them out to her. “Your pay.”

  The coins tinkled as they fell into her palm. Dismay mingled with awe. It wasn’t very much money, but it was something. No matter how little it was, she knew God was answering her prayer in providing a way in which she could contribute, however slightly, to the family income.

  She knew her eyes were shining when she looked up at him. “My father has given me an allowance to spend upon myself for years, but this is the first money I’ve ever earned.”

  “You earned it well. It was a good article.”

  She felt wrapped in the smile that shone in his eyes, and she was glad that he was the person who was sharing this special moment with her.

  At the next Sunday school, Vernetta placed orders with the flower girls for flowers for some of her friends. The girls beamed with delight at the size of the orders. They assured Vernetta they would have no trouble making enough flowers to meet her friends’ requests.

  Thomas’s eyes glowed as he caught Vernetta’s gaze. “I knew God had a special purpose in your work with the flower girls. All the volunteers here are special, but you’ve touched the children’s lives in so many ways in which they’ve not been touched before.”

  A warm glow enwrapped her heart at his words. She was growing to love the children and her work with them. She didn’t need Thomas’s approval, or anyone else’s approval, to be happy that she was here. It wasn’t his approval of her that touched her so. Rather, his words only added to her belief in his goodness and to her growing love for him.

  Vernetta had convinced the other volunteers at the Sunday school to put on a Christmas pageant with the children. Some of the volunteers had been reluctant at first. “The children’s parents and families will never come,” said the woman who had been working with the mission the longest.

  “It’s important to do it anyway,” Vernetta insisted. “Recreating the Christmas story will make it more real to the children.”

  To Vernetta’s utter amazement, Thomas convinced her mother to play the piano for the Christmas program. “I still can’t believe you talked her into this,” she whispered to Thomas as Mother played “Silent Night” at the first practice. “However did you do it?”

  He shrugged. “I told her the children seldom heard music played by someone of her talent and that by playing she would be giving a great gift to the children.” He smiled down at her. “I didn’t tell her what a gift the children’s appreciation would be to her.”

  Vernetta watched the children singing the well-known hymn. Most of them, she was sure, noticed no difference between her mother’s playing and that of the woman who usually played for the hymn singing, but Lily was entranced by the playing. In spite of the song leader’s attempts to move Lily back with the other singers, the little girl stood beside Vernetta’s mother, her fingers curled over the wood in front of the keys. Her gaze followed the woman’s long, lean fingers with something akin to hunger. The sight caught at Vernetta’s heart.

  “You were right,” Vernetta whispered. “Mother is a gift to the children.”

  The Christmas play practice went better than Vernetta had dared hope. The volunteers appeared to have forgotten their misgivings and put all their energy into teaching the children their parts and places.

  When Thomas, Vernetta, and her mother were walking out to the carriage afterward, Thomas shook his head. “Looks pretty hopeless to me. The children couldn’t seem to remember when to do anything or where to do it.”

  The two women laughed. “Practices for children’s Christmas pageants are always like that,” Vernetta’s mother told him. “They will do beautifully the night of the play.”

  Vernetta’s and Thomas’s laughing gazes met over her mother’s head as he helped the older woman into the carriage’s backseat. It certainly appeared Mother was well on the way to being won over by the children!

  Vernetta missed the usual comfortable visit with Thomas on the way home while she sat in the backseat with her mother.

  When he helped her out of the carriage in front of their home, Vernetta said, “Mrs. Pilgrim is one of the leading society women in this part of the city. Do you think the editor would like an article on her work with the flower girls’ Sunday school?”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea!” Thomas agreed heartily.

  Mother frowned. “An article? What do you mean, Vernetta?”

  Vernetta’s face burned. She’d forgotten she hadn’t told her mother about the article on the paper roses, which was to come out that day. She’d been afraid her mother would disapprove of her daughter being a “newspaperman.” Thomas, whose hand still lingered on her arm after helping her from the carriage, gave her arm a slight, encouraging squeeze before removing it. In halting words, Vernetta told her mother about the paper flowers article.

  Mother’s lips pursed. She straightened her shoulders beneath her fur-trimmed cape. “Well, if you are going to write articles, they may as well be about worthy causes and not the unsavory topics newspapermen are apt to call news.”

  Vernetta stared at her in surprise. She heard Thomas cough to cover a chuckle and fought to control her own grin.

  “I think you have a good idea,” Mother continued. “Showing Mrs. Pilgrim’s involvement with the mission might encourage other women to give more of their time to needy causes.”

  Still dumbstruck, Verne
tta followed her mother up the walk. They’d only gone a few feet when the front door was flung open. Dora raced across the porch and down the walk. “Thank the Lord you’re home! It’s Mr. Larson! He has great pains in his chest. The doctor says it’s his heart!”

  Chapter 8

  Vernetta’s own heart felt as though it would burst from fear and pain. She and her mother hurried to her father’s bedroom, not stopping to remove their coats. The doctor intercepted them at the door and ushered them back into the wide upstairs hall, shutting the door behind them. He held his finger warningly to his lips.

  Mother clutched the doctor’s hands, her gaze searching his face. “How bad is it, Dr. Brown?” she whispered. “Will I…” Her voice broke. “Will I lose Anton?”

  “Heart situations are always difficult to predict, Mrs. Larson. For the moment, he seems to be improving. His heart rate is decreasing, and the pain is easing. He will have to remain in bed for a few days and take things easy once he’s up and about again.” He held up a finger in a warning manner. “Mind, he’s not to do any work.”

  It was the sympathy in his eyes rather than his words that cut through Vernetta’s chest. She knew the doctor couldn’t guarantee her father’s heart wouldn’t yet take his life.

  “May I see him?” Mother asked with tears in her eyes.

  Dr. Brown patted her hands. “For a couple minutes. Then you must let him rest.”

  But Mother refused to leave his room. She pulled a chair close to his bed and told the doctor, “I won’t disturb him, I promise. I’ll just sit right here, where he can see me when he wakes up, and so I’ll be here if…if he needs anything.”

  At her mother’s orders, Vernetta arranged for a nurse, recommended by Dr. Brown, to stay with them and care for Father. Vernetta didn’t dare bring up the subject of how they would pay the nurse. She was relieved when Mother brought it up herself. “We’ll ask her to take part of her payment in room and board. Have Dora prepare a room for her. For the rest of the fee…” Mother paused and sighed deeply. “Perhaps I can sell some of my jewelry or some of our artwork. Anton must have a nurse, in case…”