A Magical Christmas Present

by Eugenia Riley

  “She told me earlier she would need about fifteen minutes to change and put away her things,” Papa said.

  Mr. Rose touched Catherine’s arm, lightly, and bent near her. “I’m going out for a breath of air. Would you care to join me?”

  She shook her head, not looking at him, and pulled away just enough that his hand dropped from her sleeve. It would be a good chance to speak with him, but she was in no temper to do so civilly, after his attempt to shush her applause.

  Mr. Rose hesitated, the answer plainly not what he had expected, then turned and pushed through the remaining crowd to the exit. Catherine saw that Papa was watching her, and she gave him a forced smile, trying to hide what she was feeling. He was usually obtuse to what the females of his family felt, but he had that look that said this was one of those rare occasions where his intuition and observations had come together to form a correct conclusion.

  “Shall we take a look at the props?” Catherine asked Amy, for distraction. It was bad of her to snub Mr. Rose, after she had invited him here tonight, and yet she could not seem to help behaving coldly toward him.

  She and Amy climbed the two steps up onto the stage, and inspected the furnishings of Mr. Scrooge’s counting house. They could hear the excited chatter of the cast and crew behind the panels, as they changed clothes in the converted stalls and put all in order for tomorrow’s matinee performance.

  A few minutes later the cast began to depart, their earlier air of excitement subdued now as tiredness took hold. When Mr. Goodman came out, Catherine slid off Bob Cratchit’s tall stool where she had been sitting, playing out the clerk’s role to Amy’s amusement. “You were wonderful, Mr. Goodman, wonderful!” she said. “I should never have thought you would make such a perfect Scrooge if I had not seen it for myself.”

  “That is high praise, coming from one who has likely seen the best actors that London has to offer.”

  “High praise, but deserved.” She smiled up at him, her twinges of guilt about Mr. Rose vanquished for the moment by the warmth of Mr. Goodman’s presence. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself onstage.”

  He ducked his head slightly, the lock of hair falling over his forehead. “I am surprised myself by my enjoyment. Except for in the theater, I do not like to be the center of attention. It is as if there is a side to me that only comes out upon a stage.”

  “Does that mean you aren’t quite the reserved, noble man you seem?” Catherine asked in a purr.

  He shot her a quick look, one that asked if that question was meant to be as flirtatious as it sounded. “We are none of us exactly as we might seem, nor are we as we might wish,” he said.

  She was about to ask him what he would change about himself—she could imagine nothing in him that was in need of alteration—when she felt a hand on her arm. It was Mr. Rose. She had not heard him come back in, so absorbed was she in Mr. Goodman.

  “Come, Catherine,” Mr. Rose ordered, and started to pull her away. “It is time you went home.”

  She jerked her arm out from under his hand. “Mr. Rose, I am not yet ready to depart,” she said, and looked up at him from behind her spectacles. She did not like what she saw. Every suspicion she had had of his character was written more plainly on his features tonight than ever before. There was something wild and unstable in his eyes, something desperate and needy that repelled her. She sniffed the air, catching again that strange scent coming off him. “Mr. Rose,” she asked as quietly as she could. “Have you been drinking?”

  He took her arm again, pulling her away from Mr. Goodman and leaning down to whisper at her. “If I have, whose fault is that?” Mr. Rose said, his breath making her step back. “You have been playing games with me, Catherine, first enticing me to follow you to this backwater town, then snubbing my attentions and trying to make me jealous by making eyes at that sorry shopkeeper. And what manner of affectation are these?” he asked, and pulled the spectacles from her face. “I don’t know what joke you’re making, except on yourself by wearing them.”

  She couldn’t speak for astonishment at his temerity, and then her chest filled with air as that astonishment gave way to hot, poisonous fury. “How dare you, Mr. Rose!” she accused, her voice louder than she had intended. She could not recall ever being so incensed, and in a distant way was astounded by the rising, angry pitch of her own voice. “You have no right, no right, to lay your hands upon my person so! You have no right to blame me for your drunkenness, and you certainly have no right to address me by my Christian name. Mr. Rose.” Her next words were exactly enunciated. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “You’ve made yourself clear enough, and shown your true colors, too,” Mr. Rose said as angrily back. “Be careful, Mr. Goodman,” he called past Catherine’s shoulder, “if you allow such a one as this to lead you a merry chase. She has the heart of a whore, and won’t be happy until she sees you grovelling in the dust for her favors.”

  Catherine heard her father give an angry shout, but it was Mr. Goodman who was first to respond, coming immediately to her defense. “No one may speak of Miss Linwood in such terms, sir,” Mr. Goodman said in a steady, hard voice. “No one. You will apologize to her and to her family.”

  “Or what?” Mr. Rose sneered. “You’ll make a play at chivalry and hit me? That will do nothing to change the truth.”

  “If you do not apologize,” Mr. Goodman said lowly, “then we will all know that you are no gentleman, and a disgrace to your family’s good name.”

  “No gentleman? Ha! And who are you to be judging who is and is not a gentleman? A shopkeeper! A peddler!”

  “Do not make this more difficult than it has to be,” Mr. Goodman warned.

  “You want a fight, do you? You think you can best me?” Mr. Rose tossed Catherine’s spectacles to the side, where they landed under a worktable and skidded along the floorboards. “I’ll show you what gentlemen are made of.” He lowered his head and charged.

  Mr. Goodman stepped easily aside, and Mr. Rose, deprived of his target, stumbled past, unable to stop before running crown-first into a supporting post of the loft. He crashed down upon Scrooge’s coal scuttle with a clamoring of metal and lay still.

  Mr. Goodman bent and picked up the spectacles in the following silence, and wiped them carefully with his kerchief before handing them back to Catherine. “I’m terribly sorry about all this,” he said. “I’ll take him back to the inn.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Goodman, I couldn’t ask that of you,” Catherine said, and found to her surprise that she was shaking. She did not know if it was her own anger, Mr. Rose’s unkind words, or the narrowly averted violence that had her trembling so.

  “You do not need to ask. The man had too much to drink, and was not in his right senses. Please, try to forget what he said.” He met her eyes, and the calm strength there helped to steady her, making her feel as if he held her safe in his arms. Her breathing evened out.

  “You are being too kind,” Papa said, coming up onto the stage and staring down at the sprawled form of Mr. Rose. “He deserves to be dragged to a snowbank and left there ’till spring.”

  “He’s not worth the worry.”

  “Eh?” Papa asked.

  “Of being hung for murder,” Mr. Goodman clarified. “It would spoil my appetite for Christmas dinner. I do not think he is worth that.”

  Papa laughed. Amy went to Mr. Rose and glared down at him, with a look in her eye that said she’d very much like to kick him. Catherine felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “It’s time to go home,” Mama said.

  Amy came over and took Catherine’s hand, squeezing it in silent support. The gesture put her on the verge of tears. The three of them left, leaving Papa and Mr. Goodman to deal with the unconscious Mr. Rose.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Good gracious, Robert, what did you put in this?” Catherine asked her brother, after taking a sip of his eggnog. It was proudly displayed in an enormous crystal bowl surrounded by cuttings of holly, in the center of a lace-covered
table. She would not have been surprised to see blue flames rising from the heavy yellow drink, for certainly there was more of the nog to it than the egg.

  “I made it according to George Washington’s own recipe. My friend from Virginia sent it to me. He says his family has made it this way for nigh on a century.”

  Catherine took another sip, her head filling with the fumes of brandy, whiskey, and God knew what else. “Then I am surprised they survived this long, and surprised as well that we were not left under British rule!”

  Her brother laughed and filled a cup for another of his guests. He and his wife, Mary, had opened their house to friends and family for Christmas Eve, and the spacious rooms were crowded with New Englanders who had suspicions there was something irreligious in having a spirited Christmas party, but were reluctantly enjoying themselves nonetheless.

  Catherine wandered over to where a fiddler was playing lively music, to which a few couples self-consciously danced. Children raced about from room to room, playing their own games, and in another room the more sedate sat and conversed near the tree, its candles lit and carefully watched by more than one eye, lest fire should break out.

  Even as she watched guests and conversed with friends, part of her was constantly searching for Mr. Goodman. There was a small commotion at the door, and Catherine’s eyes went to the figure entering there. Disappointment pulled at the muscles of her face when she saw the formal, well-tailored coat, but then the man turned and it was the face she sought above the wool muffler, bearskin nowhere in evidence.

  After that embarrassing spectacle at the barn, she had become leery of any move that might be considered forward or flirtatious on her part. She did not want anyone thinking she had the heart of a whore, and so although every muscle urged her to go and greet him she checked the impulse, holding back with a shyness that was new and painful.

  She stood half-hidden beside a potted palm, watching as the maid took Mr. Goodman’s outerwear, and Robert went to welcome his friend. She willed him to look at her, to see her, and smile and come join her. She willed him to take her hand and lead her out to dance; to stand close and smile down into her eyes; to hold her hand against his chest and ask her not to return to New York, but to stay here with him, forever, as his wife and the woman with whom he would share his bed.

  He looked her way, and their eyes locked. She knew that all she felt was writ plainly in her eyes. “Heart of a whore,” she heard Mr. Rose say in her head. She glanced away and to the side, her lids lowered, and then long seconds later she looked toward him again. The entryway was empty.

  The heat of embarrassment touched her cheeks. For all that Mr. Goodman had defended her in the theater, perhaps he felt that she had deserved Mr. Rose’s insults. Part of her believed he would be right to do so.

  Miss Linwood was even lovelier than the first time he had seen her, Will thought as she met his eyes from across the room. Her gaze was intense upon him, hungry and yet still. The dark green fronds of a palm formed tiger stripes across her breast, bringing to mind a great cat lurking in the jungle. She was wearing that same burgundy dress he had so admired before, its dark folds inviting touch like an animal’s pelt.

  She broke the stare, suddenly glancing away in a bashful gesture that was not in character with the woman he knew. It took only a moment to understand that it was the altercation with Mr. Rose that had done this to her, that had made her doubt her natural instincts.

  For causing that moment of Miss Linwood’s self-doubt, Will would gladly stuff Mr. Rose through a hole in the ice of the skating pond. He had wanted to do much worse to the man at the theater, but the stricken look on Miss Linwood’s face had stopped him. Further violence would have served only to distress her more. No, far better to let Mr. Rose lie before her in his drunken stupor, knocked senseless of his own doing, and then gallantly volunteer to remove the offal from her sight.

  “Will, you must say hello to Mr. Abernathy,” Robert was saying, and pulled him away before he could protest.

  Mr. Abernathy, the elderly president of a local bank, began yammering at him in words he could not understand. He saw the man’s mouth moving, bits of spittle on his lips, but it was just noise to him, his thoughts obsessed with Miss Linwood and her hungry gaze. Countless impatient minutes went by as he sought holes in the conversation through which to bolt, and then at last he was free. He went in search of her.

  She was no longer near the palm, nor was she in the crowd around the table with its great vat of eggnog. He went from room to room, searching, replying to the greetings of others with only a fraction of his attention. Where had she gone?

  “Miss Linwood,” a hoarse, low voice said behind her.

  She turned, happily expectant, then stepped back when she came face-to-face with Mr. Rose. “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, and felt a sudden queasiness in her stomach, her heart beating rapidly in what was almost fear. She was in a hallway, having just come from the washroom, and at the moment there was no one else about.

  “Please, let me apologize,” he said, grasping her hand. “There is so much I need to say to you.”

  “We have nothing left to say,” she said, trying to control her voice.

  “Please. Hear me out.” He squeezed her hand, his eyes pleading. “You can give me that much.”

  She didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to be in his presence at all, nor did she want Mr. Goodman to come upon them together and think worse of her, but Mr. Rose did not look like he would be easily sent away.

  “Please,” he said again.

  “Not here,” she said brusquely. It was not physical harm she feared from him, but another raw, emotional confrontation. If it could not be avoided, at least this time it could happen in private. After a quick moment of thought she led him down a different, unlit hall to the sunroom that had been shut up for the winter, its wicker furniture covered in sheets. She could see her breath on the cold air, the room dark and forlorn out of season, illuminated only by the blue reflections of moonlight off the snow outside.

  “Miss Linwood—”

  “Mr. Rose,” she interrupted fiercely, gathering her courage and going on the offensive. “I thought I made myself quite plain in the letter I sent to you with the hair comb. Our acquaintance is at an end.”

  “My behavior was unforgiveable, I know that, but I am asking you to please hear me out. Please. Miss Linwood, you cannot fail to know how I feel about you. I love you. There! I confess it! I love you, and I cannot live without you. If you were to deprive me of all hope of making you my wife, I think I should have to kill myself.”

  Catherine looked at him in horror. “You don’t mean that. You can’t!”

  “But I do.” He dropped down to one knee, and taking her hand began to smother it in kisses.

  “Stop it, Mr. Rose! At once!” she ordered, jerking her hand from his grasp.

  “Marry me, Catherine!”

  “No.” There seemed no other way to say it, no way in which to soften her answer. She was completely repulsed by him. Even his drunkenness had been better than this. “I will not marry you, and I shall never change my mind.”

  “I cannot live without you,” he pleaded, tears in his eyes, his hands grasping at her skirts. “I’ll kill myself.”

  She was furious that he would try to lay that guilt upon her. “I will not accept responsibility for your actions, Mr. Rose,” she said harshly, trying to hide the quavering of her voice, hoping that her words were true. “You will leave this house, and never speak to me again. Good-bye.” She yanked her skirts out of his hold and left the room, slamming the door behind her against the sound of his sobs.

  In the empty hall she suddenly had to lean against the wall, her knees shaking and her breath short, nausea roiling her stomach. The muted sobbing quieted, and then she heard the outside door to the sunroom open and then swing shut, and she knew Mr. Rose had at last gone. She closed her eyes and listened gratefully to the silence.

  Minutes passed, and
then she heard a concerned male voice, its timbre familiar and welcome. “Miss Linwood, are you unwell?”

  Catherine opened her eyes, and saw Mr. Goodman silhouetted against the faint light from the end of the hall. She released a shaky breath. “No, just a bit shaken. Mr. Rose was here. He asked me to marry him, then threatened to kill himself if I refused.” She felt more than saw the sudden tension her words created in him, and quickly added, “I turned him down, and he left. He offered me neither insults nor harm.” And then, the guilt she had said she would not accept crept in. “Do you think he will do himself an injury?”

  Whatever feelings he was experiencing, Mr. Goodman held them under tight rein, asking only, “Was he drunk?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then he should be out of danger’s way for the moment. I’ll send word to the inn to have someone keep an eye on him.” She heard him take a breath, his hold on his temper apparently not quite as solid as she had assumed. “That was an unkind, manipulative thing of him to say to you, and I hope you do not allow it to trouble your thoughts. Mr. Rose is responsible for his own actions, and you are in no way to blame for whatever he does or does not do.”

  She touched her temple, brushing back a wisp of hair, feeling the dampness of perspiration on her brow. She tried to meet Mr. Goodman’s eyes in the dim light, still not as certain of her innocence as she wished to be. “Have I behaved badly toward him?”

  He came closer, to where she could make out his features. His expression showed no hint of judgment, his eyes telling her that he understood what she was feeling. “You did not behave badly. There is no way to save a heart from being crushed, when you cannot return its regard.”