by Erica Ridley
“No, thank you,” Jonathan said politely, keeping his hat and coat. But he tipped the butler twice as much as the footmen all the same. “I’ve only just got here. I want to explore a bit before I settle in.”
He would spend more than enough time in the duke’s house once the others arrived. His partner, first. Jonathan had arranged the meeting, and Calvin was bringing all the illustrations and samples necessary for convincing the duke to invest in their sartorial venture. Jonathan had agreed to meet Calvin a day early to practice their proposal. Which meant, from tomorrow on, Jonathan would be stuck inside. This afternoon was his opportunity to explore the outside.
For such a small village to feel like an adventure, the key was to walk everywhere. It would take longer and he would notice more. Jonathan loved noticing things. He had learned to draw in order to remember all the things he noticed. He usually ended up giving those drawings away, aye, but that was because a vagabond explorer must travel light.
All Jonathan kept were memories.
He made exaggeratedly careful steps in the packed snow along the edge of the road. Sliding down a hill could be great fun when done on purpose, but twisting an ankle was no start for an adventure.
Also, he was wearing the smart traveling attire that Calvin had designed, with extra coat pockets and a cashmere-lined waistcoat. An impeccable carriage outfit, one which Jonathan could foresee being worn on countless future exciting journeys, so long as he didn’t rip a hole in the knee flailing about on tricky hidden patches of ice between here and the castle.
Not that he was going straight to the castle. That was what ordinary people did when they visited Cressmouth on an ordinary holiday. The castle employed most of the town and housed most of its visitors. There could not be a more boring place to start.
Jonathan wanted to know who these people were that did not live or work in the castle. They couldn’t all be dukes, and ducal servants. Some must be ordinary villagers, that couldn’t be helped, but the same logic indicated some villagers must be extraordinary, and those were the people Jonathan wanted to meet.
Cottage, cottage, cottage... He was friendly, aye, any gentleman ought to be, but not so pushy as to knock on the doors of complete strangers in the hopes of becoming momentary friends. The trick was to run across them casually, whilst they were walking down the street or riding an overpriced studhorse about their farm. Cottage, cottage...
What’s this?
He jerked stock still, a posture that could have been mistaken for military precision were it not for the extremely flattering, extremely comfortable, only slightly wrinkled carriage outfit he wore as his uniform.
This was a shop of some kind, with the living quarters upstairs, and a charming stone chimney with a faint plume of smoke.
From this angle, Jonathan couldn’t make out the wooden sign swinging from squeaking hinges beside the door, but enough candles were lit inside to give the impression sunlight flowed out, rather than in through the many windows.
Open for business, then, and a perfect place to find something extraordinary.
Everything anyone could ever want was in the castle, Jonathan had been told. The rooms to let were a little dear, but the entertainment was free—musicians, dancing—as was the bountiful food. Three hot meals served daily in the grand dining chamber to anyone who wandered in, as well as refreshments just inside the castle doors for passers-by to enjoy. Mulled wine, hot chocolate, biscuits with and without raisins, no doubt. A lake, a hill, walking tours, an open-air market in the back garden, weather permitting. The list of delights went on and on.
But the castle couldn’t have everything, no matter what they claimed. It wasn’t a smithy, for one, nor was it a stud farm. Whatever this unassuming little shop contained, it was already better than the castle, because it had something the castle didn’t.
Something Jonathan was about to discover.
He inched closer, careful not to slip on the ice and slide through the open door in an ungainly yet fashionable heap.
He almost fell anyway.
The shop contained the most stunning woman Jonathan had beheld in his life. Who cared what she was selling? He would be content to gaze upon her bonny face until the sun set and the candles sputtered out.
He could only see her from the elbows up due to some ill-thought-out wooden counter standing vexingly in the way, but her round, delicate shoulders were outshone only by the gentle brown curve of her neck, the stubborn angle of her chin, the lush softness of her lips—at least, Jonathan imagined them to be soft, but in this weather he would not hold a wee bit of chapped roughness against anyone. In any case, her nose was as lovely as her mouth. A little wide and a little snub; the perfect amount of roundness.
From this distance it was impossible to tell whether her eyes were the same dark brown as her skin or as black as the high chignon pinned so efficiently that not a single hair escaped. Could that be true? Or was he too far away to see past her perfection? He liked ruthless efficiency; it was a very fine quality, one he did not share at all. He also liked wild bits that escaped and did incorrigible things.
He supposed this meant that no matter how perfect or imperfect this woman was, she was destined to please him either way. Really, what sort of fool would pass up this opportunity to introduce himself? Jonathan was only here for a few days. Once Calvin arrived on the morrow, his time would be spoken for. If there was any hope of making this woman’s acquaintance, the time was now. His blood raced enthusiastically at the prospect, filling his veins with energy and causing a delightful little flutter in his stomach.
Jonathan was on the cusp of another adventure. He could feel it.
Chapter 2
Miss Angelica Parker’s quick, competent fingers secured the next amethyst in its delicate setting with deliberate, precise movements.
Everything Angelica did was deliberate and precise. The items on display in the front windows were at varying heights, depending on whether the intended wearer was a child or an adult. Because the fireplace was on the left side of her shop, comfortable chairs had been arranged on the right, with artfully placed hand mirrors atop each side table for admiring one’s reflection.
The two-foot-wide counter that separated Angelica from the customers contained her primary work area on the left—the same side as the fireplace—and a curated display of higher priced items on the right—the same side as the customers. The most valuable jewelry was kept under lock and key, to be brought out from a private room by special request.
Every item in the shop was categorized and displayed just so. Every tool in her working area kept in perfect condition, waiting on its assigned hook or labeled drawer at exactly the right distance from where she’d be most likely to need it.
This winter, she was busier than was comfortable, but that was a good thing, a wonderful thing. She was blessed to have so much business. That her shop’s seasonal success kept her from the large, loud, loving Parker family reunion taking place two hundred yards up the road was a disappointment she’d simply have to weather.
There would be time for family, after. Time for Christmas, after. Time for Angelica, after.
Matching necklaces for the Cruz sisters were to be completed today, followed by several other commissioned pieces that needed to be hung in stockings before Christmas came a fortnight from now.
Angelica longed for the comforting chaos of the Parker clan. A few took turns staying home to mind the family jewelry shop, but the rest came every year. Knowing so many family members were here in Cressmouth, having a marvelous time in a guest suite with a gorgeous view on the fourth floor of the castle, a stone’s throw from her workshop, was both a comfort and torture.
Nothing rejuvenated her like her brother’s booming laugh, the smiles and chatter of her nieces and nephews, her aunts’ and cousins’ diverting commentary about the food served in the dining area and the dances in the castle ballroom.
They were making merry, at least. That was the important part. If it was
difficult to think so in this small, silent, empty shop without her family’s laughter and noisy chatter surrounding her like a warm blanket, well, Angelica would simply have to keep going, like she always did.
As soon as she finished her work, she would join them. It might only be for an hour or two a night, but at least she would have them for a little while.
Perhaps this time when they returned home to London, they would be convinced of Angelica’s talent and potential. They would understand why she had come here to Cressmouth, why it was worth it, what she’d accomplished. Perhaps this time, they would be proud of her.
The tinkle of the bell broke her concentration. She glanced up from the necklace to find a well-dressed gentleman in her doorway, his tall form and broad shoulders blocking the late-afternoon light.
Swiftly, she folded the black velvet over the necklace and its accoutrements, and pasted a welcoming smile onto her face.
“May I help you?”
“Mayhap,” came a low, rich voice, with a droll undercurrent. “Probably not, to be honest, which is no reflection on you, but rather my own peculiarities.”
Scottish? The burr was not as strong as some she’d heard, but undeniably present. It felt like a tickle beneath her skin.
“But one never knows, does one?” he continued. “Walking through this door could spark the biggest adventure of my life. Which would say quite a lot, given the ones I’ve had so far. Or perhaps we’ve begun the greatest adventure of yours! Why hadn’t I thought of that? Perhaps I’m to be your spark, rather than you mine. Shall we see?”
And with that, he stepped fully into the shop, flinging his arms wide into a dramatic pose as the door tinkled closed behind him.
Angelica did not say anything.
This was not an unusual occurrence. Her quiet reserve, that was, not this oddly compelling stranger. Angelica only felt comfortable when speaking about jewelry or when surrounded by family.
The stranger, however, seemed impossibly comfortable, maintaining both his expansive voilà! pose and an encouraging smile, as if he fully expected her to strike some complementary stance like two dancers at the start of a tragic opera.
“May I help you?” she said again, hoping the familiar words would turn this situation into something she knew how to deal with.
“I am Jonathan MacLean.” He whipped his hat from his head and made an impressive leg. “At your service.”
“I don’t... require your services?”
Oh, why had the statement come out like a question? She did not rely on anyone but herself, and she’d never heard of Jonathan MacLean. He was not a person one was likely to forget.
He stepped further into her shop, which took him out of silhouette and cast his face into light.
Angelica’s breath caught.
Could he tell that her silence was because he’d stolen her words?
She should not find a gregarious, presumptuous Scot this attractive. His eyes were a crystalline blue, his lips thin, his jaw strong, his cheekbones stolen from a statue, his skin the same moonstone pinkish-white as the lords and ladies who attended parties like the Duke of Nottingvale’s.
And yet the sum of these features was greater than any one part. He was tall as a footman, broad-shouldered as a farmer, as winsome as Beau le Duc. His eyes glittered like sapphires of a thousand facets, above a bone-melting smile that had yet to falter despite her cool reception.
His dramatic entrance didn’t make him look ridiculous at all, but heart-stoppingly magnetic. He seemed made for the stage, the sort of larger-than-life charisma and razor-sharp beauty that would draw crowds the likes of which Drury Lane had never seen. Was he an actor? Was he practicing a role, here, with her?
If so, she did not have time for it or him, no matter how unsettlingly handsome he was. There was no space in her life for distractions. Especially tall, broad-shouldered distractions with eyes like jewels and a smile that melted knees.
“Ask me anything,” he said. “Give it your best. Try to surprise me.”
Angelica rolled back her shoulders. She had a question, all right. One he was refusing to answer.
“May I help you?” she said again, more pointedly this time, each syllable as sharp as his cheekbones.
He beamed at her as though she had passed a test.
“Very good.” His burr was as rich as melted chocolate. “I was expecting ‘Who are you?’ or ‘Why are you here?’ or ‘Where are you from?’ All of which, I might add, have easier answers.”
“This is Cressmouth,” she found herself explaining. “Strangers are the least mysterious thing that blows into town. We wouldn’t be a Christmas village without tourists.”
Something flickered in his eyes. He turned from her, as if not wanting her to witness the smile slipping out of place.
He was just as attractive in profile. More so. Or perhaps the lack of dazzling smile allowed her to better see the rest of him. From this angle, he seemed less impossibly cheerful and more... Hmm. Brooding wasn’t it. Not quite sad, not quite wistful. Determined, and a little self-deprecating. As though the show hadn’t been for her benefit at all, but rather for his. An audience of one, and a script perhaps no one but him would understand.
Her cousins would laugh themselves into fits if they could see Angelica studying some dashing Scotsman as though he were an uncut diamond brought to her for appraisal.
We told you to find a man, they would say, but not that one. Auntie has picked out just the gentleman for you, though your brother thinks you’d be better matched with—
No. Shutting out their noisy, nosy opinions on how she should live her life was one of the principal reasons Angelica maintained a strict no-relatives-in-the-jewelry-shop policy.
Once she received the recognition she craved, then and only then would she entertain the notion of marrying a husband of her own choosing, thank you very much. She welcomed her family’s home cooking, but not their ham-fisted attempts at matchmaking.
She did not need or want a man to make her life complete. Angelica was enough, all on her own. She would prove it.
She opened her mouth to politely enquire for the fourth time whether she could be of service—oh, how she wished she could be rude without causing risk to her livelihood!—when Mr. MacLean spun to face her.
“This is a jeweler’s shop!” Obvious delight lit his eyes. “I adore jewelry.”
She scowled at him before she remembered only to assume neutral expressions. Why the dickens had the man burst through the door if he did not know what kind of shop this was?
She crossed her arms over her chest in preparation for the next inevitable question.
“The owner—” he began.
Here it came. The assumption every single person without fail had made once they crossed the threshold and discovered her on the other side. No one saw beyond her bosom or the tiger’s-eye brown of her skin.
“—and designer of all this beauty is standing right before me.” He beamed at her. “It’s true, isn’t it? You created these pieces yourself?”
Her arms fell limply down to her sides. He hadn’t assumed she was an employee? Or a servant? Or property? In England, it was no longer legal to sell or purchase new slaves, but plenty of the wealthy kept the ones they had. She stared at him. “But... I’m...”
“Breathtakingly bonny? I did notice. Horrid manners for you to bring it up yourself, one might add. Aye, you outshine all these jewels, but they sparkle in their own way. Like this set...”
He wandered away to gaze closer at a collection of brooches at the far corner of the counter.
She stared after him speechlessly.
Breathtakingly bonny, he’d said. And then turned away. As though his words had not been empty flirtatious banter, pretty words designed to weaken a woman’s defenses, but a simple statement of fact.
He assumed this was her shop. A Black woman. He’d assumed the pieces were her handiwork. Complimented them. Thought her talented. Believed her intricate creations to be far
more remarkable and noteworthy than the fact that Angelica owned and designed them. Her chest filled with hope.
He made everything she’d worked for all these years seem possible.
Despite his claim to the contrary, Angelica was uncomfortably aware that she was the least eye-catching thing in the room.
All her time and energy was devoted to her shop. Which meant everything else in her life was as plain and simple as possible, so she needn’t waste precious time dithering. The pale-pink day dress she wore was identical to six others in her wardrobe. She could grab any item without thinking and it would all match because she’d designed her living quarters to be as easy as possible. She saved her brain for things that mattered. Her shop was her world. Her looks should be irrelevant.
A maxim she’d repeated to herself for seven long years, only for today—today!—for it to finally feel true.
Angelica looked like a business owner. She looked like a jeweler. Like a skilled artisan. She looked like she belonged here, in this space. In the shop she’d carved out of blood, sweat, tears, and pure unadulterated stubbornness.
All by herself.
Mostly by herself. In any case, she was on her own now. Independent and proud of it.
“Tell me about all the pieces,” commanded the distractingly handsome Scotsman. “Start at the beginning. Which was the first one you made? The first one you sold? Why that one? When did you open the shop? Are most of your clients tourists? Who was the first customer? Are you charging enough for your work? Which stones are your favorites to work with? Is gold better than silver? How do you come up with such compelling designs?”
Angelica stared at him.
Usually she didn’t know what to say, but he’d given her too much to respond to. Asked better questions in one minute than all her other customers combined.
She didn’t have time to explain how she became a jeweler, what her first piece was, why a bejeweled vinaigrette bottle had been the first item she’d sold. Much less give the hours-long—months-long?—explanation of which materials she preferred for which purposes and why, and the mechanics behind each design. He would have to apprentice her for a year.
