by Erica Ridley
“Mr. MacLean,” Horace said, then hesitated.
“Your visitor...” Morris added, then stopped.
Jonathan leaned forward eagerly. This was the most they’d spoken all morning. He would triple today’s vails for this alone. “Aye?”
“Your friend won’t be arriving,” Horace said in a rush. “Snow has fallen nonstop since nightfall, and the roads are impassable.”
“Won’t be arriving?”
“It’s a snowstorm,” Morris explained helpfully. “Ankle-high now, and knee-high by tomorrow. Every village for miles will be snowbound for at least a week, if not two.”
“A week?” Jonathan squeaked. “Maybe two?”
Stuck here? Without his business partner? Without the duke? Without a purpose?
“What about the party?” he said inanely.
Calvin had been horror-struck when the duke extended coveted invitations to them, but Jonathan had been conflicted. It combined three of his favorite things all at once: a new location, something to do, and new people to meet.
It also celebrated his least favorite thing: Christmas. He had planned to continue traveling instead.
“The party will start when the guests arrive,” Horace said apologetically.
“Which won’t be for a week, maybe two,” Morris repeated, in case Jonathan had somehow forgotten this element of the nightmare that was Cressmouth.
Small towns were perfectly fine when one could leave them in the morning. But being stuck in a tiny, snowbound Christmas village, of all disasters...
Jonathan needed a distraction.
Having something to concentrate on, an objective that required all his focus, was the one thing that kept him from thinking about all the things he tried so hard to forget. The last person he wanted to be alone with was himself.
“I’m going out,” he announced. “I need my hat and coat.”
“But the snow...” said Horace.
“Pah,” said Jonathan. “Since we’ve been standing here talking, two sleighs and five people in caps and muffs have gone past the window.”
“They’re locals,” Morris explained. “We’re used to the snow. You’re...”
Jonathan glared down at his fashionable limbs. “Dressed like a paper doll.”
Aye, he could see the problem. See it and discard it and carry on despite it.
All three of his traveling trunks overflowed with attire perfect for lounging about a ducal “cottage” or dancing attendance on pink-cheeked misses at assemblies, none of which he intended to do. Just because his boots were made for waltzing didn’t mean he couldn’t trudge through snow in them, too.
He was an explorer! An adventurer! He would find something to do if it killed him.
The footman returned. “Your overclothes, Mr. MacLean.”
“Thank you, Horace.”
Jonathan shrugged into his thick coat, tugged on his gloves, pulled on his hat, wrapped his woolen muffler about his neck three times. There. He was ready for anything.
He slipped an extra vail for their trouble to both footmen as well as Mr. Oswald, the butler, then set out into the frigid weather.
Winter didn’t frighten him. He was born in Scotland, where winters were no balmier than in England. The best antidote to the cold was something warm—like pies, for example. This was the perfect opportunity to see if the bakery he’d visited the prior evening was open. They might be baking delectable bannocks and cakes regardless of a little snow.
It had indeed fallen to ankle-length, but the villagers had not been idle. The pavement had been cleared on both sides of the road, leaving an unobstructed walking path between the castle and most of the village. The snow on the road was packed down in long stretches on both sides, likely in part due to the horse-drawn sleighs carting villagers and tourists who preferred not to walk in the snow.
Both efforts appeared to cease at the entrance to the horse farm. There was nothing after that but endless miles of hills and snow and evergreens. The road out of town already looked dangerous and impassible. Horace and Morris were right.
Jonathan pulled down the brim of his hat to deflect the flurries of snowflakes caught in the wind, and headed into the bakery.
The smell of hot fresh bread nearly lifted him off his feet.
“Ho there,” he called out jovially.
“Ho there,” Mr. Bauer, the baker, called back. “Another cinnamon biscuit?”
Jonathan was so startled, he almost toppled out of his kid leather gloves and shiny fashionable boots.
Although he introduced himself to everyone, there was little reason for others to remember him. Jonathan never returned to the same town twice, thereby skipping right past any anxiety about whether he was half as memorable as he tried to be.
“Two cinnamon biscuits,” he replied, then changed his mind. “Two of every biscuit.”
Mr. Bauer’s eyes twinkled. “Are you certain you don’t want three of each?”
“I’d take all the biscuits,” Jonathan admitted, “but then what would everyone else eat?”
The baker pointed at his great oven. “Come back in a quarter hour and find out.”
“Perhaps I will come back,” Jonathan said, surprising himself more than the baker. Being recognized and remembered was just as nice as eating warm, steaming bannocks. He placed a pile of coins on the counter. Enough to cover all the biscuits, just in case the baker had been serious about selling them to Jonathan.
He moved aside as a family burst through the door, exchanging familiar greetings and updates on this sister or that dairy cow with the baker.
Each word struck like lightning through Jonathan’s chest. It was not so much envy as a bone-deep longing, a white-hot yearning to be this familiar to someone else. To be known.
He did not want Cressmouth in specific—anywhere but here!—but part of him had always been searching for a place to belong.
“Now, where did that spatula go?” The baker’s fat, flour-coated fingers tapped an empty peg on the wall. “It should be up here in its little home...”
Jonathan’s chest felt hollow. Home was a place that was incomplete without you, where someone would notice when you left, would wish you were still there so that home would feel complete for them, too.
But no one had ever looked for him with a quarter of the intensity as the baker searching for his missing spatula—or half as much delight when they stumbled across him.
“There it is!” Mr. Bauer boomed, depositing two fresh pies into the outstretched mittens of two rosy-cheeked bairns before placing the spatula back on its peg with a comforting little pat. “There you go, back where you belong, next to your brothers.”
The children’s mother turned to Jonathan with a smile. “Good morning. Are you here to celebrate Christmas, or here to stay?”
Neither.
Why would he live in a place people left? He already knew the pain of being used to someone and having them ripped away. Loving and losing his mother had been hard enough. The only way to escape such heartbreak was to avoid close ties at all costs.
“Passing through.” He accepted two large parcels of biscuits from the baker, and handed one to the children’s surprised mother. “Have a splendid day!”
He slipped out of the bakery door before they could shower him with festive cheer.
The delicious smell of biscuits permeated the cold air. He could take his prize to the Duke of Nottingvale’s cottage and split them amongst the staff, but returning so soon after he set out felt like giving up.
Besides, Nottingvale’s staff had a ducal kitchen at their disposal, as well as a castle with unlimited refreshments up the road. Since His Grace wouldn’t arrive for days, they could nip out and indulge their sweet tooth whenever they pleased.
Miss Parker, on the other hand, was unlikely to leave her shop for something so frivolous as freshly baked shortbread. After accepting that new project yesterday, Jonathan wouldn’t be surprised if she’d stayed up all night working.
If any
one deserved a few dozen biscuits, it was Angelica Parker.
Rather than sweeping in through the tinkling door as he’d done the day before, Jonathan eased it open carefully, lest he disturb her.
She was at the back, behind the long wooden counter, just as she had been the day before.
Indeed, if Jonathan hadn’t been certain that an entire night had passed since he had last seen her, he might believe he had opened the door and accidentally walked into yesterday.
She was wearing the same pink dress as before, though the puffed sleeves now had no wrinkles. Her glossy black curls were in the same chignon, and not the tiniest hair was out of place. Her eyes looked less tired. Her mouth twisted in an adorable expression of concentration.
She looked how he imagined she had looked yesterday morning, hours before he had first walked through her door. As though yesterday were the “after” and today the “before.”
Jonathan had never been so intrigued. He took a closer look around her shop. Yesterday, he had inspected every single one of her beautiful, intricate pieces. They—like bonny Miss Parker herself—had distracted him from what wasn’t present. No artwork hung upon the bare walls. No hanging silk, no wallpaper, just plain wainscoting. The counter itself was free from adornment, the display case naught but plain shelves behind glass.
It was as if she felt no need for the typical decorative flourishes other people strove to add to their homes and workplaces, because the beauty of her creations spoke for itself.
Like her understated surroundings, Miss Parker needn’t add ostrich feathers or other ostentatious touches to draw attention to herself. She was gorgeous and perfect just as she was.
He swallowed. She had granted him permission to touch her art, but he had not done so, because it was not her art he longed to touch. It was Miss Parker he wished to explore. The unwrinkled gown, the soft tendrils of her hair, the contours of her lips.
These were not thoughts he could allow himself to entertain. Not with her.
Due to the snowstorm, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. Intimacy of any kind was far too terrifying to consider when he couldn’t walk away.
“Here for your hair combs?” Miss Parker asked without looking up from her work.
“Aye,” he said. “If you’re willing to sell them today. I also brought you a few biscuits.”
At this, she looked up, and her brown eyes widened at the size of his package. “Do I look like the sort of woman who would eat two dozen biscuits?”
He shifted his weight. “What’s the right answer to that question?”
“The answer is yes.” She held out her hands. “Give them to me.”
He closed the space between them and placed the parcel on the counter with a grin. “These are actually three dozen biscuits, which means there will be some left over for me, too.”
She opened a drawer and retrieved two small white plates and placed them beside the parcel. “What kind did you order?”
“All of them,” he admitted.
At last, she rewarded him with a smile. “My favorite kind.”
She placed a cinnamon biscuit, a raisin biscuit, and a square of shortbread on her plate. He did the same.
“I don’t have much time,” she warned him. “I don’t have any time, actually.”
“There is always time for biscuits,” he assured her. “I’ve done extensive firsthand research into the matter, and have never found a situation that could not be improved by delectable, sweet biscuits fresh from the oven.”
She licked the tip of her finger. “You make an excellent argument. Are you a barrister?”
“I am an itinerant ne’er-do-well.” He lowered his voice. “It pays much better.”
She smirked and took a bite of her biscuit.
Jonathan excelled at this kind of conversation. Amusing, frivolous, superficial. It was easy to be likable and charming when there was no risk of exposing one’s true self.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not using these biscuits to woo me, are you?”
He shook his head solemnly. “Confirmed bachelor, madam. My work takes me everywhere, which means no staying long enough to develop warm feelings.”
She arched a brow with obvious skepticism. “Heartless cad, are you?”
He nodded.
“So heartless, you brought three dozen biscuits to me for no reason, and gave away an equal amount?”
“Er,” he said. “How did you...”
“The bakery is just across the street. I saw Mrs. Griffiths step outside with the package. She did not appear to have expected your gift.”
“It wasn’t for her. It was for the children. They were suffering a biscuit deficiency.”
“Mm-hm.” She moved her empty plate aside and cleaned her hands with a pitcher and towel. “You may go. Leave the biscuits.”
He didn’t move.
She sighed. “All right. Take the biscuits, if you must.”
“I have nowhere to go,” he admitted. “I’m used to constant motion, to being busy. Instead, I’m... here.”
“Cressmouth has loads of things to do,” she said in surprise. “Haven’t you seen the gazette? No less than two entire pages of broadsheet are dedicated to all the Yuletide activities throughout the village. For example, there’s—”
“I don’t want any of that,” he interrupted. “Perhaps I should try to live like a local, rather than a tourist. That would be a wee adventure, wouldn’t it? A funny story to tell new acquaintances later. ‘Have you been to Cressmouth?’ they’ll ask. ‘The castle, the winter play, the snowy panorama, all the Christmastide activities?’ And I’ll say, ‘Pah to all that. I lived like a local!’”
She held up a loupe, inspecting him through one magnified eye as though he were a strange specimen. Her eye looked large and lovely. He wanted to paint it.
“Have you ever lived like a local anywhere?”
“Not in years,” he replied cheerfully. “I don’t even remember what it means. Do locals eat lots of biscuits? I’m good at that. I suppose I could find a temporary post. Are you in the market for an apprentice?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“I can pay you,” he said. “I have money.”
She crossed her arms. “I do not have time to train tourists. I’m after something bigger than money.”
Now that was interesting. He leaned closer.
“What do you want?”
Chapter 4
What did Angelica want?
A simple question that ought to have an equally simple answer. She wanted to be left alone so she could finish her work.
But did she want him to leave?
He had brought her biscuits, which ought not to be a deciding factor in an adult woman’s decisions—and if not, surely spoke more to Angelica’s addiction to cakes, rather than any warm feelings toward Mr. MacLean specifically.
Thoughts of her endless lists of tasks had woken her at dawn, and she had thrown herself into her work without bothering to break her fast. It was now half ten, and Mr. MacLean had likely saved her from fainting.
That was surely the reason her knees had felt strangely weak when he entered the shop.
“I...” she said.
He leaned closer.
She wished he wouldn’t.
From this distance, she could see striations of dark blue lapis lazuli in his sapphire irises. His eyelashes were thick, the golden-brown shade found on the underside of shortbread. He did not smell of soap, but sweet biscuits and fresh bread. A warm, cozy scent that made her wish to bury herself within it; to wrap the scent around her and snuggle in close.
Mr. MacLean was as tempting as any treat she had ever sampled, but Angelica had no time to indulge even the tiniest nibble.
“I need to concentrate,” she said firmly. Or would have said firmly, if her voice hadn’t decided to crack and come out a breathy whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “The Yuletide ball is in four days. If they write about me in the Gazette...”
; “It’s important?”
“The most important thing to happen since my shop opened. It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. It’s just been difficult to concentrate.” She nudged one of the pieces on her work board. “I normally spend the Yuletide with my relatives. It sounds odd, but I think best when I’m surrounded by their noise. I’ve been at this tiara since dawn, but my shop is so... empty. The silence weighs on me.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “I understand wanting to escape loneliness. I don’t even have a home, which means every time I go somewhere, I must start from the beginning. It hadn’t occurred to me that someone with roots might feel the same way.”
“No.” She looked at him sharply. He hadn’t understood at all. “I’m not like you. I have a home. I don’t have to begin anything again. My family is inside that castle. I can see it from here. Even if they weren’t close by, I have other friends. There’s no reason to be lonely. I’m not lonely.”
Her family had predicted she would be. London was home to a million people, ten or twenty thousand of whom were Black like the Parkers. And Angelica intended to move to a village of one or two thousand total inhabitants? Was she daft? How would she find a husband up there?
But she wasn’t daft. She was ambitious. And she wasn’t the least bit interested in finding a husband. If her time was limited now as an independent woman, how much harder would it be to achieve her aspirations if being some man’s obedient wife came first?
Besides, Cressmouth was small, but it wasn’t the surface of the moon. More tourists flocked in this street every winter than had ever passed by her father’s shop in Spitalfields.
When it wasn’t Christmastide, the villagers formed their own big family. The Black community here was smaller, but no less loving. Her neighbors were friendly, all the shopkeepers looked after one another, and she never missed a church service. Angelica belonged here. If she weren’t overwhelmed with work, she’d be overwhelmed with dinner parties and seasonal invitations.
