by Caroline Lee
So…no. No, she wasn’t interested in pursuing a man now.
Was she?
Again, that imagine of Andrew Prince popped into her head. There’d been a moment on Monday night, when he’d been laughing at something Max had said, and the older man had thrown his head back. The light from the gas lamp had caught the long column of his throat, and Christa had found herself wondering how he’d taste. As if he were a treat, laid out for her enjoyment.
He’d been kind, and funny, and handsome, and she admitted to herself she’d felt some attraction.
But he was a stranger in a card game, not someone she had any right to admire.
So, emphatically, she reminded herself as she told the other women, “I’m thirty-seven years old now. Too old to be thinking about True Love.”
And she almost believed herself.
The thoughtful way Doc nodded told Christa maybe she’d heard the subtext too.
“Well, Christmas Harrington…you’ll be a member on a probationary basis. You set up this match”—she tapped her forefinger against the book’s cover—“and you’re in. There’s about a million rules, and nearly the same number of dos-and-don’ts in here—and I wrote most of them, so don’t think you can fool me, young lady—so you’d better study them tonight. You’ve been staying at Van Winkle Inn, I assume, but you can move your things in here at once. Dorcas can help you, assuming she can manage without setting anything on fire.”
“Yay!” Dorcas burbled.
“Don’t worry,” Bashful whispered, “she only set the orphanage on fire once.”
Christa raised a brow and vowed to carry her own valise.
Pushing her chair away from the table, Doc stood. “Well, Christmas Harrington, welcome to the guild. And welcome to Everland.”
Chapter 3
Late Saturday afternoon found Christa hunched over the book at the little desk in the room she’d been given and felt irritated. Not necessarily irritated at anything in particular, although knowing she wasn’t in a position to sneak out to The Gingerbread House to play a game this evening certainly contributed to it.
It had snowed again yesterday, and the town was likely still digging out from underneath it. Besides, it gave her the perfect opportunity to figure out her new job without distractions, no matter how welcome they may have been.
With a sigh, she stretched her arms behind her head and leaned back in the chair. Her back popped, reminding her she wasn’t as young as she used to be. She reached for the bun she’d been wearing at the base of her neck and pulled out the pins, enjoying the way her hair fell down around her ears.
There. Now at least she wouldn’t get a headache to go along with everything else.
She’d been living with the Godmothers for a few days now, and it wasn’t all that bad. The food was good, although she’d never actually seen anyone prepare it, and the room she’d been given was bigger than the one she’d rented back home. The traces of the godmother who’d occupied it before her didn’t seem to bother her much.
And the bed certainly was comfortable, but what else could be expected from a woman named Somnolena?
Somewhere in the house, someone was playing music and singing carols. The former wasn’t terrible, but the singing…?
Christa winced at an attempt at a particularly high note. Likely Dorcas was to blame.
She’d cautiously gotten to know the ladies in the house over the last few days as they’d offered support and advice. Helga was the optimist, always ready with the much-too quickly prepared tea and a friendly hug, although her suggestions rarely amounted to more than, “Everything will work out in the end, won’t it, dearie?”
Grunhilda was the opposite, her grumpy mood seemingly at odds with a profession whose sole purpose was to bring happiness to others. Bashful wasn’t that helpful when it came to advice, but she was full of stories about her travels through India and Asia, and Christa had spent an entire evening completely entranced.
Suzy was as academically minded as her aunt—although apparently allergic to snow, which should be impossible—and Dorcas was…
Well, as near as Christa could tell, Dorcas was basically useless, but adorably so. Everyone put up with her, and Christa found herself pitying the orphan cases she was assigned to.
Oh, yes, orphans.
That had been an interesting discovery in The Book. Apparently only orphans were assigned godmothers. And how convenient there was an orphanage right in the center of Everland. But Christa had argued with Doc that it was a silly delineation. After all, most people became orphans by a certain age. Why, she herself had been an orphan ever since the age of ten, which is why she’d had such a hand in raising her younger brothers and sisters.
Doc had just hummed and peered at her over the top of her glasses, and said, “Yes, I know. Don’t argue with The Book.”
And that was, apparently, the only advice she was willing to give.
In the distance, the church bell chimed the afternoon hour.
Feeling the need to do more than stretch, Christa pushed herself to her feet and paced to the door and back, twice, then a third time. She finally settled against the big window looking out over Perrault Street and pushed the curtains far enough aside so she could press a cheek to the cold glass.
Down below, Everland citizens hurried back and forth, finishing up their shopping before it got too dark. The shops were festooned with holiday decorations, and there was a general cheerful mood, but no one looked up.
No one seemed to notice the big purple house nor cared about what went on inside.
Is that what you want for the rest of your life? To be overlooked and forgotten by all except those you help directly?
Wasn’t that what her life was like now?
No. Now you win large sums of money from others. At least they remember you.
Grinning, she traced the frost pattern with her fingertip.
Whatever powers the Godmothers had—powers besides research and thick tomes—might prove useful at the poker table.
But will you give up the chance at True Love?
She snorted at herself. Not this again. It had been almost twenty years since she’d even considered herself in love. There’d been no reason, in all of the years between, to bemoan the fact she hadn’t fallen in love with a man and hadn’t made a life like her sisters.
Right?
Right.
She hated it when her subconscious got sarcastic.
Down below, she watched a couple strolling arm-in-arm. She squashed her cheek against the cold glass, trying to see them in better detail. The woman had red hair under her hat, and the man had an arm around her waist as if he couldn’t bear to part with her. When they strolled past, Christa realized the woman held a squirming baby, and all three were grinning.
When she sighed, her breath fogged the window.
Would Sibyl Miller look that happy once Christa found her a husband? As her first project, she was anxious to begin.
Come to think of it, that was where this irritated feeling likely stemmed from: not being further along in her first assignment.
Sibyl Miller’s file was full of all the needed information.
She was the youngest of the Miller girls, nineteen now, and was the perfect age to be married, like all of her sisters ahead of her were. Their father had died, but not before Sibyl’s stepsister, Ella, had married the owner of the Crowne Mercantile against his wishes. The second sister, Eunice, had married a man named Gaston and had moved away years ago. Mabel was the oldest sister, and everything Christa had read about her only confirmed the gossip she’d heard at The Gingerbread House: Mabel wasn’t well-regarded, to put it lightly. She was married to Roy Jr., and it seemed as if the consensus was they deserved one another.
But now Sibyl was ready to be married, and the Godmothers had stepped in to find her a True Love of her own. The Guide to Godmothering—it was a verb?—had explained that, truthfully, all one really needed to do was identify the best candidate in terms
of status, income, personality, and most importantly, heart. A poor man could be just as fine a candidate for a husband as a rich one, assuming he loved the girl and would treat her well.
And of course, it was always wise to take personal choice into consideration, even if the girl didn’t really know her own mind.
Unfortunately, Christa hadn’t had the chance to get to know Sibyl’s mind. Two days ago, she’d thought she was being clever when she’d pulled on her dungarees and poncho and snuck out the back door. She’d made her way to the Miller Ranch, which was in serious disarray, only to discover Sibyl wasn’t home.
She’d gone to Denver to visit her sister, Eunice, and no one knew when she’d return.
So Christa was stuck making preliminary matches based on the girl’s file.
Well, nothing like the present.
With a sigh, she turned away from the window and let the curtain fall. She had a file of every eligible bachelor in town, so she’d start with them, comparing tastes and interests and personalities, then expand her search if that returned nothing.
Grunting with exertion, she pulled out the chest with all the files she’d been given and sat cross-legged on the rug to pull them out. Her hair swung down around her face, but she tucked it behind her ears and reached for the first file.
Suddenly, she wasn’t irritated anymore. It felt good to be doing something proactive!
The house quietly settled into the evening routine. The terrible singing stopped, and the dinner bell was rung as Christa combed through the files, discarding some men as being too young, too old, or too…smelly? She pushed Terrell Gruff’s name to the bottom of the pile as soon as she saw it.
The church bell rang in the distance just as a knock sounded at her door. Without waiting, Bashful stuck her head in. “Dinner’s over, but I brought you a tray.”
Christa sent her a grateful smile. “Thank you. I was on a roll.”
Humming, the flamboyant woman stepped over piles of paper to set the tray on her desk. “I’ve been there before. Did you know Ella Miller was one of mine?” When Christa lifted a brow, the other woman nodded with a smile. “Oh yes, but she was an easy one. She was already half in love with her shopkeeper, she just needed a little help.”
“Help?” What kind of help did the Godmothers offer beyond matchmaking?
“Oh yes. A new gown, and a ride into town to attend the ball— No, excuse me, the picnic. That was all she needed.”
Well, that did sound easy enough. “I hope I can help Sibyl find her True Love,” sighed Christa, staring down at the pile of papers around her. “I didn’t realize it’d be so…academic.”
“Oh, often it isn’t. Godmothers have a way of getting around. We meet people and engage them in conversation. That’s the way to really find out how suitable people are. Have you met anyone in town? Any nice young, single men?”
Slowly, Christa’s spine straightened, and the wallpaper on the far wall blurred as she remembered a group of faces around green baize. “Maybe…” She blinked, then glanced at Bashful. “The Gruff brothers likely aren’t suitable, although I only met two of them.”
The other woman waved dismissively, her bangles clashing. “They need a lot of help before they’re suitable. Who else have you met?”
Andrew Prince, her heart whispered.
But she couldn’t say his name. And—she told herself sternly—it wasn’t because she wanted him for herself or anything. It was just that Sibyl was only nineteen…
Christa gasped and lunged for a file she’d seen in passing. Max’s brother was married to Sibyl’s sister, so surely they knew one another already?
A little triumphant noise escaped her lips as she wrenched Max DeVille’s file free from the rest of the pile.
Bashful smiled when she read the name. “A good choice.”
But Christa had already flung it open, flipping through what they knew about him. “It doesn’t mention his smile, or kindness, or how he can make people feel—”
When she didn’t finish, Bashful asked quietly, “How?”
Feeling like she’d just laid down a straight flush, Christa smiled up at her new friend. “I saw him when I first arrived in Everland. He seemed like a nice young man, but more than that, he appeared to make people around him feel good too. He was friendly and made them laugh. All valuable traits in a husband, I’d think.”
Bashful grinned as she surged to her feet. “I know Doc’s been holding him in reserve for someone special. It might just be Sibyl Miller!” She held out her hand to help Christa to her feet. “And tomorrow’s church—only a few more sermons before Christmas! It’ll be the perfect opportunity to meet him and get to know him even more!”
Now that winter had set in with a vengeance, the town’s endearing tradition of a Sunday afternoon picnic outside the church had been set aside. Andrew remembered how disappointing it had been to learn that his first year in Everland, but he was blessed with a family who always welcomed him for a visit.
Later this afternoon, he was the one hosting Micah and Penelope, as well as Rojita and Hank and the children, in his home. He’d had it built by the local pair, King and Cole, when it became obvious he’d be spending more time in Everland. He still took most of his meals at MacKinnon’s Restaurant, and Gordy and Briar MacKinnon already had his order for this afternoon’s large meal.
But for now, Andrew was content to join a portion of the town’s population in their winter social activity of “hanging around inside the warm church, chatting.”
He’d already given his compliments to Reverend Woods, and congratulations to his lovely wife, Snow, who’d only recently announced what everyone else suspected: she was with child. Andrew was pleased for the couple, knowing how badly young Snow deserved some happiness.
And now he was stuck in the corner, listening to Roy DeVille brag about his son. Not Max, oh no—although the young man stood with his arms folded in his best jacket, a bored look on his face,—but the older one, Roy Jr.
Andrew hid his distaste as well.
There were few people in Everland he didn’t care for, but Roy and Roy Jr. were at the top of the short list. They were wealthy ranchers who pretended to be wealthier than they really were and lorded it over the rest of the townspeople as often as possible.
As far as he was concerned, that just made them bullies and braggarts, and he didn’t have time for either.
He caught Max’s dull-eyed gaze, and the other man blinked, then one side of his lips slowly curled upward into a smirk, as if he knew how uncomfortable Andrew was. Andrew returned the little smirk with a nod, agreeing they needed to find a way out of this conversation.
Surely there was someone—anyone—still hanging around the church, who would come over and rescue them?
He found himself nodding politely in response to whatever Roy was saying—not that the other man needed encouragement—and scanning the building hopefully. When he saw a group of women coming toward him, he sucked in a breath.
Max must’ve heard him, because the younger man shifted and dropped his arms to be more welcoming. Then, as his father paused to take a breath, Max interrupted.
“Good morning, ladies. A fine sermon this morning, wasn’t it?”
Andrew offered a little welcoming bow, since he was holding his hat and couldn’t doff it, but Roy, to his surprise, let out a startled yelp when he turned and saw the three women.
One was quite lovely, with long dark hair—not tied back or wearing any sort of netting, which was a little scandalous—wearing a flowing sort of bohemian gown, enough brass jewelry to choke an elephant, and an actual cloak, as if she were from a book. The second lady was short and round, with a giant wart on her chin and a rather dopey smile. The third lady stood behind them, her head down.
“Good morning,” the dark-haired one returned, with a brilliant smile. “We saw you gentlemen conversing here in the corner and just knew we had to come visit.”
Desperate to escape further conversation with Roy, Andrew
offered a warm smile. “I’m not in town as often as I would like, Miss, and am afraid I don’t know everyone.” He shot a glance at Max, in case his friend could offer introductions, but the man shook his head. “I’m Andrew Prince. This is my friend, Max DeVille, and his father, Roy.”
The woman waved a bangled hand. “Oh, we know all about you, don’t worry. I shan’t bother you with my name because I know you’ll forget it right away.”
How could she think that?
Before Andrew could ask, the be-warted one chirped, “I’m Dorcas!”
He was just offering another bow to Dorcas when Roy began backing away.
“Yes, well… Ahem. Well, it was good to see you, Prince, but I’ve suddenly remembered— Ah.” He held his hat in front of him like a shield, and Andrew began to wonder if perhaps the other man knew something about these strange women he didn’t. “I’ve got to be going. Max, come along!”
He snapped the last part as he bumped into a pew, then turned, steadied himself, and hightailed it for the door. Max sighed mightily, then jammed his hat on his head, shrugged at Andrew’s questioning look and smiled ruefully at the newcomers.
“Ladies, I leave you in Mr. Prince’s tender care. Duty calls.”
With a not-quite stifled sigh, he strolled after his father, leaving Andrew and the three ladies to stare after him.
“Well, poot,” muttered the one with the wart.
Attempting to be polite, Andrew lifted a brow. “Madam?”
“The whole dang point was to introduce Christa to Max,” Dorcas confided in Andrew.
Her friend smacked her arm, and hissed, “Don’t tell him that!”
Ah, amateur matchmakers, were they?
Andrew smiled. “I consider Max a friend, even though I'm around the same age as his father. Perhaps I could introduce your friend?”
The two ladies shared a glance, then as one, stepped to the side, leaving their third companion standing alone.
“Come along, Dorcas. Let’s go pretend to be interested in the view out the window!” the bohemian one declared.
