Mistletoe Courtship (17 page)

She plucked an errant pin from Clara's hair, dropped it into
the china jar on the dresser. “Besides which, the moment I mentioned his name you colored up like a tea rose. Clara Penrose, please tell me you haven't gone and allowed your heart to sweep away all your common sense. Look at us! We're never going to have husbands, nor should we even want them. You own this charming cottage, and when my parents are gone, I'll own Tavistock Farm and, by jingo, I'll turn it back into a prosperous one.”

By jingo? “You've been attending too many lectures, Eleanor.” Unsettled, Clara walked over and flung open the old oak wardrobe. Sure enough, a flowing gown of dark blue watered silk hung on a padded hanger. Two wide bands of lace decorated the bodice, overlaid by a strip of velvet ribbon. Surprised, Clara lifted it out of the wardrobe and carried it over to her bed. “Shoo, Nim.” With absentminded gentleness she lifted the cat off the counterpane, hugged him a moment, then placed him on the floor.

“Well,” Eleanor admitted, “for once I think your sister matched the dress to you, instead of herself.”

Nerves made her fingers tremble as Clara lightly stroked the velvet bow set at the waist. “Yes. She did. It's a lovely gown. But all the lovely gowns in the world aren't going to transform me into a vision of grace and sweetness.”

“I hope not! The world would be a dull place without you, Clara.”

A thunderous knocking sounded on the front door, followed by the sound of Willy's voice.

“I'll go help your brother,” Eleanor said. “Pull yourself together. And if you have to wear a corset with that gown, whatever you do keep the stays loose so you can breathe.”

She would breathe just fine, Clara muttered to herself, if Dr. Harcourt stayed away from her.

H
e was enjoying himself, Ethan realized with a seismic internal shock as he strolled among the townsfolk at the drafty lodge hall. Red and green crepe ribbons draped from the ceiling, evergreens filled the window ledges, and the band dutifully produced joyful tidings of the newborn King of Kings. Hundreds of paper cutouts in the shape of bells dangled…everywhere.

Clara, he had learned, was responsible for the bells, not to mention half the baked goods and the Christmas-stocking charity bazaar in one corner to raise money for an orphanage.

“Good to see you, Dr. Harcourt. Heard you were a mighty fine replacement for old Doc Witherspoon. Say…” the gentleman pumping his hand leaned closer “…I've got a small matter to ask you about. Won't take but a second…”

Ethan knew better than to succumb. “A good physician never takes ‘just a second.' Come by my office, and we'll take it from there. Hours are daily nine until six, except for Tuesday, when I'm off at noon.” Giving the man a final warm handshake, Ethan turned to compliment the mayor's wife on her eggnog.

Over the course of the evening he caught glimpses of Clara,
but after three hours he had still found no opportunity to speak directly to her. Either she was bustling around displays, ladling punch and slicing pies, or surrounded by a mostly male crowd, talking animatedly in loud voices. All Ethan glimpsed was her head, with her hair confined in its severe bun.

Eventually he worked his way over to a long row of tables that overflowed with gifts and toys peeping from the top of a bulging red flannel sack. Momentarily alone, Clara seemed to be counting—Ethan watched her lips moving silently as she ticked off numbers with her fingers. Above a flushed face, beads of perspiration slid along her temples. Her ears, Ethan noted, were free of earrings, offering a tantalizing view for any male astute enough to give them a closer inspection. Delicate and pale pink, they were, with a strand of rich brown hair dangling around the left one. Ethan clenched his hands against a tug of yearning strong enough to tempt him to do something too risky to contemplate.

Before he succumbed to her lures, Ethan moved until he stood directly in front of her, his back to the room. “Well, Miss Penrose. You're a popular and busy lady. I was losing hope of enjoying another conversation together.”

Her head jerked up, and a plethora of emotions chased across her face. “Dr. Harcourt.”

“May I say you look quite fetching this evening?”

“Why ask permission when you've already said it?” She turned scarlet, and bent her head to straighten one of the huge red velvet ribbons fastened to the table's edge. “But…thank you. You should compliment Louise. She's responsible for my costume.”

“You're the one wearing it.” He'd learned that any compliment, however deft, flustered her, so Ethan changed the subject. “Charming party. I like Canterbury very much, and you've done a wonderful job with this Christmas Festival. I think everyone in town is in attendance.”

“Except for the Browns. I heard about the delivery. You saved Mrs. Brown's life, and the baby's. Albert was right. You're a wonderful doctor, and everybody I've talked to is mighty glad to have you hang your shingle outside old Mr. McLean's house.”

Unlike Clara, instead of shyness Ethan tended to respond to compliments with suspicion, particularly ones proffered by women. On the other hand, Clara might simply be telling him the truth. Weary of the incessant internal battle, he shrugged. “Most of the time I think God is the primary healer. Good doctors just offer a bit of assistance.” Bad ones, on the other hand, usually ushered their patients along to the pearly gates, and blamed God's will for the patient's demise.

“A humble attitude in a physician. But if everyone left the healing up to God, you'd soon be out a medical practice.”

He studied her curiously. “You sound more like a skeptic than a believer, Miss Penrose.”

“Only occasionally, Dr. Harcourt. I no longer blindly believe anymore. No matter how hard you pray for healing, people die. No matter how faithfully you follow the tenets of your faith, eventually you'll feel…” she hesitated, then looked him in the eye “…betrayed, or the fool.”

“Mmm. It's a tightrope, isn't it—trying to find a healthy balance between life's cruelties and faith? Jesus was the Great Physician, but even He didn't heal everyone.” He paused. “My early years as a doctor, back in Pennsylvania, I struggled a lot, especially with cases where neither prayer nor all a physician's skill reversed an inevitable course.”

Clara was looking at him strangely. She opened her mouth, shut it, then shook her head as she gestured toward the room behind them. “This is much too serious a conversation for the occasion. But…I wouldn't mind pursuing the topic, some other time.” Her next words emerged far more rapidly. “When the
band starts playing ‘O Come Little Children,' Reverend Miggs brings the children in through the front door, and St. Nicholas will arrive through the back door, to dispense these gifts to all our orphaned little ones. It's loud and confusing and great fun. I…ah…I need to finish counting these gifts, make sure we have enough to go around.”

Ethan nodded. “I'll help.” Without giving her an option to refuse, he strode around behind the table to join her. Warning bells clanged in his head, but he couldn't ignore this compulsive need, a need that intensified with every encounter. He wanted to find out who had betrayed
her,
and whether her life was fueled by courage—or a bitterness tightly restrained beneath a personality that, if pushed beyond measure, would erupt, destroying everyone in its path.

Like Lillian.

Stubbornly he reached for one of the wrapped boxes. “Where did you leave off?”

For several moments they worked without speaking, until the awkwardness between them gradually settled into comfortable congeniality. Occasionally they exchanged pleasantries with passers-by, and one time Ethan even caught Clara humming beneath her breath. The blue gown flattered her, he thought, casting a surreptitious appraisal over it as he handed her the last gift to stack around St. Nick's sack of treasures. She was not a beautiful woman, nor would she command instant attention in a crowded room. But the more he was around her, the more he wanted to know about those contrary flashes of wistfulness that clashed with the sharp-edged wit, and blunted the edge of bitterness she'd let slip earlier.

“What do
you
want for Christmas?” he inquired casually just as she intercepted a young boy dressed from head to toe in Scottish plaid, complete with Tam o' Shanter, as the sprout sidled around the table.

“You know better, Charlie,” she scolded the child with a smile. “These gifts are for boys and girls at the Home—those with no families. You're helping St. Nicholas hand them out this year, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am. I was…um…I just wanted to see…”

“Never mind, Charlie. Here.” Clara produced a peppermint stick tied with a red ribbon, and winked at him. “Don't tell anyone where you got this.” Grinning, the boy departed, and she turned back to Ethan. “What were you saying?”

“I asked what you wanted for Christmas.”

Bewilderment flickered across her face. “What
I
want?” she repeated, shaking her head. “Why would you ask? I'm not a child, expecting a stocking full of goodies to magically appear Christmas morning.”

Ethan glanced around; the orphans had arrived, and the din practically set Clara's paper cutout bells to ringing. Several adults herded the children into place while everyone's attention focused on the door at the end of the hall, where old Vladimir Cherkorski, the town blacksmith, would momentarily appear. Clara promised Ethan the blacksmith would look the spitting image of the Santa cartoonist Thomas Nast first created for
Harper's Weekly,
during the War Between the States. After Vladimir and the town children handed toys out to the orphans, he would recite
'Twas the Night Before Christmas
in a splendid bass voice.

For the Christmas Eve pageant in the town square, however, Vladimir played the part of Joseph. “A lovely harmonious blend of faith and tradition,” Clara finished before adding with a twinkle in her solemn eyes that “Most of the children here believe Santa Claus speaks with a Polish accent.”

She needed to smile with her eyes more often.

Ethan leaned close, his lips almost brushing the delicate ear. “You're wonderful at giving to others, Clara. But have you ever
stopped to consider that an equally significant portion of the Christmas message is learning how to receive?”

To his astonishment she flicked him a raw look bristling with hurt, then half turned her head to stare blindly across the room. “Too much is made of gift-giving. The custom may have originated from those gifts the Magi offered the Christ Child, but it seems to me that every year more attention is focused on presents than on Jesus' birth.” Abruptly she hugged her narrow waist. “I beg your pardon.” One hand briefly fluttered toward the bulging sack. “Considering what I'm—what we're doing at the moment, you must think me the worst of hypocrites.”

The door at the end of the hall burst open, cheers and delighted shrieks erupting as a great hulk of a man dressed in cherry red, with a flowing white beard, ho-ho-hoed his way into the room.

Clara's hand, Ethan noticed, had balled into a white-knuckled fist that pressed against the midnight-blue velvet bow at her waist. Turning slightly to screen his actions, Ethan reached for that fist, cupped the chilly curled fingers inside his. “I think a lot of things about you, Clara Penrose.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles, then lifted his other hand to prise her fist open, gently spreading the cold fingers across his palm. “But a hypocrite is not one of them. You do have more facets than a prism, so what I'm thinking is that I want to see every one of them in the sunlight.”

“There's nothing colorful about me, other than my choice of attire. I can't imagine why you'd think otherwise.” Her fingers trembled. Guileless brown eyes reflected honest confusion.

“I don't understand all the whys,” Ethan admitted honestly. “And I know neither of us is ready for me to admit this.” She did not return his crooked smile, nor even blink. He resumed stroking the trembling fingers because he couldn't quell the
need to soothe. “When I look at you I see a woman of extraordinary strengths, but I also see questions and loneliness and…well, something that strikes a chord inside me. I see a reflection of myself.” He no doubt sounded idiotic, and if she told him so he'd no one but himself to blame.

Instead she stared at him, looking both confused and sympathetic.

The noisy mass of humanity would be upon them in less than ten seconds. Ethan gently squeezed her hand, then with a lingering caress slid his fingers free. “Time to be Santa's helpers. But we will definitely continue our discussion later.”

“You might discover that familiarity breeds contempt, Dr. Harcourt.”

“Ah. Since you're familiar with Aesop and his fables,” Ethan replied, “perhaps you recall his observation that it is not only fine feathers that make fine birds.”

W
hat to do, what to do? Clara spent most of the Sunday service alternatively trying to determine how to respond if Ethan approached her after church, or how to approach him herself if he didn't. Frequent mental whacks of self-disgust could not discipline the tenor of her woefully girlish dreaming.

The previous Sunday, heeding Reverend Miggs's sermon, she had renounced her prideful longing to be Someone of Significance—grand hostess for a literary group, or the benefactress of a much respected Washington philanthropic organization—endeavors suitable for the eldest daughter of Clarence Penrose. The family old maid. Until today, that solitary walk up to the dais with the little silver charm of the Capitol Building clutched in her hand had been one of the most painful experiences of Clara's life. But now…
Lord? You must know I never intended to cultivate a prideful heart, or a silly one.
Had she unwittingly become a coward as well, unable to admit her attraction for a gentleman?

She should write an article about it: “Death of a Spinster's Sensibilities.”

No, what she should do was focus on
worship,
set her mind
and heart on things above. On the moment in time when the course of history changed forever because God transformed Himself into flesh, and moved among the flawed human creatures with whom He longed to connect.

People constantly hovered around Dr. Harcourt, vying for his attention. Not only was Ethan Harcourt an attractive, erudite, respected man—he had a past. Thus, being a widower of marriageable age, a former congressman
and
the town's physician, every single female in Canterbury, from Clara's giddy piano students to several widows in their early forties, fluttered about him in hopes of making a favorable impression.
You're just another flutterer, Clara.
Last night signified nothing—he was merely being courteous, helpful.

Patricia Dunwoody had twice now inveigled his presence for tea. “He was quite impressed with our Festival, and made a point of complimenting me on the smoothness of the arrangements,” she preened before the service. “By the way, Clara…a teensy bit of advice? Last night, I couldn't help but notice your attempt to monopolize his attention, when Vladimir was giving out gifts to the orphans. Nothing annoys a gentleman more…”

Her friend Eleanor was probably right. The prospect of courtship rendered all participants desperate, or diabolical. “So you need to watch yourself with this one, Clara. All you're doing is making yourself miserable. Life's too short to squander on a man.” For all her cheerful demeanor, Eleanor tended to prefer persimmons to plums, and pragmatism over romance.

The congregation rose to sing “Break Forth O Beauteous Heavenly Light.” Fumbling the pages, Clara ignored the surreptitious glances the family cast her way. She fought an irreverent smile: in a desperate attempt to include the Almighty in her mental meanderings, she began to pray.
Lord, You did create male and female. Contrary to Eleanor's opinions, You indicated
they are better off together. But as of course You also know, everyone seems to have made a fine mess of things these past few thousand years. I don't seem to be able to do much better, Lord. I'm not an Eleanor, and I don't want to be a Patricia. Frankly, Lord, I don't know who I am these days.

Louise tugged her skirt. “Clara, sit down!” she hissed. “The hymn is over.”

After Reverend Miggs pronounced the benediction, her sister immediately launched into speech. “You've been behaving strangely ever since last night. Willy said when he took you home you acted—and this was the word he used—
moonstruck.
He told me he couldn't even provoke you into a quarrel.” With an impatient wave of her hand, she grabbed Clara's arm and pulled her to the end of the pew, out of the way. “The dress worked, didn't it? Everyone in town saw the way Dr. Har—” hurriedly she lowered her voice “—Dr. Harcourt's attentiveness. Tell me, what did he say to you?”

“Louise, I've admitted the gown turned out very well, and I thank you. But if you think that entitles you to pry into any conversations I might have with Dr. Harcourt, I'll tell you—again—they're none of your business.”

“Piffle. Of course they are. I'm your sister. You like him. Don't even try to deny it.”

“Of course I like him. So does every other woman in town, and all the men with whom I've chatted. Every person in Canterbury likes Dr. Harcourt. For once Albert deserves to gloat.” She smiled at several ladies from the missions committee, thanked them for their contributions to the Festival.

“Clara—Oh, botheration. Now Eleanor's headed this way. I might as well try to stop a steamship. Very well. Mr. Eppling's waiting for me, anyway.”

“Honestly, Louise. You're marrying the man in four months. Can't you refer to him as Harry, at least with me?”

“You know what Mother would have to say about that level of familiarity.”

“I know that for all our lives Mother has used convention and manners to distance herself from any form of familial intimacy with her children.” Frustration with everything—her sister, her family…with life—pushed through Clara in a strong gust of rebellion. “As a matter of fact, I think of Dr. Harcourt as Ethan. I might even ask him to call me Clara, since I'm thirty-one years old and quite capable of establishing my own set of conventions.”

For a moment Louise gaped at her, then she reached up and pressed a quick kiss against her cheek. “Good for you, sister. I shall take courage from you, and promise to at least call my affianced Harry when I'm alone with you.” After a brief but fierce hug, she slipped past, smiling at Eleanor but not stopping to speak with her.

Before Eleanor managed two sentences, several piano students surrounded Clara, followed by more townsfolk wanting to compliment her on the success of the Christmas Festival. By the time Clara extricated herself, promising to visit Eleanor later in the afternoon, Ethan was nowhere in sight. Hurriedly she fastened her coat, all but running down the now-deserted aisle to the church's front doors, and almost ran smack into him.

“Whoa! Is the sanctuary on fire, then, Miss Penrose?” he teased, his hands steadying her shoulders. In her flustration Clara probably only imagined that his grip lingered before he set her free and stepped back. Eyes narrowing, he examined her with what Clara thought of as a physician's analytical intensity. “Is something wrong?”

“I thought you'd left,” she stammered, stupidly. “I wanted to…I wanted to, ah…thank you for your help. Last night, at the Festival. With the gifts. It's always a melee, as you saw…” Finally she corralled her tongue and lapsed into silence. Regret
tably she could not corral her thoughts. Even now the memory of their closeness the previous night produced a surge of warmth. Under cover of all the joyful confusion she and Ethan had shared an unnervingly personal conversation.
He had held her hand.

“It was my pleasure,” Dr. Harcourt commented easily. “Miss Penrose—Clara? Are you sure you're all right? You're flushed, and—” he hesitated, then added with slight smile, “—you're not acting like yourself.”

“I know, and I despise myself for it.”

Flirting, she had instructed Louise since her little sister first let down her dress hems, was degrading to both parties. Honesty was preferable to artifice. Since Clara had spent the past twelve hours rehearsing the latter, either God wanted to administer a dose of humility, or He was indulging in a bit of divine comedy. Very well, then. She would try her hand at both honesty
and
artifice. “I did enjoy your company, last night—Ethan.” She fluttered her eyelashes as much like Patricia Dunwoody as she could manage, and summoned what she hoped was an inviting smile. “I look forward to seeing you this coming Thursday. Bertha told me that you're joining the rest of our family for dinner with her and Albert. She tries hard to emulate my mother's formality, but with my nephews and niece you're more likely to feel like you've tumbled back to last night at the Festival.”

“I'll try to look forward to the experience.” Perhaps it was only a cloud passing in front of the sun, but to Clara his face seemed to darken. “I must go. I promised to stop by the Browns' after church, to check on Mrs. Brown and the baby.” After touching the brim of his hat, he turned and rapidly departed, disappearing around the corner of the church.

“So,” Clara murmured aloud, shivering a little in the nippy winter day, “was I too obvious, or too subtle?”

 

Scowling, Ethan climbed into the buggy, his scowl deepening because he was forced to shove aside several more envelopes, along with a brightly wrapped mason jar full of pickled cucumbers. He had never been the kind of man who believed he understood women, except from a medical perspective, and Clara Penrose was tempting him to go search out that band of outlaws in the Nevada Territory.

Last night she had been everything he'd ever wanted in a woman—and he'd come dangerously near to making a fool of himself again. He had felt safe with Clara. Free. Unlike most women, including and especially Lillian, Clara did not dissemble, or batter him with admiring glances and honeyed words.

Until today.

Ethan seldom swore, but he was tempted to now. What was she trying to do, anyway, batting her eyelashes like a professional floozy, flashing him those bright and utterly artificial smiles? On the church steps, of all places! And to think he'd been entertaining the notion of courting her. Angrily he rifled through the scattered missives beside him, thinking with the only portion of his brain still capable of rational thought that he needed to calm down before he visited the Browns. After sucking in a deep breath and holding it for a moment, he picked up the note on top and read the cheery Christmas greeting. By the time he made it through another two unpretentious notes he felt his pulse slowing down to a healthier rate.

Then he opened the envelope with the fourth note, and the hair on the back of his neck lifted as he removed the neatly folded vellum:
Somebody plans to give you something special this Christmas.
As with the other two notes locked in his desk drawer, there was no signature, no other greeting.

Had Clara been running because she'd slipped out the side door, left the note in his buggy, then dashed back out the front
door to waylay him? The prospect sickened his gut. He wasn't sure which of them suffered from a mental malfunction—Clara or himself—for believing she was capable of such aberrant behavior.

Enough,
Ethan vowed to himself. He'd endured quite enough. On Tuesday afternoon, when he closed the office at noon, he would pay Clara Penrose a visit. In his thirty-seven years he had suffered enough from the clandestine intrigues of females to last thirty-seven lifetimes.

 

Tuesday, in the way of weather in this corner of Virginia, dawned mild, with skies the color of aged pewter.

“Rain by tomorrow,” Mrs. Gavis pronounced stoutly when Ethan finished his examination. “My shoulder's set to aching. It's never wrong when I get that ache.”

“Mm…” Ethan had learned which patients to coddle, which to lecture, and which few to simply agree with because he would never change their minds.

“You're a bit down in the mouth today, Dr. Harcourt. Something besides my lumbago troubling you?”

“I'm fine,” he lied, courteously cupping her elbow as he escorted her down the hall to the door. “But I will take my umbrella tomorrow, when I do my rounds.”

After Mrs. Gavis departed, Ethan turned off all the lights and, eschewing the buggy, set off for Clara Penrose's cottage at a brisk walk.

 

A block away a woman watched from the one-horse trap she'd rented at the livery stable. Her hands, slippery and trembling, clutched the reins too tightly; the livery horse back-stepped, his tail swishing. The woman spoke to the animal, apologizing, then nervously edged the trap closer to Dr. Harcourt's office after his tall figure disappeared around a
corner several blocks down the street. Her movements clumsy with haste, she set the brake, secured the reins and, after climbing down, turned to pick up a large basket from the floorboards. The putrid odor of rancid fruit brought tears to her eyes. She darted several glances around to ensure that nobody was in sight before carrying the basket down the brick path, up onto Dr. Harcourt's wraparound porch. One of the broad planks squeaked when she stepped on it. She froze, holding her breath. She'd never seen a servant loitering about the place on Tuesday afternoons. The daily maid he hired to clean and cook meals was allowed Tuesdays off, she'd discovered.

She was safe, if she hurried.

Carefully she set her gift down directly in front of the door, where he'd be sure to see it—or, perhaps better, to trip over if he returned after dark. After wiping her eyes, she reached into the pocket of her long overcoat and tugged out the note, which she placed between two brown-specked, soggy apples to ensure a breeze wouldn't blow it away.

All the way back to the livery stable she sang, her heart pounding with victory and grief.