Mistletoe Courtship (24 page)

Clara rose and walked around the table. “It's Christmas,” she said, leaning down to give the other woman a hug. “It's the perfect time of year for kindness. Forgiveness. And new hope. Some weeks ago our minister gave the congregation a task. We were to bring symbols of our burdens, and lay them in the manger, renouncing them in order to celebrate the Christmas season. I had broken dreams, just like you, dreams that were never realized. So…I listened to our minister, and I let them go—and God supplied me with something infinitely more wonderful.”

“After we take Mrs. Chesterton home,” Ethan commented, gently depositing Nim on the floor, “I have something to share with you about that Sunday and the symbol you left at the altar.”

O
n a blustery afternoon two days before Christmas, Clara was busily writing when someone pounded on the door. When Clara opened it, Ethan stood grinning on the freshly scrubbed stoop, his thick hair wind-tossed and a glint sparkling in the clear green eyes. “Good. You're not busy. I've brought something, and I'll need your help with it.”

“Ethan, what on earth—? And I am busy. I'm writing.”

“Your letter to the editor can wait.”

“It's not a letter,” Clara began, but he had turned aside and leaned down. When he straightened, his arms were full of a fragrant little fir tree.

“You'll need to clear off that table under your window. I think this tree will look quite nice on it.” And with Clara dazedly trailing after him he proceeded into her parlor, set the tree on the floor, then strode back outside to return with a large gift-wrapped box tied with a huge red ribbon. “Here. Open this while I clear the table.”

“You brought me a Christmas tree.”

“I've always known you were an intelligent, observant woman. Open the box, sweetheart.”

A whoosh of sentimentality gummed up her throat, paralyzing her vocal chords. Clutching the box to her middle, Clara watched while Ethan cheerfully cleared the tabletop and plonked the tree—to which two strips of wood had been attached crossways, forming a stand—right in the center. A fresh, resiny fragrance permeated the air.

Nim strolled in from the bedroom, instantly going over to strop himself against Ethan's legs before rising up to sniff the tree. Smiling, Ethan gave the cat an affectionate pat before walking back over to Clara. “Looks perfect, doesn't it?” Gently he removed the box from her unresisting hands. “Like Christmas has finally arrived at Clara's cottage.”

“You're impossible, and I love you.” She reached for the box, her heart fluttering at the same time the rest of her seemed to be dissolving like the sugar glaze she'd applied to a batch of cookies she'd made that morning. “Your present isn't ready yet.”

“This isn't a present, it's decorations. Hurry up and open the box. This will take some time.”

So Clara ripped off ribbon and paper and lifted off the lid, to discover dozens of tissue-wrapped objects nestled inside. The objects turned out to be tiny charms, like the one of the Capitol Building she'd relinquished weeks earlier. Only these charms were made of gold. “Ethan…You…I don't know what to say.” Eyes filling, she held up the first one, a long-tailed cat with a mischievous smile. Bright blue-colored glass eyes winked in the December sunlight pouring through the window. “It's Nim!”

“Keep going. Methuselah's in there somewhere.”

Until this moment, Clara had never experienced the childlike joy possible only at Christmas. Each charm elicited a happy gasp, a delighted laugh, a sigh of contentment. Ethan helped her tie them to the tree with strands of red ribbon—a turtle, as promised, a piano, a key…

“The key to my heart,” he told her as he brushed a circumspect kiss against the nape of her neck, sending a wave of goose bumps all over Clara's skin.

“I love you, Ethan Harcourt,” she replied. “And I'll cherish my Christmas tree forever. But don't delude yourself for an instant if you think I plan to consider any garlands, or gilded angels, or magnolia leaves and sprigs of ivy, or—What's that?” He had reached inside his waistcoat to tug something out, which he shielded from Clara with his other hand.

“I thought I'd defer negotiations on appropriate Christmas decorations until after I gave you your Christmas present.”

“But…Christmas is still the day after tomorrow. You were supposed to wait. I told you I haven't finished—I mean, I'm not ready to give you—Oh, padiddle!” Eyes narrowed, she lunged for his hands. “What is it, then?”

Ethan held his hands up high, way beyond her reach. “Are you sure you don't want to wait for another forty-eight hours?”

“If you'd wanted to wait, you shouldn't have teased me.” Exasperated, she picked Nim up, then turned her back on Ethan, ostensibly to study her lovely tree, proudly displaying the dozen gold charms amongst its fragrant branches. “I can't wait for everyone to see this. Albert will take all the credit for introducing you to me in the first place. Eleanor will probably kiss you—no, she'll shake your hand, firmly. Willy will offer to take you to his favorite fishing spot and Louise will enlist your aid on the sly, to hang a few greens and some mistletoe.”

“I like the mistletoe part. What about your parents?”

For a second the old defensive misery dimmed the present glow. But as she absorbed the kindness in Ethan's eyes, the defensiveness transformed into an extraordinary lightness. “Mother will rearrange the charms to her liking. Father, as he comments every visit, will suggest I either rid myself of half the furniture, or move someplace where he won't trip over a
footstool or something. They might congratulate you on reforming their daughter.”

“Well, their daughter
transformed
me.” Slowly he returned whatever he'd been holding to the pocket of his waistcoat. “Perhaps I'll wait until Christmas Day after all. I want your whole family to witness how much I love you.”

“Ethan…Louise has been matchmaking from the first time she heard about you. Our feelings for one another, especially after you and Mrs. Chesterton talked with Sheriff Gleason, by now fuel every conversation in Canterbury from dawn until dusk.” After putting Nim down, she approached Ethan, grateful when, without asking, he took her hands and tugged her closer. “Speaking of Mrs. Chesterton…I learned she was a church organist before she married. Oh, and she's no longer wearing widow's weeds.”

“I know. She stopped by yesterday to offer me another basket, this one filled with fresh oranges, nuts and a mince pie.” He grinned down at Clara. “She's not as good a cook as you, but it was nice seeing her looking the way a woman ought to look, delivering food fit for human consumption. She also included a formal note of apology, on the same stationery, only this time she signed it.”

“Feels good, doesn't it, watching her bloom?”

“Mm. Not as much as watching the woman I love bloom.” His gaze wandered lazily over her. “Your hair looks nice today. I like the way you moved the bun from the top of your head to the back of your neck. I especially like the strand of hair dangling by your ear. Have I told you how much I love your ears?”

Clara blushed and took refuge in a geyser of words. She wasn't sure she would ever entirely believe Ethan's effusive blandishments, but she hoped he'd never cease giving them. “I, um, I took Mr. Fiske to Mrs. Chesterton's boardinghouse after
church this past Sunday. They developed an instant rapport. She's playing for the community hymn sing tonight. From the gleam in Mr. Fiske's eye within an hour of meeting her, I've a hunch he won't be inquiring about my services as an accompanist much longer.”

“Good.”

They stood together in a puddle of sunshine, listening to the wind rattle the shutters and the fire crackle in the parlor fireplace, holding hands and basking in a transcendent peace.

“Ethan?”

“Hmm?”

“I don't want to wait for Christmas Day.”

“I know. I don't either.” He reached back into his waistcoat, and withdrew a small box. “Here.”

Fingers suddenly unsteady, Clara took the proffered box and fumbled it open. Nestled in a bed of midnight velvet was the small charm of the Capitol she'd laid on the altar. “I don't understand.” She lifted uncomprehending eyes to Ethan's.

“The first Sunday I went to church was the Sunday when the minister asked you to leave your burdens. Yours was accidentally left behind, so I picked it up. I've been carrying your secret burden ever since. Now I think it's time for us both to follow Reverend Miggs's counsel, and lay this at the foot of the manger.”

As he spoke he produced a slender red ribbon, took the charm out of the box, threaded the ribbon through the hole and handed it back to Clara. “There's a nice spot on that branch, just below the manger charm.”

Feeling as though she were dreaming, Clara carefully looped the ribboned ornament so that it dangled close by the charm depicting a manger with the Christ child sleeping peacefully in the hay. “I had no idea,” she whispered. “All this time…”

“Even back then I found myself needing to protect you, wanting to discover all your secrets. Though I didn't comprehend God's fine hand at work, I couldn't shake you loose from my mind. Now that I understand why…” he plucked the box from her hand, removed the scrap of velvet, then handed the box back to her “…I'm hoping to replace your old burden and lost dreams…with this.”

Speechless, Clara stared up into his face until with a little laugh he clasped her chin with his thumb and index finger, gently forcing her to look down into what she'd thought was an empty box.

Instead of a tarnished silver charm of the Capitol Building, a ring holding a diamond surrounded by sapphires lay in the bottom, waiting in splendid silence.

“Is that for me?” she stammered.

“Well, I suppose it might fit Nim's tail, but I'm not sure it's his style.” Laughing, he waited with more patience than Job until Clara finally scraped together the wit to gingerly clasp the ring.

“Does this mean—?”

“Yes. Now it's your turn to say the word. Would you like some help with the placement? Custom dictates that you slide it onto the fourth finger of your left hand…shall I help?”

Like a flock of birds freed at last from their cages, joy and happiness and hope soared upward, filling the small cottage with heavenly light. She could almost hear the angels singing. “Yes,” she managed, and held up her hand. “Yes and yes and yes!”

She watched with an overflowing heart as Ethan slid the ring onto her finger. Almost reverently he bestowed a kiss upon her lips. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“I love you.” In a rapture of emotion she flung her arms around him and hugged him fiercely, then stepped back. “Wait
here.” Whirling, she dashed across to her sitting room, over to her desk. Before she lost her nerve, she gathered everything up in a messy bundle and returned to her—to her fiancé.

Shyness tugged, but she thrust it aside and handed Ethan her offering. “It's very rough,” she told him breathlessly, “and will take a lot more work. But—I've already sold it.” A pang of sheer nerves turned her palms hot, filmed with perspiration. She watched in an agony of suspense as Ethan accepted the pages and began to leaf through them.

“‘Joy of Every Longing Heart. A Story of a Spinster. Why a Believer Should Never Lose Hope in the Power of Love. By Clara Penrose,'” he read the title aloud.

“I started it weeks ago, when I knew I'd fallen in love with you,” Clara said, quivering inside because she wasn't sure whether the light blazing from his eyes was a reflection of her own joy, or—

He snatched her into his arms, crushing her and the manuscript against his chest. “You used your real name! Clara…you used your name. I love you, love you, love you.”

“Ethan…I just thought of something,” she managed between the intoxicating kisses he pressed to her brow, her temple, her lips. “Wait…” Laughter wove through the breathless words in an effervescent tumble. “The editor tells me the book won't be published for well over a year.”

“Doesn't matter. It will be worth waiting for, like you.” He stole another kiss.

“I can't use my name!”

When he froze, she grabbed the manuscript, smoothed the crumpled pages, and laid it on the table, beneath the Christmas tree.

“Clara…”

“When were you thinking to marry me?”

“I thought…Christmastime next year? It seemed appropri
ate. My love, you should be proud to use your name. I know I am. I'll announce it from the rooftops, on every street corner.”

“By the time this book is published, I won't be Clara Penrose. I'll be Clara Penrose
Harcourt.”

Ethan threw back his head and shouted with laughter. “So you will be. So you will…” Then he wrapped her back in his arms, and sealed her lips with a thorough kiss.

NimNuan watched unblinking beside the tabletop Christmas tree, a loud purr proclaiming his satisfaction with the arrangements.