“The same, Mr. S-Smith.” She tripped over her tongue. “Ajoyto see ye.”
“Already said that, ye did, lass,” Nettie whispered.
Uncle Tasgall made a tsking sound. “Nettie’s right, lass. Mention the weather.”
Lucy ducked her head out. “Fine weather we’re enjoying, isn’t—”
“Don’t talk about the weather, lass,” her aunt said in an embarrassingly loud whisper. “Something morememorable.”
Memorable? Lucy was the opposite ofmemorable. For that matter, what did she have to speak about other than the rising costs for wheat? “Like what?”
Mr. Smith finally came to a full stop. “What was that, Miss LeBeau?” Several furrows wrinkled the gentleman’s noble brow.
On either side of the window, out of the gentleman’s view, her aunt and uncle each leant suggestions. “The mulled cider, lass.”
“I have cider,” Lucy blurted. “Mulled cider!”
Uncle Tasgall leaned closer. “Nay, lass. The gingerbread the lad loves.”
Aye! Of course, how had she forgotten? “And gingerbread!” Lucy exclaimed. “I made it special for y—”
A small shelf of snow from the slate roof overhead moved. Lucy caught a whiff of wind, but too late. The six-inch pile came toppling down. It hit the top of her head and exploded in a cool, wet mass as it rained snow upon her face. “You,” she finished around a mouth of snow.
Mr. Smith’s cry rang in the courtyard. “Miss LeBeau!” The grind of snow and gravel indicated his approach.
“The snow saved ye, lass,” her aunt muttered. “Ye were sounding too eager.”
Lucy brushed the residual moisture from her eyes just as the gentleman reached her.
Concern filled Mr. Smith’s visage. “Are you all right?”
“Splendid,” she said. “’Tis always a fine day when snow falls.”
Mr. Smith glanced up at where the small drift rested before it had hit Lucy. He tossed his head back and laughed.
She sighed. Let him believe she’d intended that play on words.
Mr. Smith reached for the brim of his wool hat.
Frantic to stop him from leaving, Lucy spoke on a rush. “Are you to London for the Yuletide already?”
The McQuoids and Smiths always spent the holiday season in London. There’d been the rare one, a few years back, when all the lot had spent the night on the way to Scotland.
He curled his chestnut-brown leather glove-encased fingers around the sill. “I’ll be here a short time and then we make our annual journey to London.”
Which meant he wasn’t to leave just yet—but neither was he remaining the night. “Trust my luck,” she muttered. The winter air carried her accidental words farther than she intended.
Mr. Smith straightened. “What was that, Miss LeBeau?”
Aunt Nettie, just out of his line of sight, delivered a firm jab to Lucy’s ribs.
She let out an involuntary grunt.
The gentleman’s dark brows drew together in a puzzled line. “Are you all—?”
“F-fine!” Lucy managed, swallowing another sound as Nettie gave her a second, gentler poke meant to shut her up before she ruined herself entirely.
“Not this time, I fear,” Nettie muttered.
