As she approached the door, the sound of familiar laughter drifted through, bringing an involuntary smile to her face. Emily opened the door to the sight of her dearest friends, Lady Charlotte Ashbourne and Miss Beatrice Sinclair, their arms full of parcels, cheeks aglow with the crisp winter air.
“Merry Christmas,” Charlotte said, enveloping Emily in a warm embrace that smelled of cinnamon and evergreen.
Beatrice, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to leave us freezing on your doorstep all day, Em?”
Emily chuckled, stepping aside to usher them in. “Heaven forbid. Come in, come in.”
As her friends bustled into the parlor, shedding cloaks and gloves, Emily felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Their presence brought a lightness she sorely needed.
“We have brought treats,” Charlotte announced, presenting a basket of freshly baked scones.
“I will take those,” Mathew said, reaching out for the basket. “I am famished.”
Charlotte laughed, handing him the goodies. “Do take care not to eat them all at once.”
Beatrice snorted, her attention turning to Emily as Mathew strode away with his treasure. “And something a touch stronger for after Mathew is abed.” She produced a bottle of fine brandy with a wink.
Emily’s eyes widened. “Beatrice. You should not have.”
“Oh, but I should,” Beatrice replied, her gaze twinkling with mischief. “After all, what are friends for if not to provide a good time?”
As they settled by the fire, Emily found herself caught between laughter and tears. The easy banter, the warmth of their friendship—it was a balm to her wounded heart.
“Now,” Charlotte said, her voice soft yet earnest as she reached for Emily’s hand, “tell us, truly, how have you been?”
Emily hesitated, her throat tightening. She glanced at Mathew, now engrossed in a book at the far end of the parlor, then back to her friends’ concerned faces.
“I am... managing,” she said, willing her voice not to waver.
“This is your third Christmas since becoming a widow. I can only imagine how it weighs on you.” Beatrice leaned forward, her sharp features softening. “We are here for you, Em. Whatever you need.”
“It has gotten easier with time.” Emily offered a small grin.
Emily’s gaze drifted to the window, where snowflakes danced in the fading light. She sighed, a wistful sound that did not escape her friends’ notice.
“You seem... distant,” Charlotte ventured, her gaze filled with concern. “What is occupying your mind?”
Beatrice, ever observant, narrowed her eyes. “Or perhaps... who?”
Emily’s cheeks flushed, and she fumbled with her teacup. “I-I do not know what you mean,” she stammered, painfully aware of how unconvincing she sounded.
“Come now,” Beatrice pressed, her tone softening despite her direct approach. “We have known you far too long to be fooled. There is a particular sorrow in your eye, one I have not seen since...”
“Since your husband was laid to rest,” Charlotte finished, reaching out to squeeze Emily’s hand.
Her heart clenched at the mention, though it was not her late husband that was causing her grief. She had tried so hard to push Nicolas from her thoughts, but now, faced with her friends’ loving scrutiny, she felt her carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble.
“I met someone,” Emily said, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate china. “He became injured during the blizzard, and I cared for him. Now...” Her voice faltered. “I can not stop thinking about him.”
Charlotte sat her teacup down. “Does this someone have a name?”
Emily swallowed hard before saying, “Mr. Nicolas Winters.”
“The notorious rogue with the playful smirks and dangerous smoldering gazes. No wonder you are in such a state,” Beatrice said, fanning herself playfully.
Emily blew out a breath and sank back against the velvet upholstery. “It is foolish, I know. He left without a word, and yet...”
“And yet your heart still yearns,” Charlotte supplied, her empathy evident in every word.
