As Beatrice poured three glasses, Charlotte squeezed Emily’s hand. “Whatever comes of this, Emily, know that we are here for you. Always.”
Emily felt a rush of gratitude. “I do not know what I would do without you both,” she said softly.
Beatrice returned, glasses in hand. “Fortunately, you will never have to find out. Now, to new beginnings and brave hearts.”
Optimism surged through Emily as they clinked their glasses together. The future was uncertain, but with friends like these by her side, she felt ready to face whatever it might bring.
As the golden light of the setting sun streamed through the frost-etched windows, Emily found herself lost in thought, her gaze fixed on the gentle flurries of snow outside. The warmth of the sherry lingered on her lips, a pleasant contrast to the chill that seemed to permeate the air despite the roaring fire in the hearth.
“I wonder,” she mused aloud, her voice barely above a whisper, “how long it might take for the Wicked Widows to find him.”
Charlotte, ever observant, placed a comforting hand on Emily’s arm. “Patience, my dear. The wheels of fate turn at their own pace.”
Beatrice, not one to let a moment of melancholy linger, clapped her hands together. “Speaking of wheels turning, shall we hang the last of the garlands? This room could use a touch more festivity, I think.”
As they adorned the room with fragrant pine boughs and shimmering ribbons, Emily found her spirits lifting. The scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted from the kitchen, where cook was preparing their evening meal. While the warm glow of candlelight danced off the polished silver ornaments, casting playful shadows across the walls.
“There,” Emily said, stepping back to admire their handiwork. “It is beginning to feel like a proper Christmas now.”
Charlotte nodded. “Indeed. One can almost hear the sleigh bells in the distance.”
As if on cue, the distant jingle of bells floated through the air, causing all three women to exchange startled glances.
“Surely not...” Emily breathed, her heart quickening as she moved toward the window.
Her breath fogged the cold windowpane as she peered out into the gathering dusk. The snow-dusted lane stretched empty before her. No sign of an approaching sleigh or carriage.
“False alarm, I am afraid,” she said, turning back to her friends with a rueful smile. “Just my imagination getting the better of me.”
Beatrice arched a playful eyebrow. “Or perhaps it is your heart playing tricks on you. I have been told it has a tendency to do that when one is lovesick.”
Emily’s cheeks burned. “Bea. I am not?—”
“Oh, come now,” Charlotte interjected, her soft voice filled with understanding. “There is no shame in it. We are your friends, Emily. We only want to see you happy.”
Emily sank into a nearby armchair, the velvet upholstery cool against her flushed skin. “Is it that obvious?” she asked, her voice low. “Do you think Mathew noticed?”
Beatrice snorted, settling herself on the ottoman at Emily’s feet. “My dear, you are about as subtle as a thunderstorm. Though I daresay Mathew has been too busy with his own pursuits to notice anything amiss.”
“Bea,” Charlotte chided, though her eyes danced with amusement. She perched on the arm of Emily’s chair, wrapping a comforting arm around her friend’s shoulders. “What she means to say is that there is nothing at all wrong with you. Love is a marvelous thing, and all of this will surely work out. Mr. Winters must love you as well, given what you have told us. It was probably fear that prevented him from saying farewell.”
Emily’s mind flashed back to that fateful evening before Nicolas left—the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness in his passionate gaze, the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, she had found a second chance at love. Then came the crushing blow of waking to find him gone, nothing save for a brief note to prove he had been there at all.
“It does not signify,” Emily said, forcing a lightness into her tone that she did not feel. “I have done all I can. There is nothing for it now, other than to wait.”
Beatrice leaned forward, a glass of sherry in her hand. “Love is not always straightforward, Emily. Sometimes it requires time to work it’s self out.”
“Time.” Emily sighed. “I do indeed have an abundance of that.” Though she could not help but wonder how much of it she would spend waiting to hear from Nicolas. Waiting to see him. Waiting to discover if he cared at all.
She took a slow sip of sherry, her mind reliving the night she had spent in Nicolas’s arms for the hundredth time. If she did not cease this, she would ruin Christmas with her woolgathering and melancholy.
But she could scarcely help how she felt.
All she wanted for Christmas was her rogue.
Charlotte took the empty glass from Emily’s hand, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Christmas is known for miracles,” she said, as she turned toward the sideboard.
Eleven
