“Mama?” Mathew’s voice broke through her reverie. “Are you thinking about Papa again?”
Emily turned to her son, a bit unsettled by his perceptiveness, even if he had the wrong man. Emily went to him, smoothing his unruly hair. “Are you missing your father?”
“Not as much as I once did.” An impish smile played at his mouth. “Does that make me a bad son?”
“Not at all, darling boy.” She hugged him close. “It is hard not to think about those we have lost this time of year, but it has gotten easier for me as well. I think of your father and the time we spent together with fondness rather than sorrow these days.”
“I mostly wonder if he would approve of me. Of who I am becoming.” Mathew looked up at her. “Do I make as good a viscount as father did?”
Emily gave a genuine smile. “Your father would be proud as punch at the young man you are becoming. As for what kind of viscount you make... well, for a lad of twelve, you are doing an excellent job.”
She took the ornament from him and turned toward the tree.
“Mother,” he said.
She turned back to him.
“Will you marry again?”
Emily hesitated, biting her lip as uncertainty tugged at her heart. How could she explain the ache she felt without knowing if Nicolas would ever return her affections? Perhaps she should tell Mathew about Nicolas. But then what if it all came to nothing?
As if on cue, Beatrice burst back into the room, a tray of steaming mulled wine in her hands. “Ladies and young sir, I propose a contest. Whoever hangs the most ornaments in the next quarter-hour wins the honor of hanging the mistletoe above the door.”
Charlotte gave a joyful grin. “What fun. Though I warn you, I have quite the eye for symmetry.”
Laughter filled the room as they all reached for ornaments, their joy infectious. Emily found herself caught up in the merriment, her worries temporarily forgotten as she competed with her friends and son.
“No fair.” Mathew laughed, stretching on his tiptoes to reach a higher branch. “Aunt Charlotte’s arms are longer than mine.”
“That will not be the case for long,” Beatrice teased.
Emily watched the scene unfold, her heart swelling with both happiness and an undercurrent of sorrow. The twinkling candlelight reflected in her son’s eyes, reminding her of the teasing glint that often danced in Nicolas’s.
Her fingers traced the smooth curve of a silver bell, her thoughts drifting, imagining how Nicolas’s laughter might fill the room, how his presence might chase away the lingering chill in her heart. She wondered if he had ever seen a Christmas tree and what he would make of it.
Emily took a deep breath, steeling herself against the melancholy threatening to overwhelm her. She forced a bright smile, determined to push aside her longing for Nicolas and focus on the present moment.
Their decorating competition soon transitioned into singing carols and as the last notes of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” faded away, leaving a momentary hush in the parlor, Emily allowed her mind to wonder elsewhere.
“Your playing is simply divine,” Charlotte said, admiration written across her features. “Shall we try ‘The First Noel’ next?”
Emily nodded, forcing her attention back to the present. “Of course. Mathew, would you be so kind as to turn the pages for me?”
As her son took his place beside her, Emily began the gentle introduction. Her gaze, however, could not help but drift toward the parlor window. She chided herself for such foolishness, yet her traitorous heart refused to obey.
“Mother.” Mathew tapped her on the elbow. “You missed the start.”
“My apologies,” Emily said, finding her place. As she played, she let her thoughts wander. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, she mused. And here she was, acting like a lovesick girl, longing for the rogue who had left her. She had to stop this nonsense at once.
The group’s voices rose in harmony, filling the room with a joyous sound. Beatrice’s clear soprano soared above the rest, while Charlotte’s rich alto provided a sturdy foundation. Even Mathew, his voice not yet changed, sang with infectious enthusiasm.
Emily joined in, her own voice steady despite her inner turmoil. “Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel, Born is the King of Israel...”
As the last verse approached, Emily found herself woolgathering again. Oh, Nicolas. Where are you this Christmas Eve? Do you think of me as I think of you?
She shook her head, trying to dispel such fanciful notions. Yet as the carol ended, she could not help but cast one more hopeful glance at the drive, her heart yearning for a Christmas miracle.
Emily’s fingers lingered on the piano keys, her eyes closed as she savored the moment. The soft crackling of the fire and the gentle ticking of the mantel clock punctuated the silence.
