The baronet thought of her as a waif, a hapless female who reminded him of his sister. From kindness he was helping her, but that was all there would ever be between them. When he was ready to marry, he would choose a wife of his own class who could bring him a dowry and an impeccable reputation. The sort of honorable female who would starve rather than sell her virtue.
As Nicole sipped more cautiously at her tea, she realized with a bitter pang that she might have been better off braving the hazards of the London streets. Instead, by accepting Sir Philip’s offer, she was risking her heart.
* * *
Working gingerly to keep from being stabbed by needle-pointed leaves, Philip used a length of dark thread to attach the last silver paper ornament to the last branch of holly. Then he stood and arranged the brightly decorated sprays of holly, pine, and ivy along the narrow ledge of an oak beam that ran across the wall a foot above the fireplace mantel.
After all of the greens had been tacked to the beam, he took a length of shining scarlet ribbon and twined it through the boughs, working from the left end to the right, then back again. When he was done, he stepped back and surveyed his efforts with great satisfaction.
Mrs. Turner’s new daughter-in-law would have to be very hard to please not to enjoy the results. The mass of fragrant, brightly decorated greenery turned the whole cottage into a festive bower. “What do you think—should I use more ribbon?”
Mrs. Turner sniffed the pine-scented air with delight and touched a silver paper star that hung from a spray of holly. “No, it’s perfect just the way it is. I only hope your mother won’t mind that you gave away the ribbon and silver paper she ordered.”
“There’s still ample left for Winstead Hall.” With an elaborate show of casualness, Philip sidled over to the table where Nicole was assembling the last batch of mince pies. “Can I have one?” he asked hopefully.
Nicole looked up just in time to swat his hand before he could snatch one of the three-inch-wide tarts cooling on the end of the table. Laughing, she said, “You are exactly like an impatient six-year-old, Sir Philip.”
“In my family it’s traditional to try to wheedle sweets from the cook.” He made another attempt to steal one of the tarts, this time successfully eluding Nicole’s not-very-determined effort to stop him. The warm, crumbly shortcrust pastry disappeared in two bites. “Mmm, delicious.”
The same could be said of Nicole, he noticed as she slid the last tray of mince pies into the oven built into the wall by the fireplace. With a towel tied around her waist and a dab of flour on her nose, she was adorable. More than that, her bright good nature created happiness all around her.
Mrs. Turner chuckled as she watched her young guests. “Now that you’re finished, Nicole, it’s time for us to relax and enjoy the results of all our hard work. Besides, I want you to sample a Turner family tradition.”
Their hostess lifted a poker that had heated to red-hot in the fire, then plunged it into a wide-mouthed jug of spiced cider. The cider hissed and bubbled around the glowing metal, releasing the rich scent of apples and nutmeg.
After Mrs. Turner had poured them each a mug of mulled cider, Nicole brought over a platter of baked tarts and they all took seats by the fire. Molly had long since given up watching Merkle in favor of the more fascinating study of food preparation. She promptly leaped onto Mrs. Turner’s knees and raised her nose for a sniff of pastry.
Not to be outdone, Merkle slunk out from under the chest of drawers, darted across the rag rug, and hopped onto Nicole’s lap, where she turned in a circle three times before settling down.
Outside, the freezing rain still fell, but in the old cottage, all was warmth and good fellowship. As they chatted back and forth, Philip had trouble remembering that he had known Nicole less than a day, Mrs. Turner for only hours. The chance that had brought them together and the time spent cooking, cleaning, and laughing had made them almost a family.
Halfway through her second mug of mulled cider, Mrs. Turner said, “All we need now is Christmas music. Do you both sing?”
“Willingly, but not well,” Philip replied. Then he remembered the music box in his baggage. “But I have something that will get us started properly.”
It took only a moment to retrieve the music box from his luggage and wind the key. As he carried the box across the room, the bright notes chimed through the cottage, easily rising above the sounds of crackling fire and spattering rain.
After the mechanism had slowed to a halt, Mrs. Turner reached out and touched the delicate porcelain angel, her lined face glowing with pleasure. “Such a lovely thing.” She glanced at her guests. “Shall we sing along with it?”
Philip wound the music box again, and together they sang “The First Noel.” From there they moved into other carols. While none of them had an outstanding voice, all could carry a tune. Together they made a very decent set of carolers.
Eventually Mrs. Turner yawned, covering her mouth with one thin hand. Removing Molly from her lap, she got to her feet. “Gracious, but I’m tired! You’ll find that when you reach my age, sleepiness comes on you very quickly. You young people can stay up late if you like, but I’m going to bed.”
“Not quite yet.” Philip stood and picked up the sprig of mistletoe that he had earlier tied with a loop of ribbon. It took only a moment to hang it from a hook on a beam in the center of the ceiling. With a smile, he said, “I’ll not let you go without a Christmas kiss.”
Mrs. Turner laughed and joined him under the sprig. “You’ll turn my head, Sir Philip. I can’t remember the last time a handsome young man tried to lure me under the mistletoe.”
When Philip started to give her a light kiss on the cheek, she firmly grasped his shoulders and pulled his face down for a solid buss. “I’m not going to waste this opportunity!” After she kissed him, she scooped up Molly and retired to the tiny bedroom behind the main chamber.
Nicole followed Mrs. Turner with a hot brick for the older woman’s bed. When she returned to the main room, she said, “I’m tired, too. It’s been a long day.”
“Stay until we’ve finished the mulled cider.” Philip divided what was left into their two mugs. Then they took seats on opposite sides of the hearth.
After a few minutes of companionable silence, Philip mused, “I never would have guessed that I’d spend such a fine evening with two females I’d not even met twenty-four hours ago.”
Nicole smiled. Curled up in Mrs. Turner’s cushioned Windsor chair, she and Merkle were a picture of domestic bliss. “Moments like these are gifts, as lovely as they are fleeting.”
“A pity that we can’t stop time when we’re happy, but life changes so suddenly and unexpectedly,” Philip said. “A year ago at Christmas my father was alive and seemed in the best of health. Then he died, and nothing will ever be the same again.” Perhaps it was the result of the alcoholic kick of the cider, but he found himself adding, “And change begets more changes. A year from now, my mother will probably have remarried.”
