Years from now, when Philip was ready to marry, he would choose a bride whose family and fortune were similar to his own. It was ironic, really. Nicole was too wellborn to be Philip’s mistress, but too poor, too déclassé, to be his wife.
It was a depressing train of thought, so Nicole determinedly started decorating an old vine wreath that Philip had found in the shed. The addition of sprigs of holly, fragrant crab apples, and a flamboyant red bow made the wreath perfect for the outside of the front door. After it had been hung and admired, Mrs. Turner said, “You have a gift for making things pretty.”
“Thank you.” Nicole closed the door again. “I’m sure that Georgette will have a fine time here.”
“I hope so.” Mrs. Turner rubbed absently at one of her gnarled knuckles. “Robert keeps asking me to come live with him in London, but it will never do if his wife and I don’t get on.”
“I see,” Nicole said softly. “That’s why you are so particularly concerned about this visit.”
“I’m just a country woman of yeoman stock. I’m afraid Georgette will be ashamed to have someone like me in her house. Her own mother died when she was a child, so likely she’s used to having things her own way. She won’t want me around.”
Nicole wished there was some comfort she could offer, but any words would sound hollow. There was a very real chance that the judge’s daughter would not wish for much intimacy with her husband’s rustic mother. “If Miss Georgette doesn’t appreciate you, it will be her loss.”
Mrs. Turner sighed and changed the subject. “Your feelings for Sir Philip aren’t sisterly, or even cousinly, are they?”
At the unexpected comment, Nicole’s face flooded with hot color. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to someone who notices such things,” the older woman said. “I doubt that he does. Most men don’t notice love until it hits them over the head. You’ll just have to be persistent. In a discreet sort of way, of course.”
Attaching Philip’s interest would take more than persistence, and it was far too late for discretion. Not wanting to explain, Nicole said, “Is there anything else you’d like me to do? It will surely be hours before the carriage is repaired.”
As Nicole’s mother had often said, work was the best antidote for the dismals.
* * *
It was early afternoon when Sir Philip drove up in the repaired curricle. Nicole came out to greet him. “I was in luck,” he said cheerfully. “The wheelwright wasn’t too busy. Are you ready to go? We can be home in an hour.”
“Splendid,” Nicole said, her voice a little hollow. If they were at Winstead in an hour, in two hours she would be on her own again. Briefly she considered postponing her confession for two days, until Boxing Day was over, but that would be too dishonest. She gave Philip a false, blinding smile. “I’ll put Merkle in her basket and get my cloak.”
After Philip had loaded cat and baggage into the carriage, Mrs. Turner came out to say farewell. Philip took her hand. “You saved our lives, Mrs. T., and gave us a splendid evening as well. Will you allow me to compensate you for your trouble?”
She shook her head. “Taking you in was the Christian thing to do, so I’ll not accept money. Besides, I had a fine time, too. Perhaps sometime when you and Nicole are driving by, you’ll stop for a cup of tea.”
Philip wished he could do more, but accepted her comment at face value. Then he straightened up and saw Nicole’s gaze go very deliberately from him, to Mrs. Turner, to the leather portmanteau that held the presents, then back to him.
For a moment he didn’t understand. Then he smiled. Of course; why hadn’t he thought of that? He unpacked the music box and offered it to his hostess. “I understand why you don’t want money, but will you accept this, as a reminder of a special evening?”
Mrs. Turner took the music box with reverent hands. “You’ve found my weakness, young man. Thank you! This is the prettiest thing I’ve ever owned in my life.”
She opened the box, and they all listened with pleasure as the carol chimed through the crisp winter air. Nicole knew that never again would she hear “The First Noel” without thinking of Sir Philip and Mrs. Turner, and these brief, happy hours when their paths had crossed.
The music was just ending when the rattle of a carriage could be heard coming up the lane. Mrs. Turner’s expression became tense. “That must be Robert and Georgette.”
Philip went to hold his horses’ heads while Nicole took the music box from the older woman. “I’ll put this inside for you.” Under her breath she added, “Courage! I’m sure Georgette will love you.”
Nicole set the music box on the kitchen table and was stepping through the front door when a chaise entered the yard, passing by Philip’s curricle, which was drawn over to the side. As soon as the chaise stopped, a stocky, dark-haired young man tumbled out and swept Mrs. Turner into his arms.
“Happy Christmas, Mother,” he said exuberantly. Clearly the young solicitor was not ashamed of his countrified parent.
Robert turned to the chaise to help his wife down. As Nicole watched, Mrs. Turner touched her hair nervously.
Then came the Christmas miracle. The girl who climbed from the carriage was not the haughty judge’s daughter whom Mrs. Turner had feared. Instead, she was a golden-haired elf whose huge blue eyes mirrored Mrs. Turner’s own nervousness.
As the two women came face-to-face, Robert said proudly, “Mother, this is Georgette. Isn’t she everything I said?”
Mrs. Turner smiled. “Welcome to my home, Georgette. You’re even lovelier than Robert said.”
The elf blushed. “I’ve been looking forward so much to meeting you. Robert speaks often about you and growing up in the country. How you and he and Mr. Turner worked and read and laughed together. It sounds like the most wonderful childhood imaginable.”
