“Though I do wish to be clear—should you ever wish to discuss your grief, I am always willing to listen.” With a small smile, she added, “We are friends, after all.”
Another sharp pain pricked at him at that little word. “Friends” was not a terrible thing; it was far better than strangers.
But the lady in question returned to her music, continuing “The First Noel” where she left off. With that velvety low voice, Miss Stillwell hummed along with the melody, and soon, Baxter was doing so as well. The two voices quietly blended with the tune, and before he knew what he was about, the words sprang forth. Though the lyrics written on the page were slightly different from those he knew, Baxter felt the joy of the song filling him as he sang of this special time of year and the very first of Christmases.
When it wound to a close, Miss Stillwell gave him another of her bright smiles, her dimples making themselves known. “Bravo, Mr. Baxter. I did not realize you were an artist and a musician.”
Baxter shifted in place, his gaze falling from her.
“Come now, I am only teasing,” she replied. “Though I will say you have a fine voice. Far better than most. And now that you’ve shown your hand, I demand that you keep me company and sing along.”
Tugging at his jacket, he stepped closer as she shifted through the sheets.
“Any requests?” she asked.
Baxter’s tongue was well and truly frozen in place. Miss Stillwell simply chose for him and began playing a variation of “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night,” and though she had made her demands known, she did not press him any further to sing.
A sudden smile brightened her expression, and it held a hint of impishness that Baxter couldn’t help but ask, “What is it?”
With an arched brow, Miss Stillwell turned laughing eyes at him, then directed them toward her niece before her gaze flicked back to her sheet music. Baxter’s brows pulled together as he looked at Miss Alice, whose own expression was filled with equal confusion as her fingers dug into the riot of curls sprouting from the top of her head.
As she pulled her hand free, Baxter spied a lemon drop pinched between her fingers, and the young lady stared at the thing. Her companions were all as fascinated by its appearance as she, and they began plying her with questions, to which she had no reply.
Baxter slanted a look at the lady’s aunt, who sat primly before the piano, her angelic expression betraying not a hint of guilt as her fingers skipped along the keys.
“I told you lemon drops would be all the rage,” she murmured, her dark eyes turning to meet his, and Baxter couldn’t help but laugh.
***
Standing at the parlor window, Baxter pretended not to watch whilst the Stillwells climbed into their carriage. As the candles were all snuffed, he was shrouded in shadow when Miss Stillwell gave her brother a beaming grin, but then her gaze rose past Mr. Stillwell’s shoulder and landed on Baxter. His cravat tightened around his neck, and he raised a hand in farewell; though he’d thought himself hidden, she raised one in response.
For all that the evening had begun on such a rough footing, it ended on a happy note. Or a bittersweet one, rather, for Baxter couldn’t help the pang of sadness that drew forth a frown as he watched her carriage trundle away, giving a final answer to the question that had loomed before him.
Could he simply be friends with Miss Stillwell? It felt far too shallow a label. Incomplete. Most definitely unsatisfying. Was she a friend? A potential sweetheart? He didn’t know what to call her, but something deep inside lightened at the thought of either of those labels being applied to Miss Stillwell.
Why not allow himself to consider the possibility? Dolores was gone. There was no changing that unshakeable fact. Thus, there was nothing inherently shameful in the idea that he might consider another lady.
For three and thirty years, he’d remained faithful to his wife. Perhaps some might not think that a great accomplishment (since fidelity to one’s spouse was the least one could offer), but when so many gentlemen and ladies felt free to dabble in dalliances, remaining true to one’s marriage vows was no small thing. Whether or not he’d married to suit his parents, whether or not Baxter and Dolores had loved each other, it did not alter the fact that he’d spoken those promises.
Nowhere in the marriage ceremony was happiness ever mentioned. One pledged one’s loyalty and support, and though Baxter couldn’t claim he’d fulfilled the promise to love her, the only true comfort to be found in all those long, cold years was the knowledge that his behavior had been exemplary. Regardless of whether or not his wife deserved it.
Was that love? Surely not in the romantic sense, but by some vague definition, it might’ve been.
Baxter stared at the empty street, and though the world was quiet at present, the flickers of candles in various windows up and down the lane testified that not all were abed. Turning away, he moved from the parlor; though the room was darkened, it was easy enough to navigate without a candle, for one flickered in the hall just beyond, giving him enough light to move around the chairs and tables.
Sounds from belowstairs echoed through the quiet, testifying that others were still awake. Those poor souls would likely be occupied for some time before the house was locked up tight for the night. With the last of the guests gone, their hosts had hurried to bed already, and Baxter took the stairs, winding his way to the family bedchambers.
Charity’s door was open, and Baxter paused at her threshold. A single candle burned on her side table, and he spied his daughter collapsed atop her mattress, on her side, with pillows propped up around her and her gown wrinkled in a manner that would’ve given her mother an apoplexy. Bits of her dark locks had pulled free of her coiffure, and her throat buzzed with faint snores.
A smile touched the edge of his lips, and Baxter lowered a hand to the swell of her belly that held her precious child. Though the mother was fast asleep, the babe was not, turning in the womb and bumping a little fist against his hand. Baxter ought to have known that she would wear herself to the bone the moment Camilla challenged her fitness to remain with them for the evening; Charity was too stubborn to give in even when good sense said she ought.
And as much as he hated to disturb her, he nudged her awake.
Her eyes opened a fraction. “Papa?”
Baxter’s heart expanded, filling the whole of his chest at that. Her voice was so groggy and tentative that it was easy to imagine her as the child she’d been.
“You need to undress,” he whispered. “You won’t be able to sleep properly otherwise, and you wouldn’t wish to catch your death.”
