Baxter jerked himself from those thoughts that were leading him down the wrong path once more. What had taken possession of his good sense?
Chapter 12
The holidays were a time of levity and parties, and Baxter was grateful for it. Not so much for being paraded about town, but when the sun set and the Goswick party made ready to leave for the night’s entertainment, it was easy enough to feign an illness and gain an evening of solitude. Not that there was much to feign. Baxter’s insides still hadn’t settled since that afternoon’s outing.
Would that be the last time he saw Miss Stillwell? Only a few weeks into their acquaintance, and Baxter couldn’t imagine never seeing that wry smile again or feeling the sweetness of her spirit. To be forever cut off from her. Their paths might cross again, but friendship clearly was not a possibility—his heart demanded more.
Sitting in his armchair, Baxter rested his sketchbook on his lap, turning back the cover to see his first attempts. Having had it only three days, there wasn’t much to examine, but his thoughts were laid out across the paper. Baxter didn’t have the wherewithal to attempt a proper portrait yet, but the little studies of Miss Stillwell’s hair, eyes, and fingers made it clear who was on his mind at all times.
Baxter readied his pencil, tracing along the lines of her hands as they had looked whilst playing the Christmas songs. No doubt, it wasn’t a perfect rendition, as it was done from memory, but the moment had taken hold of his mind, giving him a clear picture from which to sketch.
What was he doing?
Perhaps he ought to leave Bath. Yet that thought was dismissed as quickly as it came. Had he anywhere else to go, Baxter would’ve settled there. He preferred the country, but with the majority of the income from letting Juniper Court going into the much-needed modernizations, he had little to live on.
Stanley was the only one of his children who could afford to keep their pathetic father. Matthias was forced into a profession and struggled to maintain his family’s expenses. Charity was only slightly better off than him. Roberta, Janet, or Edith would likely take pity on him, but they had their own families and troubles; besides, it wasn’t their husbands’ responsibility to aid their silly father-in-law.
If he could only get away from the temptation, Baxter could scrub his thoughts of Miss Stillwell—
Yet his heart scoffed at that lunacy as his eyes held fast to the evidence that there was nothing to be done concerning his feelings for the lady. The sketchbook proved just how thoroughly he was ensorcelled, and there was no denying the fact.
Baxter paused, his hand resting on the paper as he stared at the study he’d done of Miss Stillwell’s gaze. It was rough and showed just how much practice he required before his drawings were fit to be seen (if ever), and it was impossible to capture all the many emotions in her eyes, for they shone with her large heart.
Dolores had forever chased after others’ opinions, forever seeking that fleeting and fragile prize. How many of their troubles had sprouted from that quest? Finer carriages and newer gowns, large dinner parties and vast renovations, all to exceed society’s expectations or be cast down to social purgatory. Baxter had surrendered to her whims, and then his life had revolved around dancing to that tune, forever bowing to their opinion or suffering Dolores’s wrath.
And he was doing so again.
It wasn’t as though it went against a commandment or heavenly law to remarry. Though Baxter couldn’t claim as wide a knowledge on the subject as many others, he couldn’t think of a single scripture or passage in theCommon Book of Prayerthat condemned such a thing. In fact, the church praised marriage. Encouraged it. Only the speed with which he pursued it was questionable.
So, if courting Miss Stillwell wasn’t a sin, and if public opinion were not a factor, what would he do?
The answer to that was simple. Baxter would marry her. If Miss Stillwell would have him, which was a massive uncertainty, as she was far above him in so many respects. Yet he would be a fool not to try. Many husbands had caught themselves a bride they didn’t deserve.
And that left only one question—would he allow Dolores to control him still?
***
Setting down her quill, Hettie reached for her teacup and tested the drink. Her patience had finally paid off, and she drank deep of the wassail without scorching her tongue. It was such a shame that the beverage was so integrally tied to Christmastide. The blend of sweet, tart, and spice was the perfect addition to any winter’s eve; it warmed a person through from the inside.
The house was silent, and though at times that was unnerving, Hettie reveled in the peace at present. With her role as chaperone and hostess, she rarely had an evening free. Of course, securing this one had required Hettie tell the slightest of falsehoods, but one’s mind required rest as well as the body did, so it wasn’t far from the truth to imply that her health required her to remain at home. With her father, brother, and sister-in-law attending, Alice didn’t require her aunt to chaperone at the small card party.
Savoring the flavors, Hettie set down the teacup with a sigh and turned her thoughts back to her journal. She glanced over the pages and couldn’t help but notice how often Mr. Baxter’s name appeared. But then, he was making steady advances throughout the journal, taking more control of the pages with each passing day.
Dear Mr. Baxter. Such a puzzle of a man.
The afternoon had begun on such good footing, and then he’d grown distant once more. But then, she could only blame herself for that. Hettie hadn’t meant to be so forward as to hold his hand, but apparently, her good senses had taken leave of her. She hadn’t meant anything by it.
Of course, that would be more believable if her thoughts weren’t forever lingering on the feel of his hand in hers or the warmth in his gaze as they stared into each other’s eyes.
Hettie shook her head and grabbed the lemon biscuit resting on her saucer with a chuckle. Apparently, she was devolving into a young ninny who scoured every nuance for some sign that the gentleman cared for her. Biting the biscuit, she brushed off the crumbs that tumbled to the table as thoroughly as she tumbled into those thoughts.
Turning her attention back to her journal, Hettie forced herself to take up her quill again to detail all the things that had nothing to do with Mr. Baxter.
So many people wrote down their private thoughts as a record for future generations, but Hettie had no such aspirations. Children were not a possibility, and though her nieces and nephews adored her, she couldn’t imagine them finding her words all that interesting once she was gone. However, working her thoughts out in a concrete manner always helped; there was a world of difference between simply thinking the words and giving them life. And though she had friends who would be quite willing to listen to her troubles, solidifying them without outside influence was a useful exercise.
Turning her quill toward the largest question at hand, Hettie enumerated her worries once more. Unfortunately, it did little to help her sort through her future any more than the other times she’d done so. Patience was no doubt helpful at such a time, but to sit about without a plan in place was like striding out into public without her gloves and bonnet—physically possible but disconcerting.
What was she to do once Alice was married? This hiccup with Mr. Goswick had only delayed the inevitable, but that future would arrive sooner or later; Hettie didn’t think it likely her niece would remain unmarried for long, for Alice was the sort of girl with the personality, appearance, and fortune that drew gentlemen to her.
