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Her plans for the evening did not end with a shadowy dinner, however. In the drawing room, she had a stack of small pieces of paper, which were distributed amongst the guests.
“You must each write one hope for new year and one prediction,” she said. “Once they have been gathered, they will be read, and we will guess to whom they belong. Anyone whose hopes and predictions are not correctly guessed will receive an extra portion of pudding.”
Archie leaned over and muttered, “Does that not incentivize us all to write down the most outlandish thing we can think of?”
Miss Orston laughed, and the sound caught him off guard.
He had become accustomed to Nell’s laugh—to her being the one he addressed his remarks to.
The guests took their turns with the quills Mother had seen scattered about the room, and Archie leaned over his paper, uncertain what to write.
What did he hope for the new year? What would it bring?
Marriage, apparently.
His eyes roved to Miss Orston, who was folding her paper as she spoke with Miss Sterling. His gaze moved past them to Nell who awaited a turn with the quill her brother was using. Her eyes were blank as she stared at the paper in her hand.
The prospect of a new year without her in it left him feeling despondent, a foreign emotion.
“My hope,” Freddie said behind him, “is that Dalmeer will finish writing his hope and prediction before the new year arrives.”
Archie glanced over his shoulder. “Funny. I was just going to write a prediction that you would take ill from overconsumption of pudding before the week’s end.” He scribbled a quick, harmless hope about Cook making her famous seed cake and a prediction about Cole getting leg-shackled, then moved out of the way.
He felt eyes upon him and noted Mother watching him, wearing a strange expression. She smiled as their eyes met, however, then turned to speak with Lord Stanhope.
Nell had the quill now, but it hung above her paper, still.
Archie watched, wondering what was going through her mind. What did she hope for the new year? He was addressed by Mr. Hawthorne, though, and was thus obliged to turn away rather than observe any further.
The hopes and predictions were read one-by-one. They ranged from the silly to the unguarded. The laugh Archie’s prediction about Cole drew was more perfunctory from him than genuine, but Freddie guessed with ease that Archie was the author.
No extra helping of pudding for Archie, then.
With each hope and prediction Mother read, Archie held his breath for the one from Nell.
The identity of each author was guessed and made known.
“May all your hopes become reality,” Mother said, “and only those predictions which will add to the joy of the year come to pass.”
“Is that all of them?” Archie asked, for none of them had been identified as Nell’s.
“It is,” she said happily.
People began to stand and converse, and Archie searched for Nell.
He spotted her just as she disappeared through the door.
The impulse to go after her was one with which he had become painfully familiar.
He tamped it down and forced himself to remain in the drawing room and be a proper host. Indeed, he remained there playing cards until nearly everyone had gone to bed but Mr. Hawthorne and him.
Normally, Archie looked forward to sleep. With his bedchamber being situated beside Nell’s, however, he had been finding it more elusive.
Once he and Hawthorne had finished their game, Archie set down the cards and rose, bidding Hawthorne good night through a yawn.
A crackle in the grate drew his attention, and he strode over to it. There was but a small flame remaining, and he took the poker and jabbed at a few of the charred pieces. Something white caught his eye, and he drew nearer, warmth rushing to his face from the embers.
There was a small, crumpled paper at the edge of the grate. It looked like the ones they had just written their hopes and predictions upon.
