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Before Mr. Cole had the chance to respond, Miss Bowles came trotting up to them, her eyes skittering between Clara and Mr. Cole. “Were you speaking just then?” she asked, facing Clara.

Clara hesitated. “No, ma’am.”

Miss Bowles narrowed her eyes.

“Nothing of importance, anyway,” Mr. Cole said with a knowing look at Clara.

“Well that goes without saying,” Miss Bowles said. “What matter of importance can a maid have? Now, Mr. Cole, come. I’ve replaced my blessed gloves and may now accompany you to the mistletoe. Have you happened to see any kissing boughs yet? I wonder where they grow.”

Clara shook her head at the woman’s ignorance, though she followed behind them in silence, holding the baskets aloft as best she could as they grew heavier and heavier.

When the three of them returned to the Bowleses, Clara’s arms were aching. How she was to go about the rest of her work that evening was beyond her, but she merely reminded herself that this was all for Mother and their future.

Perhaps next Christmas, she and Mother would be gathering greenery for a home of their own. A small cottage by the sea or perhaps in a patch of woods or tucked away in a pretty, little village. Surely what money Father set aside for Clara would be sufficient for that, would it not?

Anything would be better than what she’d been suffering through the last seven weeks—and before that with Algernon.

“You will marry Mr. Agar, or you and your mother will be turned out,” her stepbrother had said mere weeks after his father’s death.

“You cannot do that. You’ve no legal right,” Clara had attempted to counter.

“Who is to say?”

Clara hadn’t known what to do after that. At least now she had a bit of knowledge. At least now, she had⁠—

Her foot caught on a spare root jutting forth from the hardened ground, and she tumbled forward, catching herself before she might have fallen face-first on the ground. One basket managed to stay in her hand, but the other launched into the air, spilling forth sprigs of holly and mistletoe and branches of hawthorn.

The Bowleses and Mr. Cole looked back at her grunt as she immediately righted herself, then she knelt down on the frozen grass to gather the greenery she’d spilt forth.

At first, Miss Bowles stifled a giggle behind her gloved hand, a look of amusement on her brow before she frowned.

“You silly girl,” she said, remaining where she stood a few paces away. “You’ve broken the branches.”

Clara opened her mouth, ready to release a retort. “One. One branch has been broken, Miss Bowles, and it was hideous to begin with.”

But she held her tongue. “Forgive me. I shall return to pick more.”

“There is no need.” Mr. Cole was upon her at once, crouching down and picking up some of the greenery himself. “It is only one, and I’m certain it is still useable.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Miss Bowles said, changing her attitude at once. “No harm done, really. You are so good to help clean up, Mr. Cole. I should like to help, as well, but I am excessively tired from all the picking.”

“Come, Tabitha,” Mrs. Bowles said, looping her daughter’s arm through her own. “We must bring you inside before you catch a cold from all this frightful air.”

“No, Mother, Mr. Cole⁠—”

“Tabitha,” Mr. Bowles barked from nearby, and she was silenced once more.

Miss Bowles looked back at Mr. Cole and Clara, clearly hesitant to leave him alone, but Clara didn’t look up at the woman’s departure.

Neither did Mr. Cole.

When they were alone again, Clara finally spoke in a mumbled tone. “You needn’t remain here to clean up my own mess.”

“It is no trouble.”

“Your Miss Bowles seems to think it is.”

He didn’t respond, and when Clara looked up at him, no smile was upon his lips. She did not think such an expression existed for him.