Mistletoe Courtship (22 page)

D
espite the chilly December night, Clara decided she felt like an icicle in sunshine. Shiny but brittle, soaking up the warmth, and melting into a blissful puddle. No wonder Louise wandered about with a glow on her face.

Love might be worth the painful uncertainty after all.

After they left Ethan's house, he drove the buggy back to the town square, where other carolers had parked their conveyances, instead of taking her directly home. When he lifted Clara down, the tingling warmth from the firm touch of his clasp around her waist permeated all the way through the layers of heavy fabric. Clara Penrose, the skinny town spinster, was strolling down Main Street with a man, a man who was
holding her hand.

A man who claimed to love her.

Her heart skipped a beat, and so did her feet.

“Easy.” Ethan's grip slid to her elbow, his voice murmuring low in her ear as he steadied her. “Remind me not to take you on a hiking expedition at night.”

Clara stifled a laugh. “Disastrous,” she whispered back.

A dozen yards away the carolers launched into the first
verse of “As with Gladness Men of Old.” Without a word of communication both she and Ethan began singing along. By the time the first verse ended, they had eased into a clutch of singers at the back of the group, Ethan's hands now clasped behind his back, Clara's burrowed deep inside her muff.

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but—did the singing sound richer, the harmony a perfect balance of voices proclaiming the good news of Jesus' arrival? The delicate icicle feeling melted into the gladness of men of old as Clara blended her voice with Ethan's and those of the smiling carolers around them.

Two songs later, after a rousing chorus of “Joy to the World,” with effusive expressions of gratitude for their splendid performance, Mr. Fiske dismissed everyone. Clara and Ethan were immediately surrounded, and spent several chaotic moments fending off invitations to thaw out in friends' homes while everyone wandered back to the town square. Finally only a handful of people remained, most of them choir members from another church who were noisily piling inside an old wagon.

“Did you walk from your home, Miss Penrose?” Ethan inquired politely.

“Why, yes, I did, Dr. Harcourt,” Clara responded with reciprocal cordiality. “Every year I remind myself that I'll regret the decision by the end of the evening. But when the weather's clear and not too frigid, I enjoy being out in it.” She had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from breaking into a fit of giggles.

“Miss Penrose.” From behind Ethan, Mr. Fiske loomed out of the darkness. “Might I have a brief word with you, please? I would be more than happy to offer you a ride home in my trap while I discuss my plans for an ecumenical hymn sing on the twenty-third. I was hoping you'd be the accompanist, since my organist is unavailable.”

“I…I…” Her usually nimble brain seemed to have frozen like her fingers and toes.

“I'm afraid Miss Penrose has already accepted my offer to take her home,” Ethan declared, pulling her hand through his arm.

The streetlight illuminated Mr. Fiske's face. He looked from Clara to Ethan, and a little smile softened the disappointment in his eyes. “I see. I won't keep the two of you any further then.” His smile broadened, and before he turned away Clara thought he winked at Ethan.

“Oh, dear.” Clara laughed. “The gossip will ignite now. Mr. Fiske loves to talk about folks almost as much as he loves singing with them.”

“Good. Let the whole world know.” He lifted her back into the buggy, tucked the lap blanket around her, and after settling beside her on the seat his arm came round her shoulders. For a moment he didn't move, just hugged her in the darkness.

“Ethan? What is it?”

“Nothing, my sweet. No,” he corrected, and his lips pressed a soft kiss against her temple, “no more evasions between us. I was loving the lilt in your voice, and wondering how many years it will take for me to get over feeling guilty for thinking
you
were…”

Ah. The notes again. “I know about guilt.” Sighing, she settled back against the seat, the warm but unfamiliar weight of his arm more comforting than the most luxurious of fur stoles. “It never solves anything. I told Methuselah once that guilt reminds me of mildew. No matter how hard I scrub the floor, there's a corner near the back door where I can never seem to get rid of it. The odor permeates everything. I try not to put anything on the floor there.”

“An apt metaphor.” For a little while they rode in silence, the steady clip-clop of the horse's hooves beating with metro
nome precision. “What guilt are you wanting to scrub away?” Ethan asked finally, the arm around her shoulders tightening again. “It's not writing letters to editors, is it?”

“No.” She'd wondered when he would ask, but until this moment she had not been sure of her response.

“Will you tell me about it?”

Because God had apparently decided to give her a man who said he loved her for Christmas…and because she loved the man back, Clara told him. “When I was nineteen, my parents informed me they had arranged for me to be introduced to the man I was to marry. After sifting through a number of candidates, they'd picked a state senator with congressional aspirations. I was young, with grand ideas of my own. I didn't fret overmuch about love. Marriage, we Penrose children were informed frequently, was about suitability, not sentiment.” A little laugh more close to a sob escaped and she hurriedly finished, “I agreed without a fuss. I was…I had my own dreams…”

“We all do,” Ethan observed, his voice comfortably matter-of-fact. “What happened to you and your perfect candidate for the office of husband?”

“Oh!” She rubbed her cheek against his forearm, the only part of him she could reach. “I've always believed a sense of humor offers one of God's most effective tinctures against life's hurts. One of the reasons I eventually refused Mortimer was because he didn't have one. He considered laughter a ‘vulgar expression of the bourgeoisie,' was how he phrased it.”

“Met a few of those myself. Insufferable snobs, aren't they?”

“My parents didn't see it that way. He was wealthy, attractive and willing to overlook all my flaws. I was, of course, expected to overlook all of his, which, along with advanced snobbery and no humor, included an insatiable thirst for liquor. I never saw him drunk, but I also never saw him without a drink
of some sort in his hand. When I queried him on the matter, he reminded me that only one opinion counted—his own.” After a brief internal debate she added sadly, “But the main reason I finally couldn't agree to the marriage is one I never told my family, because I…because…” She swallowed hard, annoyed that even after all these years the raw spot hadn't completely healed. “It's a silly reason, I expect. I don't know why I can't just spit it out and be done with the subject.”

“I doubt
silly
is the appropriate application,” Ethan said. “It's all right, Clara. You don't have to tell me anymore right now.”

“Yes, I think I do.” She stared straight ahead, into the silvery-black night that no longer made her feel safe. “Because it's one of the reasons I struggle with guilt. You see…I discovered Mortimer was a—a mean-spirited hypocrite. Quoted scripture, prayed unctuous prayers and promised my parents that our children would grow up in a Christian home. I discovered the truth by accident. Overheard him tell one of his friends he was marrying a bony Christian chit with too much virtue and not enough vanity. He supposed he'd have to attend church, but faith in God was a waste of time. Jesus might have existed, but He was no more the Son of God than Mortimer's valet, who at least knew the difference between a Windsor knot and a four-in-hand. I tolerated the slurs against me. But I challenged him about his faith, and was again ordered to keep my mouth shut, or after we married he'd turn my life into—Well, never mind what he said. I ended the engagement. Six months later he married a debutante from Richmond. For months Mother badgered me about her disappointment or ignored me completely. My father shrugged, told me to ignore my mother back and proclaimed to everyone he talked to that he was resigned to his eldest daughter's status as the family old maid.”

Without warning Ethan pulled the buggy to a halt, right in the middle of the road. “We'll see about that,” he snapped, the arm
around her shoulders hauling her so close she felt the huff of his breath on her face. “I've had a bellyful of people inflicting their warped opinions on others, particularly the ones they're supposed to love. I wish Mortimer and my wife had met. They certainly deserved each other.” Once again he cupped her face in his gloved hands, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. “I think it's time we both let the past go, don't you?”

His touch soothed, yet set every nerve to jumping. “Yes.” Her voice broke on the word. “I don't care about Mortimer, and I've made peace with my parents, Ethan. It helped when I moved out, and Louise has softened my mother's attitude. It's just that…I don't want to be a hypocrite myself. I believe in God, I do. I believe Jesus is His Son, that He willingly sacrificed His life for me. But sometimes…sometimes I feel like I'm only saying words, especially at Christmas. I wouldn't marry a hypocrite—I'm terrified I'll become one.”

“Mm. So…no decorations in your home. No dreams of Santa filling your stocking with oranges and nuts and candy canes…”

“Yes. I know it's silly, but—yes. It's just I…I have all these questions without answers. I feel when I should be thinking, and think when I should be feeling.”

She pulled her hand free of the muff and blindly reached to lay it against
his
cheek, drawing strength from the beard-roughened skin, the firm line of his jaw. “It's exhausting, trying to live my faith. Some days, I'm tempted to stuff it in a box, because no matter how many letters to the editor I write, no matter how many ‘good works' I perform to help people, there's all this pain in the world. So much evil. Yet right now…”

The words trailed away in confusion and she paused, astonished at herself, a little afraid of Ethan's reaction. But his head merely shifted against her hand and, rumbling vague encouraging sounds, he brushed a kiss against the palm resting on his cheek.

No condemnation, no condescension, not even a lecture.

Drawing in a grateful breath, Clara shared the last of her thoughts, one in particular that had churned in her mind these past few hours. “The woman who's writing you those letters? I recognize the implied threat, and I'll do everything I can to assist you in discovering her identity. But she hasn't physically harmed you. If she did I…well, I'd drag her by her hair to jail myself—ooh,
this
is what I was trying to explain! There's this unruly piece of my heart that isn't very Christ-like toward this woman. But the rest doesn't want her in jail, particularly over a few malicious letters. I—I want to help her.”

“I believe what that makes you is human, not a hypocrite, Clara. I've struggled with similar thoughts myself, and some worse. Want an example?” When Clara nodded her head he continued, his voice wry, “How about…I used to believe that service to my fellow man—whether as a doctor or a congressman—was sufficient for God to overlook my less-than-pure attitudes and behavior. See? My badge of faith is every bit as dented and tarnished as you perceive yours to be. What's more, if this unknown woman hurts
you,
I'd be tempted to dispense with jail altogether, and administer my own brand of justice.” The arm around her shoulders jostled her a little. “We both know that we'll do the right thing, in the end. Sin isn't the temptation—it's giving in to those base urges and impulses.”

A feeble star twinkled to life inside her. “You're right. You make a much better confidant than a turtle, Dr. Harcourt.” When he laughed, the starlight burned even brighter. “I feel much better. And when we discover the identity of this unknown woman…? I think…I think perhaps that's how to live our faith when we don't feel the words. Help someone else who's hurting inside.”

“I think you're right, and that I should buy you a camel, Miss Penrose.” He dipped his head and pressed the lightest of kisses
against her half-parted lips. “But instead of offering gold, frankincense or myrrh, I recommend some of those cookies like the ones you left on my doorstep. I love you very much, Clara,” he continued. “All of you, especially the struggling parts. I understand why you don't quite trust my love, that you don't quite believe it's going to last. That's all right. I've squandered a good many years of my life, so I figure I can invest some time in pursuing what I believe is God's personal gift to me for Christmas this year—you.”

He released her and set the buggy in motion once more.

“But…that's how
I
feel!” Clara exclaimed. “While we were singing those carols to the townsfolk of Canterbury, I was really singing them to God, because I wanted to thank Him for giving me the most wonderful gift I've ever received for Christmas. For the first time in a very long time, I was feeling the words as well as singing them.”