Read Online Twelve Days in December: A Christmas Novella by Michele Paige Holmes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michele Paige Holmes
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presence for eight days, he’d come to think of Alec and Charlotte in those terms. Of course she was not truly perfect; no one was, though he’d yet to see many of her flaws. She is perfect for me. Marrying her was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He only wished he knew how to make her feel the same.
Charlotte walked ahead of him, pausing just outside the church under the shelter of its tall roof, looking lovelier than ever in a new outfit of deepest blue that had been delivered yesterday. Her expression was contemplative and serious, causing him to wonder— and worry— about the direction of her thoughts. Sometime during the service snow had begun falling again, so they took a minute to don their cloaks and coats and mittens and hats. In one arm he carried Alec down the steps, while his other hand held firmly to Charlotte’s.
William could not bear the thought of anything— even something as little as a harmless fall— happening to either of them. How much anguish Charlotte must have endured, watching her husband suffer. William had thought on this many times since she had shared it with him. That Matthew’s death still troubled her seemed a given. William only wished he knew how to lift such a burden from her.
With care he climbed into the carriage and sat beside her, leaving the seat across from them vacant. “Together we can keep Alec warm on the ride home,” he said by way of explanation.
Charlotte nodded while biting her lip, giving William no doubt that she saw through his flimsy excuse for being so close to her.
“Look. Our snow angels are still there.” She pointed out the window as they passed the park.
William smiled, recalling that enjoyable morning, remembering how he had first wanted to kiss her as she’d stood there, armed with snowballs, her cheeks rosy with cold. It was a desire he’d felt repeatedly over the last several days but had contented himself with holding her hand occasionally and sitting near her when they were together.
“I wonder how Marsali is faring,” Charlotte said, leaning her head against the seat. Her thoughts obviously lay a different direction from his.
“Marsali is well, I hope,” William said. “I expect we shall hear from her when she has found Mr. Thatcher. I expect Lady Cosgrove will return to us then also.” He found that he no longer harbored ill feelings toward the woman. After all, it was she who had suggested that Charlotte take Marsali’s place.
“Are you the least sorry that Christopher…” Charlotte’s voice trailed off, and she looked out her window, away from him.
“Am I the least sorry that Marsali’s husband is alive? No. Not at all.” He felt discomfited to realize he would have felt vastly different had he learned that Charlotte’s husband had somehow returned from the dead.
“Are you sorry?” William asked, suddenly worried that was what this line of questioning was leading to. That Charlotte felt regret for marrying him.
“No.” She turned to him, placing a gentle hand on his, as was her custom when she was in earnest about something. It was one of her many little traits he adored already. “I am most happy for Marsali and most grateful to be married to you.”
Grateful. There was that word again. Charlotte used it daily, and if William could find fault in her for one thing, that was it. He appreciated her gratitude but yearned to be the cause of her feeling something more. He reminded himself again of her loss, of the wounds that still likely ran deep and had to be healing. Patience, he admonished himself. He hadn’t planned to want more from their marriage and to want it so soon. Certainly he could not expect her feelings to match his. But he wanted them to.
What will it take to get her to feel something other than gratitude toward me?
The folded paper held nervously in his hands, William approached Charlotte where she sat by the fire in the parlor, a forgotten book in her lap as she stared, apparently
Charlotte walked ahead of him, pausing just outside the church under the shelter of its tall roof, looking lovelier than ever in a new outfit of deepest blue that had been delivered yesterday. Her expression was contemplative and serious, causing him to wonder— and worry— about the direction of her thoughts. Sometime during the service snow had begun falling again, so they took a minute to don their cloaks and coats and mittens and hats. In one arm he carried Alec down the steps, while his other hand held firmly to Charlotte’s.
William could not bear the thought of anything— even something as little as a harmless fall— happening to either of them. How much anguish Charlotte must have endured, watching her husband suffer. William had thought on this many times since she had shared it with him. That Matthew’s death still troubled her seemed a given. William only wished he knew how to lift such a burden from her.
With care he climbed into the carriage and sat beside her, leaving the seat across from them vacant. “Together we can keep Alec warm on the ride home,” he said by way of explanation.
Charlotte nodded while biting her lip, giving William no doubt that she saw through his flimsy excuse for being so close to her.
“Look. Our snow angels are still there.” She pointed out the window as they passed the park.
William smiled, recalling that enjoyable morning, remembering how he had first wanted to kiss her as she’d stood there, armed with snowballs, her cheeks rosy with cold. It was a desire he’d felt repeatedly over the last several days but had contented himself with holding her hand occasionally and sitting near her when they were together.
“I wonder how Marsali is faring,” Charlotte said, leaning her head against the seat. Her thoughts obviously lay a different direction from his.
“Marsali is well, I hope,” William said. “I expect we shall hear from her when she has found Mr. Thatcher. I expect Lady Cosgrove will return to us then also.” He found that he no longer harbored ill feelings toward the woman. After all, it was she who had suggested that Charlotte take Marsali’s place.
“Are you the least sorry that Christopher…” Charlotte’s voice trailed off, and she looked out her window, away from him.
“Am I the least sorry that Marsali’s husband is alive? No. Not at all.” He felt discomfited to realize he would have felt vastly different had he learned that Charlotte’s husband had somehow returned from the dead.
“Are you sorry?” William asked, suddenly worried that was what this line of questioning was leading to. That Charlotte felt regret for marrying him.
“No.” She turned to him, placing a gentle hand on his, as was her custom when she was in earnest about something. It was one of her many little traits he adored already. “I am most happy for Marsali and most grateful to be married to you.”
Grateful. There was that word again. Charlotte used it daily, and if William could find fault in her for one thing, that was it. He appreciated her gratitude but yearned to be the cause of her feeling something more. He reminded himself again of her loss, of the wounds that still likely ran deep and had to be healing. Patience, he admonished himself. He hadn’t planned to want more from their marriage and to want it so soon. Certainly he could not expect her feelings to match his. But he wanted them to.
What will it take to get her to feel something other than gratitude toward me?
The folded paper held nervously in his hands, William approached Charlotte where she sat by the fire in the parlor, a forgotten book in her lap as she stared, apparently
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