Page 12

The Present

C aroline was humming her carol in the kitchen.

William was pleased to hear the soft melody. It was a comfort, that sign of her returned good spirits as she boiled water and moved around the back room. The sound of her presence—so capable, so quietly cheerful—soothed the unsettled edges within him.

Soon she returned with a tea tray, which included the rolled wafers she had given him earlier. He pushed himself more upright, careful of his leg, so he might drink, while Caroline perched on the table and gently explored the swelling at his ankle with cool fingertips.

“The swelling appears reduced,” she said with satisfaction, before rising with her cup and saucer and moving back to the other settee.

William shifted uncomfortably. There was now a pressing matter he could no longer ignore. He grimaced as he set his tea aside, trying to work out how to approach the issue with a measure of dignity.

Caroline must have noticed the movement—her expression flickered with realization. Without a word, she stood and crossed the room. William watched her go, lips twisting as he braced himself for discomfort—then brightened when he heard the gentle creak of the stairs. She had understood.

Shortly, she returned and crossed over to him, placing a chamberpot discreetly on the floor beside the settee.

Without meeting his eye, she turned and quietly exited, closing the door behind her.

William exhaled a long breath of relief.

With a few cautious exertions, he managed the necessary task and eventually repositioned himself with some difficulty back onto the settee.

“You can return!” he called out once decently settled.

The door opened, and Caroline re-entered holding a bowl of water and some cloths.

Without comment, she set the bowl on the table, moistened a cloth, and handed it to him.

William accepted it with gratitude. The water was warm, and he used it to wash his hands, then placed the cloth on the tea tray.

She handed him another, which he used to mop his face and neck.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. I should have thought of it before. You have been trapped here for hours.”

Caroline resumed her place on the other settee and sipped her tea.

William crunched into a wafer, grateful for the quiet civility between them.

They sat for a time in companionable silence, the fire crackling softly as the storm beyond the windows thickened with snow.

Eventually, William broke the quiet with a question that had lingered in his mind since the day they met.

“Why did you move to Chatternwell, Caroline?”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean? I came here to start my business.”

“Yes, but … why Chatternwell? How did you choose this town? Are you from Wiltshire?”

A touch of color rose in her cheeks. William noted it with interest.

“I am originally from Somerset. My man of business searched for a good location to open a fashionable shop, but I wished for it to be in a smaller town with a strong community. Mr. Johnson did excellent research and found this location while I apprenticed with Signora Ricci in London, learning to manage a millinery and dress-rooms of quality.”

He tilted his head. “You did not want to set up in London? Similar to … Signora Ricci?”

She shook her head. “No. I have no family left, and I miss the time I worked at Baydon Hall. There was a strong sense of community amongst the servants, and I enjoyed the support we provided each other. Chatternwell is a good town. The people are productive, the town is doing well, and one can build professional relationships with honest proprietors.” Her voice softened.

“London is too large and aloof for the likes of me. I … like it here. It feels more like a home.”

William leaned back against the cushions and turned his gaze up to the dark beams of the ceiling, thoughtful.

He had grown up in Chatternwell. Worked here as a boy, then as a man. Other than his years fighting Boney, he had known no other home. He had never thought about the town in such deliberate terms. It had simply been the place of his birth, the place to which he had returned.

Now, hearing his home described by someone who had chosen it—who had seen its strengths and its promise—was strangely affecting. It made him view the cobbled streets and aging cottages with fresh eyes.

As he drifted into a light doze, her words nestled into his mind. For better or worse, Chatternwell was his home.

William sat in the back of the local church, in the very last pew.

It was nearest the door, so it would allow him to leave quickly after the service.

In other words, he could reduce how many of his neighbors he would need to engage with.

When they visited him in his smithy, he could feign politeness for the sake of business.

But after a church service, people were more garrulous.

Friendly. They invited him to their homes for Sunday dinners.

If he left in haste, he would offend fewer of the townsfolk and be able to return to his smithy to work without interference.

Although this could have been any given Sunday, William realized in a vague sense that he was dreaming, because his ankle was miraculously healed. The last thing he could recall was falling asleep in his front room, and the soft sound of Caroline breathing deeply as she slumbered.

He tilted his head in an attempt to hear the vicar’s words. For some reason, they were garbled, as if coming from a great distance, but he could just make out the word manger. This must be Christmas service! If he had not injured himself, he would have attended this very day.

The vicar droned on, William scarcely able to hear any of it from the back of the church.

He stood dutifully and sang hymns, sitting back down but prepared to run for the door as soon as he possibly could.

Glancing up at the windows high behind him, William noted that the sky was overcast and it was snowing lightly.

Rustling in the pews ahead of him brought his attention back to the altar.

People dressed in their Sunday best were beginning to stand, chattering to each other.

The service must be over! Springing to his feet, he made for the exit, jamming his hat on his head as he opened the door to stride out into the wintry landscape beyond.

“Mr. Jackson!”

The voice was directly behind him—he could not pretend he did not hear. He continued to walk on, but threw a glance over his shoulder. “Dr. Hadley, how are you this fine Christmas Day?”

The doctor nearly ran to keep pace with him as William’s longer legs ate up the distance down the path to the roadway. “I am well, Mr. Jackson. It is good to see you in fine health, sir!”

William threw a smile at the older man. He did not wish to offend Dr. Hadley, who he had to admit was a good sort.

The doctor had taken care of the town’s people for decades, accepting trade when they had not the means to pay.

William reached the road and started toward Market Street, his boots crunching on freshly fallen snow as the doctor hurried to keep up with him.

William would relent his pace, but if he did, then more of his neighbors would engage him in conversation, and he wanted to build the new lock he had been thinking of. If it worked, the device could make him a fortune. Perhaps allow him to sell the smithy and live on its proceeds.

Beside him, Dr. Hadley was huffing in his effort to keep up. “Mr. Jackson, I would be remiss if I did … not invite you to our Christmas feast … I promised Mrs. Hadley I would!”

William halted. They were some distance from the church, and most of the parish was still inside.

“That is very kind of you, Dr. Hadley. Tell your wife thank you, and bid her all the best wishes for the holiday season.” He knew the doctor was merely being polite by extending the invitation.

They had no true bonds between them. William had cultivated no friendships since his return from the war.

These people would barely notice if he left town.

Dr. Hadley’s face fell, his hat tilting to one side in his dejection before he reached up to straighten it. “You will not attend?”

“I would love to taste Mrs. Hadley’s Christmas pudding, but I am afraid I am otherwise committed. Please, enjoy your feast and do not concern yourself with me. You have other guests to attend, I am certain.”

“Yes, but …”

William gestured back to the churchyard before doffing his hat. “Your wife is looking for you. Season’s greetings, doctor.”

When Dr. Hadley turned to locate his wife, William took the opportunity to walk away and turn in to Market Street.

Soon he was in his smithy, wearing his leather apron and studying a page covered in pencil drawings.

He needed to heat the coal in his forge, and he could begin his work on the lock.

He could, of course, have worked on this any day, but he had planned to work during the solitude of the holidays to keep his memories at bay.

Just as he placed the graphite pencil down on the counter, the sound of humming began in the distance.

Slowly, the humming grew in volume, and William realized he was to receive a visitor at the moment that the smithy door clicked and swung open.

He knew who it would be before she came into view, but, nevertheless, he was startled by her entrance when she appeared.

Her hair was glowing, lit from behind by weak sunlight, and she wore the frivolous cloak with the fur-lined cuffs that fell to the floor.

She looked like an angel sent from heaven to scold him for working on this blessed day, but her expression was benign, and she smiled gently when she caught sight of him.

‘Fear not,’ said he, for mighty dread

had seized their troubled mind;

‘glad tidings of great joy I bring

to you and all mankind.’

It was eerie, her staring directly into his eyes as she sang the verse.