Page 18

The Argument

“ H ave you gone mad?” Her question was sincere. She was genuinely concerned the blacksmith had lost his mind. “You barely know me!”

“I know everything that matters,” he replied, his blue eyes earnest as he cradled her hand in his own. His fingers were rough, his palms calloused—a reminder of the work he did—bending iron to his will, shaping raw metal into useful tools. He was a builder. A craftsman. Steady, reliable.

And he was offering to marry her?

“Is this because we kissed?” she asked. “You need not feel obligated. I knew what I was doing. I had no expectations of you.”

William chuckled. “Nay, Caroline. You are a fine woman, and had that been the reason, I would still be honor-bound to do right by you. But the truth is … I had already decided on this course before we kissed so thoroughly.”

“What?”

“I had already made the decision to make you my wife.”

Her mind was swimming—a maelstrom of confusion and disbelief.

No man had ever proposed to her before—certainly not one as respectable, admired, and sane as William Jackson.

She had imagined what it might be like to marry him, in the safety of secret dreams, but never had she believed he might desire it.

“You do not know me.”

“I know what matters,” he repeated gently. “You are an admirable woman, and it would be my great honor to wed you.”

Her heart seized.

But he did not know her. Not truly. He did not know what she had done.

Why she had come to Chatternwell. He did not know that her benefactor was Lord Saunton, who had paid for her shop and sent his man of business to arrange it all.

He did not know why Lord Saunton had done those things—or what Caroline had done to Miss Annabel to prompt them.

She could never share those truths. Not with William.

His regard had made her feel whole again, if only briefly. If she told him the truth, he would be disgusted—and it would sever the fragile bond between them. Better to carry the memory than to destroy what they had built in a single evening.

William must have sensed the shift in her, for he gave her hand a tender squeeze.

“I apologize for springing this on you. I had intended to court you properly, to coax you into accepting me … but I was overcome by the joy of sharing this day with you. I want it to never end. And I make no decisions lightly, Caroline.”

Her free hand rose to her cheeks, only to discover they were wet. Tears streamed down her face, unchecked and uncontrollable. She was flattered. Tempted. And terrified.

“What is it, sunshine?” William’s voice was soft with concern.

“Could we not talk about this now?” Her voice cracked. She had looked forward to the final hours of Christmas with him. If she turned him down now—there was no other option—it would end the fragile peace they had found far too abruptly.

Her eyes were so filled with tears, she could barely see him.

He reached for a cloth and gently dabbed her cheeks. “Is it so upsetting to contemplate a future with me?”

She shook her head. “It is upsetting to contemplate a future without you.”

William released a deep breath, his shoulders lifting with the effort. “Then let us set it aside for now. I am sorry to have interrupted our meal. Just … know that the offer stands.”

She nodded, tension easing as he awkwardly shifted himself back onto the settee.

Caroline reached for her plate, but her thoughts remained with him—his words, his expression, his unwavering regard.

She imagined what it might be like to say yes.

To share dinners with him forevermore. To bear his children and teach her daughters to sew.

To hand her child a silken strand of embroidery floss for the first time.

She imagined a little boy with William’s black hair and brilliant blue eyes, tugging the bellows chain with a determined little arm while his father held him aloft. It was so tempting.

If only she had not ruined her future two years ago—if only she had not broken her own trust in herself.

There could be no idyllic future for a woman who harbored such shameful secrets. No trust given to one who could not trust herself. Resolutely, she lifted her fork and took a bite of mince pie, forcing herself to focus on its sweetness. On this meal. On this moment.

These were dreams, nothing more. And they would have to sustain her.

As they ate in silence, William fought his frustration.

He almost missed the deadness of his soul these past years.

At least then he had been entirely logical, not driven by impulse or unruly emotion.

The success of his business had been built upon single-minded focus, yet he could scarcely recall what that had felt like since Caroline had awakened him from his self-imposed slumber and unraveled all his careful plans to remain indifferent.

His timing had been abysmal.

He was desperate to keep her at his side, to hold on to this unexpected magic between them. As the hour of her departure drew closer, the rising panic threatened to unman him.

He knew she harbored a secret, and it had been a grievous miscalculation to ignore the instinct that warned him of it. Proposing while she carried that invisible weight—whatever it was—had been foolish. All he could do now was try to restore her good cheer, distract her, and bide his time.

He would try again. Later.

Chewing slowly on the delicious mince pie, William forced himself to release the turmoil. If this was all he would have of her, then he would relish it. Every second.

“This is the first Christmas I am celebrating in some years,” he finally said, once his disappointment had dulled to something tolerable.

Caroline took a sip of her tea before replying, “Because of what happened to your cousin?”

He nodded. “I am pleased to be sharing this day with you.”

Her full lips curved into a gentle smile, and the sight eased something tight within him. Witnessing her weep earlier had undone him completely.

“As am I.”

He smiled in return. “Last year, I worked after Christmas service.”

She giggled. “So did I! I was the housekeeper for a doctor in Somerset. We had to see to the household, and then we celebrated the following day with the Feast of Saint Stephen.”

“Yet here we are,” he murmured, “together in Chatternwell, eating Mr. Andrews’s pie.”

“Here we are,” she echoed softly.

William hesitated. Then, unable to stop himself, he said, “I think perhaps this is how I would like to spend every Christmas.”

He held his breath.

Seconds passed. Caroline stared down at her plate, the fire crackling behind them, before she finally whispered, “I would like that, too.”

He blinked, caught entirely unprepared by her admission. Yet he kept his expression calm, unwilling to startle the moment. Inside, however, joy welled like a spring beneath stone—quiet, powerful, and unstoppable. It was a step. A step toward everything he hoped for.

Do not encourage his attentions!

He deserved much better than herself, but Caroline could not help grasping onto the possibility that, come next year, she might return to visit him.

If William were still unwed then—as she certainly would be—it would be heavenly to rejoin him in this festive fantasy.

When she left this evening, she could carry the promise of their reunion like a charm in her pocket.

When she awoke alone in her bed, and the old memories threatened to devour her, she could turn her thoughts to this one sweet hope—a future respite from her solitude.

When they finished eating, she offered him a second helping, which he accepted.

Carrying their plates to the back room, she replenished his fondly.

A large man like William clearly needed far more sustenance than she.

Chuckling to herself, she carefully arranged some choice cuts of chicken and laid a generous wedge of mince pie beside them.

She hummed softly as she poured more tea, then returned to the sitting room with the tray, setting it down with care.

Moving about the room, she straightened pillows and stoked the fire in the hearth. She had grown accustomed to his home, and the thought of leaving it behind—to return to her silent rooms—was depressingly bleak.

“Do you have someone to take care of you in the morning?”

William stretched his neck, rubbing one shoulder. “One of my apprentices will come by to check on me. I am hoping Dr. Hadley will give me permission to walk when he visits. The swelling has gone down quite a bit. I hope a second look will reveal that the sprain was not as bad as we feared.”

Caroline wandered over, bending to peer at his ankle before gently probing it with her fingers. “It certainly is better than when I first arrived.”

He nodded, then said hesitantly, “If you sit with me, I can read to you.”

She took her seat beside him, and he reached for the book he had left on the table.

“What will you read me?” she asked, settling in.

“It is Christmas,” he said, “so I thought I would read verses from popular wassails.”

Throwing out an arm, he drew her close into the crook of it, resting his head lightly against hers.

Reaching around her, he held the little book open and began to recite.

The timbre of his voice stirred something gentle and unexpected within her, a warmth that settled behind her ribs and refused to leave.

Huzza, Huzza, in our good town

The bread shall be white, and the liquor be brown

So here my old fellow I drink to thee

And the very health of each other tree.

Well may ye blow, well may ye bear

Blossom and fruit both apple and pear.

So that every bough and every twig

May bend with a burden both fair and big

May ye bear us and yield us fruit such a stors

That the bags and chambers and house run o’er.

As he turned the page to find another, Caroline’s eyes drifted shut. She surrendered to the crackle of the fire, the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, and the warmth of his voice washing over her like balm.