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The Truth

SAINT STEPHEN’S DAY (THE SECOND DAY OF CHRISTMAS)

C aroline was bent over the walking dress when she heard Annie approaching the shop. It lifted her flagging spirits to know she would have company today, so she paused and tilted her head to listen to the carol.

The twelfth day of Christmas,

My true love sent to me,

Twelve lords a leaping,

Eleven ladies dancing,

Ten pipers piping,

Nine drummers drumming,

Eight maids a milking...

The back door opened, and the singing was no longer muffled as Annie drew a deep breath to complete the lengthy verse in her sweet, youthful voice.

Her clear tones filled the room, rising and falling with the cadence of the carol, lending a brightness to the room.

Caroline paused in her stitching, allowing herself the luxury of simply listening.

Seven swans a swimming,

Six geese a laying,

Five gold rings,

Four colly birds,

Three French hens,

Two turtle doves, and

A partridge in a pear tree.

Annie walked over to the worktable where Caroline was seated and finished her song with a flourish, clearly proud of herself for recalling all the lines correctly.

“Happy Saint Stephen’s Day, Mrs. Brown!”

Caroline forced a cheery smile onto her tired face. She had been miserable since leaving the blacksmith’s home the day before and had not slept a wink all night. Considering how their time together had ended, she did not know what to make of their connection.

Did they even have one, after she had rejected his suit?

“Happy Saint Stephen’s Day, Annie!”

The child gave a little curtsy, then asked a question that must have been troubling her. “What is a colly bird, Mrs. Brown?”

“‘Colly’ means black, like coal.”

“Oh. So the fourth day is about blackbirds?”

“It would seem so. The song is originally French, so there may be errors in translation, but I think blackbirds is correct.”

“And why do you think so many days are about birds, but not the fifth day?”

Caroline shrugged. “Some say the gold rings are gold ring-necked pheasants. I have never seen one myself, but they are supposed to be quite colorful.”

Annie nodded, her attention already drifting to a new subject, as children often did.

“We had a wonderful Christmas feast. Mr. Andrews joined us after closing his shop, and Mum made you some black butter.” Annie placed a little pot on the table. Caroline picked it up and opened the lid to inhale the fruit paste’s distinctive scent with pleasure.

“Tell your mum thank you. I shall buy some fresh bread to eat it with!”

Annie nodded and tied on her apron. “I think Mr. Andrews is sweet on Mum. He invited us to go wassailing on Twelfth Night.”

Caroline gritted her teeth in exasperation. Perfect. Mrs. Greer would have a new husband before long, while Caroline would remain alone forever—while a perfectly good man lay, rejected, on his settee down the street. And not just any man—William.

She missed him something fierce.

Have I made the right decision?

Realizing she had not responded, she forced a cheery tone and asked the important question. “How do you feel about that?”

Annie paused to consider, her little face pensive. “I think Mr. Andrews is a jolly man. And he makes excellent food, so I suppose it would be all right if he courts Mum.”

Caroline chuckled—for the first time all day. “Excellent food will always be acceptable.”

Annie grinned back. “I shall fetch your bread for you, if you like. Mr. Andrews might give me a Sally Lunn bun if I visit his shop.”

“Then I have no choice. I shall have to allow you to run the errand for me. Tell Mr. Andrews to put it on my account.”

“Shall I sweep the front?”

“Yes. I want to work on my walking dress, and I expect little custom today. When you finish sweeping, you can come sit with me and I’ll show you what I’m doing.”

The girl nodded and disappeared through the workroom door—only to race back a moment later, a worried expression on her face.

“Mrs. Brown! Some of the Christmas boughs are missing!”

A nervous twist tightened in Caroline’s stomach. She had forgotten the boughs. After the abrupt end to her day with William, she had left them behind without a second thought.

“I … gave them to someone who needed them more than I.” She needed to distract Annie quickly. “Did you complete the handkerchief you were sewing?”

The girl looked down, her expression guilty. “No … I was too busy helping Mum make the Christmas boughs.”

“You can join me when you are done sweeping and finish it then.”

Annie brightened. It was a shameful manipulation on Caroline’s part—an effort to change the subject—but it would not do to have anyone asking questions about how she had spent Christmas.

William had convinced Dr. Hadley that he was recovered enough to be back on his feet. The doctor had bound his ankle, cautioning him to be careful and not to overexert himself, but had concurred that the sprain was not as severe as it had first appeared on Christmas Eve.

He had then requested the use of the doctor’s carriage, a favor which Dr. Hadley had also granted, though they had haggled for some time.

The physician had been reluctant to charge him for the loan, while William had insisted upon paying a rental fee.

Eventually, they had struck a mutually agreeable bargain, and the doctor departed to see the carriage made ready.

Saint Stephen’s Day was the perfect occasion to call upon a lady of quality. It was a day of charitable observance, when the doors of respectable households opened to the community. William intended to take full advantage of the festive traditions to aid Caroline.

He was committed to her healing, as she had been committed to his. She had comforted him in his darkest hour, untethered him from his torment over Hougoumont , and reminded him how to breathe again. He could not let her suffer in silence. She deserved peace. She deserved joy.

Eventually, he hoped she would forgive his clumsy intrusion into her privacy—if he succeeded in his purpose.

William washed with haste but took great care with his attire.

He donned a pristine white shirt, followed by his finest stockings and best breeches—the pair reserved for Sundays and significant occasions.

Then he polished his buckled shoes, grimacing at the thought of wearing them, but boots were impossible with a bound ankle. Besides, the shoes were more elegant.

He tied his cravat with precision, shrugged into his navy wool tailcoat, and retrieved his hat and walking cane from the stand.

He cast one last glance around the cottage, suddenly aware of how different it looked with hope stirring in his chest. It was imperative that he be well received where he was going. As much as he disliked formal dress, he would do whatever it took to restore Caroline’s spirits.

Caroline worked on the walking dress she had spent so many months perfecting, but it brought no solace.

Her magical holiday interlude was over. Nothing remained but a memory to hold dear.

She feared she had greatly disappointed the blacksmith—and the more she thought on it, the less sense it made to have walked away.

But then, he had so abruptly changed his mind and allowed her to go. Perhaps he had reflected on her faults and lost interest in pursuing her further.

Annie entered from sweeping the front. Fetching her needles and some floss, she came to take a seat beside Caroline at the worktable.

“You do not appear to be in good spirits, Mrs. Brown?”

“I am sad that Christmas is over,” she offered by way of explanation.

Annie twisted her mouth in perplexity. “Christmastide is not over. It only ends on Twelfth Night. There are many celebrations ahead.”

Caroline’s hand froze mid-stitch, struck by the simplicity of the child’s logic. Children often cut through the fog of emotion with a single, unadorned truth. Why was she here, pining, when William had accepted her, flaws and all, and offered a future she had never dared to imagine?

Had fear driven her decision? Was it still driving her now?

It was not too late. Perhaps she could take a chance on herself. After all, punishing herself indefinitely might not be the noblest course—not when a man as generous and steadfast as William wished to share his life with her.

But if she were to allow his courtship, she would need to confess how she had come to own her shop.

Her stomach twisted at the thought. How had she omitted that detail when laying bare her past?

Could she bring herself to tell him that Lord Saunton had loaned her the funds as an act of reparation?

Would William view it as a business arrangement—or see her as a kept woman?

Why not visit him and see where the conversation takes you?

She dithered, staring down at her needlework. “I have an errand to run. Can you mind the shop for an hour, or should I close it?”

Annie raised her eyebrows in surprise but asked no questions. “I can mind the shop.”

Caroline set aside her work, hung the gown reverently in its place of honor, and donned the cloak William had once teased her about. If he proved understanding, perhaps she would wear this very gown on her wedding day.

She exited from the back and hurried down the alleyway, reaching the block where William’s cottage stood—only to find the streets were too crowded. She could not approach his home unseen. If Mrs. Heeley had returned from Bath, Caroline would be spotted for certain.

Loitering in hesitation, she realized she had lingered too long. Someone would soon take notice. She turned up the cross street to re-enter Market Street, striving for a solution.

Perhaps the smithy. He had hoped Dr. Hadley would clear him for work. He might be there now.

She headed toward the bellowing chimneys, drawing her cloak tight as the wind sliced through her sleeves. Perhaps William was right about the garment’s shortcomings. She could make a warmer one for days such as this—and keep this pretty, impractical thing for milder weather.

As she neared the smithy, it was clear the forge was in full operation. Shutters stood wide to release the heat, and the cacophony of hammers rang out over the clanging of metal.

She entered through the customer door, stopping at the counter that divided the waiting area from the work floor.

Though it was her first visit to the smithy, the operation spoke of precision and prosperity.

Three forges blazed with fire, giant bellows suspended behind them.

Men used tongs to manipulate glowing iron, heating it to a cherry red.

Apprentices swept coal shards, stoked the flames, and worked bellows with strong arms and quick coordination. Several journeymen labored at anvils, hammering with unrelenting rhythm. The sound was deafening. Caroline raised her fingers to her ears.

On the counter lay catalogues of locks and tools.

The wall behind displayed a selection of wares—everything neatly organized, efficient, professional.

A section dedicated to steel held especially fine work, likely the smithy’s highest earners.

A boy of about fifteen spotted her and hurried over, wiping his hands on a leather apron. She removed her fingers from her ears.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I was looking for Mr. Jackson. Is he here today?”

“No, ma’am. He took the day to travel to Bath. Said something about visiting someone for Saint Stephen’s Day.”

A man near the forge turned and guffawed. “More like gone a-courting, dressed in his Sunday finest!”

Laughter rippled across the smithy, men making jest of the blacksmith being sweet on someone in Bath.

Caroline stood motionless. Gone to Bath? Visiting another woman?

All she could think of was how unbearably inconvenient it was to realize she loved William at the precise moment she learned she might have lost him. Her heart squeezed painfully. Fighting tears, she willed her voice to remain steady.

“I was speaking with him about … repairing a lock. I will return tomorrow.”

She swept out before the apprentice could respond.

Turning back onto Market Street, she passed her shop without pause.

Her feet carried her without instruction, her thoughts in chaos.

She had lost her chance. He had offered her everything—his name, his loyalty, his heart—and she had refused him.

And now? Gone to Bath, they said. Courting another, perhaps.

The wind whipped past the shopfronts, cold and punishing.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, bracing against the ache in her chest. Perhaps the men had misunderstood.

William had not struck her as fickle. But now she had no way of knowing when he might return—or whether she would still be in his heart when he did.

She had been foolish to let herself believe in connection. Foolish to break the vow that had preserved her peace. Connections could be lost. And when they were, one was left only with the ashes of regret.

Work is the answer.