The Request
A nnie finished fastening the last Christmas bough to the shop window. Turning around, she planted her small fists on her hips and declared, “There you are, Mrs. Brown! All dressed up for the holidays!”
Caroline clapped her hands and smiled in acknowledgment.
She did not observe the holidays herself, but she had commissioned Mrs. Greer to prepare the boughs and sprigs for the shop as an excuse to offer her some coin.
She could not deny the pleasure of the greenery’s fresh scent, which she would enjoy until Twelfth Night, when custom demanded it be taken down to avoid ill fortune.
Annie had filled out in the past weeks, and Mrs. Greer’s health was gradually improving, which made it all worthwhile.
The child had proved a diligent worker—sweeping the shop, waxing the counters, and dusting the shelves with energy.
She had even begun assisting with simple sewing, and Caroline had sent small projects home for Mrs. Greer to complete at her leisure.
Caroline suspected the widow’s ailments had stemmed, at least in part, from poor diet and worry.
Now, with steady income and nourishing food, both mother and daughter were showing signs of recovery.
Caroline might not be celebrating the holidays herself, but she was ensuring the Greers had the means to.
“Well done, Annie! It is very festive. Tell your mother she did a splendid job.”
“It smells so good!” Annie took a deep breath, clearly delighted by the scent of rosemary woven into the boughs, along with holly, ivy, and Christmas rose, as she had enthusiastically recited that morning.
Caroline grinned, taking an exaggerated sniff for Annie’s benefit. It smelled like a forest—clean and sharp and green.
“You have done excellent work, young lady. You should go assist your mother in preparing your Christmas feast for tomorrow.”
Annie’s smile dimmed. “Are you sure you will not come, Mrs. Brown?”
“Do not worry about me. I have work to complete. I plan to finish my walking dress over the next few days. When you return on Tuesday, I shall be able to show it to you.”
She had allowed herself to grow closer to the Greers than she had intended. Spending the holiday with them would only deepen that connection, and she could not afford further attachment.
“Now, come see your board for the week.”
She had been sending a basket of food home with Annie each week.
Eggs and fresh vegetables to assist the girl and her mother with their health.
She called it Annie’s board because the girl not living with her was not customary for apprentices.
Truthfully the wages she paid were meant to be in lieu of the room and board she would have provided if she had had a home.
Referring to the basket of food that Caroline purchased from the market each week as board was an excuse to discreetly take care of the Greers while preserving their pride.
It did not cost her much, and she had minimal personal expenses to worry about, but it clearly made a difference for them.
She reached below the counter and brought out the large hamper, placing it on the counter. “Have a look inside.”
Annie approached with curiosity, then lifted the checkered cloth. Her eyes widened.
“Is that?—?”
“I included mince pies and oranges this week,” Caroline said gently. “And I placed an order with Mr. Andrews that you may collect after service tomorrow.”
Annie blinked. “Mr. Andrews? Which one?”
“The baker.”
The girl’s eyes shone. “Never say, Mrs. Brown! Is it a Christmas goose?”
Caroline nodded, warmed by the child’s joy. “For you and your mother. A proper feast.”
Annie’s lip trembled. Then she darted around the counter and threw her arms around Caroline’s waist. “Please come eat with us, Mrs. Brown. It is not right for you to be alone on Christmas.”
Caroline’s heart gave a dull ache. It would be her first Christmastide truly alone. As a girl, she had spent the holiday with her grandmother. After Grandmama’s death, she had observed the day with the servants at Baydon Hall, and more recently, with the doctor’s household in Filminster.
But she had drawn too near the Greers already. She needed to remain apart, to protect her secret. She had no right to such closeness—not after what she had done.
No need to think of that. Work will keep the memories at bay.
“Christmas is for family, Annie. You should be with your mother.”
A soft sniffle came from where the girl’s face pressed to her. “You are family, Mrs. Brown.”
Caroline smiled and hugged her, then gently set her away. “Go enjoy your holiday. And do not forget the goose.”
Annie bobbed her head, struggling slightly with the weight of the basket. “Thank you, Mrs. Brown. Merry Christmas!”
Caroline waved as the child departed, then returned to her account books. The shop was quiet—being Sunday, Mrs. Jones and Mary Beth were home preparing their own Christmas feast.
As Caroline scratched numbers with her graphite pencil, a heavy silence settled over the room.
The streets, lively earlier, had gone still.
Most shops were closed for the Sabbath. She might be the only merchant at work.
Finishing her accounts, she slipped the books beneath the counter and looked about.
The stillness was eerie. She decided it was time to turn her attention to the walking dress before memory and melancholy crept in.
In the back, she approached the gown hanging in the corner.
On the day she learned she would own her shop, she had purchased a fine bolt of Prussian blue velvet using her savings.
She had resolved to create a signature garment—a walking dress that would showcase her craftsmanship and symbolize her new beginning.
She had sewn it piece by piece in her spare hours.
The shoulders were stitched with textured loops and whorls.
The high collar folded over gracefully, its edge embroidered with ornate detail.
The hem was scalloped, and the trimming spanned two inches of intricate work.
The bodice and cuffs remained unfinished.
When complete, it would be the finest garment she had ever made. A testament to everything she had achieved. But no dress, no matter how finely sewn, could fill the hollow place within her.
You threw away your chance for family when you betrayed Miss Annabel.
Caroline shook her head and reached for the gown. If she could not have kinship, she would at least have purpose. And purpose, she reminded herself, had always brought her comfort.
William closed up the smithy and made his way toward the cottages at the end of Market Street.
He had given his journeymen and apprentices time off for the holiday, and the forge would remain closed until Tuesday, the day after Christmas, save for urgent repairs.
He had left a note on the smithy door that he could be found at his cottage, though he expected no business.
The townsfolk were swept up in festive cheer.
He had plans of his own.
The widow next door, Mrs. Heeley, had departed the previous day to visit her daughter in Bath. At last, he could tend to her roof—without her knowledge.
Proud and fiercely independent, Mrs. Heeley insisted on paying or bartering for every kindness offered. But William had noticed a leak in her roof during his last visit and resolved to repair it while she was away. The work would be done quietly, and she would be none the wiser.
He had purchased the slate tiles a week ago. Now, all he needed were his tools and the old ladder behind his cottage. Usually, one of his apprentices would assist with such work, but he had sent them home early to ensure they reached their families in time for the holiday.
The street was quiet save for laughter and music drifting from the inn near his house. William did not mind solitude, but the holidays always brought back memories of Charles.
They had been of an age—more like brothers than cousins.
After the deaths of William’s parents, he had come to live with Uncle Albert and Aunt Gertrude.
Apprenticed in the smithy, he and Charles had run wild during Christmastide, drinking too much ale and daring too many girls to kiss them under the mistletoe.
But those days were gone. Charles was gone. His parents had retired to Cornwall to grieve in peace, leaving the smithy in William’s care.
Work had become his balm, his penance. And his purpose.
It was my fault. Charles would never have gone to war if not for me.
He could still hear himself stating such idiotic sentiments.
“It will be a lark! We shall spill French blood and protect the liberty of England!”
Foolish words, spoken by a boy who had not yet seen what musket fire could do. He and Charles had marched off in their red coats, full of dreams and courage.
Now only William remained.
He reached Mrs. Heeley’s cottage and circled around back, laying down the tiles and retrieving his tools. Then he unearthed the old ladder and leaned it against the honey-colored stone.
He hoisted the bag of slate over his shoulder and began the climb. Halfway up, one of the rungs groaned beneath his weight. He noted the weakness—it would need reinforcing before the ladder was stored again.
But first, there was a roof to mend. He intended to finish the repairs today. If all went well, he might spend Christmas drawing the new lock design that had taken root in his mind. He would have time to test it, refine it. That was how he celebrated—with work.
The tiles came away easily. He tossed the old ones into the small garden below and fitted the new in their place.
As he paused, he sat back on his heels and stretched his shoulders. A light flurry of snow had begun to fall, silent and slow.
He looked out across the rooftops, their slate glistening under the gathering dusk. Chimneys sent up curls of smoke, and the sky had turned a brooding iron grey. To the west, the pale winter sun dipped low behind the hills.