Page 21 of On a Midnight Clear
Martin was pulling out the pails to make cider, and he’d already drawn Mr. Bentwood into helping with the task. Beating the apples and tightening down the corkscrew took a great deal of strength. A task best left to the men.
She focused on showing Ellen how to thread the needle, tie off the end of the string, and pierce the center of each fluffy kernel or dried cranberry. Ellen proved a quick study, her slim fingers moving with an easy grace as she slid the decoration down the string.
“You’re a natural.” Hope smiled at her progress. “I daresay your garlands will rival mine.”
Ellen laughed, the sound like silver bells. “You’re too kind. I’m afraid I’ll need far more practice before I can claim such an accomplishment.”
As they worked, Hope couldn’t help but watch the men. Her brother kept them moving efficiently. She spoke quietly enough that only Ellen would hear. “Martin’s always been such a help with Christmas preparations. He’s the best at making cider.”
Ellen glanced up at him. “Is that so? I imagine that must take a good deal of strength to beat the juice from those apples.” Was that a hint of admiration in her eyes? Perhaps.
“Indeed. My brother’s never been one to shy away from hard work. It’s one of the things I appreciate most about him. Of course, he’s a quick thinker too. Educated in Philadelphia.” She added that last bit so Ellen didn’t think him a boorish frontiersman who could hardly sign his name.
Ellen hummed thoughtfully. “I have a cousin who attended a secondary school in Philadelphia. At Haverford.”
Hope raised her brows. “Interesting. Martin attended the Hill School. I’m not sure if the two are near.
..” Mama had paid every last cent she’d saved for Martin to have that opportunity—and to hire a boy to help at the inn while Martin was away—so surely the Hill School wasn’t a slum, though it may not be on the level of Haverford.
But Ellen’s smile brightened. “I know of it. I believe my cousin had outings with boys from the Hill School.” She slid a look toward the men, probably at Martin. A gaze that held far more interest than before.
As they worked, Hope kept the conversation on light topics—favorite Christmas treats, memorable presents, silly mishaps from holidays past. More than once, she caught Ellen sneaking glances at Martin, a rosy blush coloring her fair cheeks.
Martin, too, threw looks Ellen’s way when her eyes were focused on her task, admiration plain on his face.
Hope bit back a grin. Probably nothing would come of it, but at least Martin could enjoy the company of a pleasant lady for the holiday.
A floorboard creaked, and she glanced up as Mr. Bentwood approached. He gave a slight bow in front of them. “Martin has moved to the cider press, leaving nothing more for me to help with. Can you put me to work here?”
His voice sounded more formal than usual, and Hope paused her thoughts of budding romance between Martin and Ellen. Had he noticed the surreptitious glances as well? Perhaps he really did have tender feelings for his charge.
Something tightened in her chest. Not jealousy. Just unease. After all, Ellen’s father likely didn’t want her escort carrying on with her when he should be looking out for her protection.
But even as the thought took hold, something inside her rejected the idea.
She knew little of Mr. Bentwood. But he seemed too serious and restrained to allow himself to entertain such notions.
He also seemed like a rule-follower. Though now that she thought about it, she couldn’t say what gave her that impression.
Ellen motioned Mr. Bentwood toward a chair across from them, and he pulled it closer before sitting.
Hope handed him the needle and thread she’d just prepared for herself.
“We’d welcome your help, Mr. Bentwood. Just tie a knot at the end of your string and then slide a piece of popcorn or cranberry to the end before making a stitch through the center to secure it in place.
You can string them in any order you like, making designs or whatever pleases you. ”
He looked over at the garland she’d just finished, then the cord Ellen worked on. After a moment, he set to the task, his large hands surprisingly deft with the delicate materials. His brow creased as he focused, as if creating Christmas decorations was a mission of vital importance.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the rhythmic thumps of Martin working the cider press in the kitchen. Mr. Bentwood seemed to have brought a pall to their earlier conversation.
She lifted an inconspicuous gaze to study him.
He’d finally shed his wool coat in the warmth of both fires, and the lines of his shirt accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.
Were men of business always so muscled and .
.. well, handsome? His dark hair hadn’t been pomaded flat but brushed across his brow with a wave that looked perfectly contained at first glance.
Yet the way the strands curled up at the ends gave it a roguish touch. Much like the man himself?
Why was she allowing her mind to entertain such ponderings? The man’s hair had nothing to do with his personality. And why did it matter to her anyway? As long as he paid his bill and was pleasant company, she should be satisfied.