Chapter 10
“Oh, drat,” Mathew said, frustration creasing his brow as the delicate ivory sticks tumbled onto the table.
Emily could not help but chuckle at her son’s frustration. “Patience, dearest. Spillikins is all about a steady hand and a calm heart.”
She leaned forward, her gaze warm with affection as she demonstrated the proper technique. “Watch closely. See how gently it is done.”
Mathew watched, his face a mirror of concentration. A triumphant grin spread across Emily’s features as she extracted a stick without disturbing the others. “Your turn,” she said.
As Mathew’s hands moved toward the pile, Emily’s thoughts wandered, unbidden, to another set of hands—larger, stronger, yet equally gentle. She shook her head, forcing the image of Nicolas from her mind.
A sennight had passed since that fateful morning when she awoke to find him gone, his presence fading like the last traces of moonlight giving way to the morning sun. The ache in her chest threatened to overwhelm her, but Emily steeled herself against it.
“Well done, Mathew.” Emily forced a bright smile, pushing aside her sorrow. “You are improving rapidly.”
“Do you think I will best Freddie Harrington when we return to Eton?” he asked.
Emily smiled, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “With practice, I believe you will.”
As Mathew set up for another round, her gaze drifted to the frost-etched windowpane. The winter landscape beyond seemed to mock her with its serene beauty, so at odds with the tumult in her heart.
The memory of Nicolas’s warmth beside her, his whispered endearments, the feeling of completeness she had experienced in his arms—it all came rushing back with painful clarity. How could he have left without a word? Without an explanation?
Her hand trembled as she reached for an ivory stick. She had to be strong, for Mathew, for herself. She could not allow herself to be consumed by thoughts of a man who had so callously abandoned her.
“Steady, Mother,” Mathew reminded her.
Taking a deep breath, Emily squared her shoulders.
“Indeed.” She smiled at her son. And as she slipped the stick free, she silently vowed to move forward.
She would find happiness again—with or without Nicolas Winters.
Yet, even as she made this promise to herself, she could not quite quell the traitorous hope that still flickered in her heart.
Nonsense. Nicolas had made his choice when he left without a word. Now she had to accept that there was no future for them. She could not allow hope to prolong her pain.
A sharp knock at the door startled Emily from her thoughts. Mathew jumped up, eager to answer it in the butler’s absence. Emily placed a gentle, steadying hand on his shoulder, her thoughts briefly slipping away.
“Allow me, darling,” she said, smoothing her skirts as she rose.
As she approached the door, the sound of familiar laughter drifted through, bringing an involuntary smile to her face. Emily opened the door to the sight of her dearest friends, Lady Charlotte Ashbourne and Miss Beatrice Sinclair, their arms full of parcels, cheeks aglow with the crisp winter air.
“Merry Christmas,” Charlotte said, enveloping Emily in a warm embrace that smelled of cinnamon and evergreen.
Beatrice, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to leave us freezing on your doorstep all day, Em?”
Emily chuckled, stepping aside to usher them in. “Heaven forbid. Come in, come in.”
As her friends bustled into the parlor, shedding cloaks and gloves, Emily felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Their presence brought a lightness she sorely needed.
“We have brought treats,” Charlotte announced, presenting a basket of freshly baked scones.
“I will take those,” Mathew said, reaching out for the basket. “I am famished.”
Charlotte laughed, handing him the goodies. “Do take care not to eat them all at once.”
Beatrice snorted, her attention turning to Emily as Mathew strode away with his treasure. “And something a touch stronger for after Mathew is abed.” She produced a bottle of fine brandy with a wink.
Emily’s eyes widened. “Beatrice. You should not have.”
“Oh, but I should,” Beatrice replied, her gaze twinkling with mischief. “After all, what are friends for if not to provide a good time?”
As they settled by the fire, Emily found herself caught between laughter and tears. The easy banter, the warmth of their friendship—it was a balm to her wounded heart.
“Now,” Charlotte said, her voice soft yet earnest as she reached for Emily’s hand, “tell us, truly, how have you been?”
Emily hesitated, her throat tightening. She glanced at Mathew, now engrossed in a book at the far end of the parlor, then back to her friends’ concerned faces.
“I am... managing,” she said, willing her voice not to waver.
“This is your third Christmas since becoming a widow. I can only imagine how it weighs on you.” Beatrice leaned forward, her sharp features softening. “We are here for you, Em. Whatever you need.”
“It has gotten easier with time.” Emily offered a small grin.
Emily’s gaze drifted to the window, where snowflakes danced in the fading light. She sighed, a wistful sound that did not escape her friends’ notice.
“You seem... distant,” Charlotte ventured, her gaze filled with concern. “What is occupying your mind?”
Beatrice, ever observant, narrowed her eyes. “Or perhaps... who?”
Emily’s cheeks flushed, and she fumbled with her teacup. “I-I do not know what you mean,” she stammered, painfully aware of how unconvincing she sounded.
“Come now,” Beatrice pressed, her tone softening despite her direct approach. “We have known you far too long to be fooled. There is a particular sorrow in your eye, one I have not seen since...”
“Since your husband was laid to rest,” Charlotte finished, reaching out to squeeze Emily’s hand.
Her heart clenched at the mention, though it was not her late husband that was causing her grief. She had tried so hard to push Nicolas from her thoughts, but now, faced with her friends’ loving scrutiny, she felt her carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble.
“I met someone,” Emily said, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate china. “He became injured during the blizzard, and I cared for him. Now...” Her voice faltered. “I can not stop thinking about him.”
Charlotte sat her teacup down. “Does this someone have a name?”
Emily swallowed hard before saying, “Mr. Nicolas Winters.”
“The notorious rogue with the playful smirks and dangerous smoldering gazes. No wonder you are in such a state,” Beatrice said, fanning herself playfully.
Emily blew out a breath and sank back against the velvet upholstery. “It is foolish, I know. He left without a word, and yet...”
“And yet your heart still yearns,” Charlotte supplied, her empathy evident in every word.
Beatrice leaned forward. “You deserve happiness, Emily,” she said, her voice soft yet still resolute. “Perhaps it is time to consider opening your heart again.”
“But what if—” Emily began, fear coloring her words.
“What if it leads to joy?” Charlotte interjected. “What if this is your second chance?”
Emily’s gaze darted between her friends, their faces etched with care and encouragement. The tiny spark of hope she had tried to put out flickered anew, fragile but undeniably present.
“You are both too good to me,” she said, a tremulous smile touching her lips.
Beatrice raised an eyebrow, a hint of her usual mischief returning. “Nonsense. We are simply reminding you of your own worth. Now, shall we plot your grand romantic gesture, or would you prefer another scone first?”
Emily laughed at Beatrice’s quip, her spirits lifting ever so slightly. She reached for a scone, her fingers trembling as she broke off a piece. “I suppose... Well, maybe… I could write to him,” she said.
Charlotte’s gaze lit up. “That is a wonderful idea. A letter would allow you to express your feelings without the pressure of an immediate response.”
“But what would I even say?” Emily’s voice cracked with uncertainty, her brow furrowing. “How do I put into words... all that is in my heart?”
Beatrice leaned forward, her gaze intense. “Speak from your heart, darling. Tell him how he makes you feel, how your world is brighter when he is in it.”
Emily nodded, her resolve strengthening. She rose from her seat and moved to her writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Her friends watched in supportive silence as she dipped her quill in ink and wrote.
“Dear Mr. Winters,” she murmured as she penned the words, her heart racing. “I find myself compelled to write to you, for my thoughts have been consumed by our time together... I must speak with you once you have seen to your sister.”
As Emily wrote, she felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. She thought of stolen glances and shared laughter, of the warmth that bloomed within her whenever he was near. With each word, her determination grew.
I know not why you left as you did, she wrote, her quill scratching softly against the paper, but I cannot let fear or misunderstanding keep us apart.
If there is even the slightest chance that you feel as I do, I implore you to respond.
For I have found in you a renewed chance for happiness, and I am not ready to let that go.
Emily paused, her quill hovering over the paper. She glanced back at Charlotte and Beatrice, who offered encouraging smiles. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to her letter.
With hope and affection, she concluded, signing her name with a flourish.
As she folded the letter, Emily felt a curious mixture of trepidation and excitement. She had taken the first step toward her future, whatever it might hold.
With trembling fingers, she pressed her seal into the warm wax, watching as it hardened into a perfect crimson circle. She held the letter for a moment, its weight in her hands far greater than mere paper and ink.
“It is done,” she breathed, turning to face Charlotte and Beatrice.