Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Charlotte studied his profile as he gazed up at the tree, noting how the winter light softened his stern features.
These glimpses of his childhood memories, freely shared rather than carefully guarded, made her heart swell with happiness.
“We must be cautious of the thorns,” he added, reaching for one particularly fine cluster.
“Even through gloves they can — Charlotte!” His warning came too late as she reached for her own branch.
A sharp point found its way through her glove, drawing from her a most unladylike exclamation which made William’s expression shift from concern to unsuccessfully concealed amusement.
“You are always so eager to grasp what you desire,” he observed softly, taking her hand in his to examine the damage.
“Regardless of any thorns in your path. Rather like your approach to breaching my careful walls, wouldn’t you say? ”
Heat rose in Charlotte’s cheeks at the tender observation, though she maintained her composure as he stripped off her glove with careful precision.
“Perhaps,” she admitted, watching as he examined the small puncture with grave attention. “Though I would argue that both prizes proved worth the risk of a few thorns.”
The look that William gave her held such deep emotion that time seemed to stop.
In the distance, a single bird cried as it flew by, and there was the soft sound of some snow dropping from the branches they had disturbed, but all else was utterly still and quiet.
For a long moment they stood thus, her bare hand cradled in his gloved ones, while winter sunshine caught the copper glints in his dark hair and turned the snow around them to diamond dust.
“Indeed?” The word emerged barely above a whisper, yet Charlotte felt its impact as a physical warmth spreading through her chest. “And what other risks might you be willing to take, my brave Charlotte? What other traditions might you restore, despite my stubborn resistance?”
“Whatever ones bring joy back to Alverton,” she said softly, letting her free hand rest against his chest where she could feel the steady thunder of his heart beneath layers of wool. “Though perhaps with more attention to thorns in future?”
His quiet laugh held none of the reserve that had once marked their every interaction.
“Then we should quickly gather some leaves and berries and return to the house,” he murmured, though his hands lingered on hers with gentle reluctance.
“Before more holly thorns find their way through your gloves. And perhaps...” He paused, something vulnerable flickering across his stern features.
“Perhaps you might share more of your plans for Christmas? I find myself quite unable to resist your subtle persuasion.”
“Not so subtle,” Charlotte admitted as he helped her replace her glove with exquisite attention. “I confess, I had already asked Cook about certain traditional dishes you might remember from childhood. And Margaret has promised to bring out her music books next week.”
“Plotting with my sister as well?” William’s voice held amusement as he gathered their holly branches with careful precision. “I begin to think that I never stood a chance against such determined restoration of Christmas cheer.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed softly, accepting his offered arm for their walk back to the house. “Though perhaps that proves to be no bad thing? When certain walls needed breaching, certain memories needed facing, for joy to find its way back into these halls?”
The great hall at Alverton already looked different by late afternoon, holly and ivy decorations taking shape under Mrs. Walden’s direction. Charlotte paused in the doorway, watching as William studied the transformation with serious attention that could not quite mask his growing enthusiasm.
“The garlands should curve more gently there,” he observed, gesturing towards the main staircase.
“Mother always insisted that they follow the line of the banister precisely. Though perhaps...” He hesitated, glancing at Charlotte with consideration.
“Perhaps you have your own vision for such arrangements?”
“I should like to learn your mother’s traditions,” she said softly, moving to stand beside him. “And perhaps add a few new ones of our own? Margaret mentioned something about there, perhaps, being some winter roses from the conservatory...”
“Roses?” The word emerged rough with sudden emotion. “Mother loved them particularly. She would have...” He stopped, swallowing hard before continuing. “She would have adored you, you know. Your determination to bring warmth back to these halls, your careful attention to what matters most.”
Before Charlotte could respond, Phillips appeared with his usual impeccable timing.
“Your Grace, Lady Margaret’s carriage has just arrived, returning from her stay with your Great-Aunt.
She has gone to her rooms, but asked me to inform you that Great Aunt Amelia has sent her best wishes of the season to you, and that Lady Margaret has all of her music books with her and, if Your Grace approves, she intends to bring out, from the boxes in the attics, certain ornaments from her childhood that she thought.
..” The butler hesitated with some delicacy, obviously unsure of William’s reaction.
“That is, she believed they might hold particular meaning, given current circumstances.”
William’s expression shifted at Phillips’ carefully worded message - vulnerability flickering beneath his usual stern composure.
“She kept them?” he asked quietly. “The glass ornaments that Mother brought from Vienna?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Phillips’ dignity could not mask his satisfaction. “Lady Margaret mentioned something about protecting certain treasures during... more difficult times.”
Charlotte felt rather than saw William’s tension at this reference to those dark days after his father’s death. Yet when he spoke, his deep voice held wonder rather than pain.
“I had thought them sold,” he murmured. “Along with so much else, when creditors circled like vultures. But Margaret...” He turned to Charlotte and her breath caught at his expression. “My sister always did prove more sentimental than practical.”
“For which we might be grateful,” Charlotte suggested softly. “When such sentimentality preserves precious memories that deserve restoration?”
The sound of footsteps drew them out into the hall. Margaret’s characteristic energy seemed to sweep towards them, though she carried a carefully wrapped package with unexpected gentleness.
“Brother dear,” she called, her bright tone holding undertones that suggested deeper meaning. “I believe that these belong on display at this time of year. Now that certain halls have found their warmth again...”
Margaret’s package, when carefully unwrapped in the quiet of the family parlour, revealed a dozen delicate glass spheres which caught firelight like captured stars. Charlotte watched as William lifted one with exquisite care, his hand shaking a little as memory overtook him.
“Mother hung them here,” he said quietly, moving toward the parlour’s bay window where winter roses now graced the sill. “Just a few, mind you - she said their delicacy required careful placement where they might catch both sunlight and candlelight.”
“I remember her teaching us the proper way to handle them,” Margaret added softly, her usual brightness gentled by remembrance.
“How she would tell us stories of her own childhood Christmases while we decorated. Though perhaps...” She paused, something hopeful lifting her expression as she glanced between William and Charlotte.
“Perhaps new stories might join the old?”
Charlotte moved to stand beside William, noting how the sphere in his hands threw rainbow patterns across his stern features.
“We shall create our own traditions,” she said gently. “While honouring those that came before.”
“Speaking of traditions,” Margaret interjected with soft emphasis, “I took the liberty of finding certain music sheets as well. Songs Mother particularly favoured during Christmas week...”
William’s free hand found Charlotte’s.
“Then perhaps,” he murmured, his deep voice holding that tender gravity which never failed to make her heart flutter, “we might gather in the music room after dinner? For I find myself quite unable to resist the prospect of new memories being forged alongside the old.”
*****
The music room, so long silent, was filled with gentle warmth that evening.
Margaret’s skilled fingers drew carols from the pianoforte while William and Charlotte sat before the fire, their long habit of propriety softened by shared contentment.
Even Phillips, entering with mulled wine on a silver tray, seemed to move with particular satisfaction.
“We should make a list,” Charlotte suggested softly as the last notes of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ faded.
“Of guests to invite for Christmas dinner. Though nothing too elaborate,” she added quickly, feeling William’s slight tension.
“Just family, who will be here anyway, and perhaps a few close friends?”
“Edmund, of course,” William said quietly, his thumb tracing gentle patterns across her knuckles.
“And your father. Though perhaps...” He hesitated, then continued with some deliberation, “Perhaps we might also invite the vicar? He is, after all, my mother’s cousin, and I believe she would have wanted. ..”
“Family belongs together at Christmas,” Margaret observed from the pianoforte, her hands poised above the keys. “Though I confess myself curious about what other plans you might be considering, brother dear? When I noticed certain preparations being discussed with Mrs. Walden...”
William’s grip tightened fractionally on Charlotte’s hand, though something like anticipation rather than tension threaded through his posture.
“Some surprises,” he murmured, “are best left as such. Though perhaps...”
The evening bells began to chime from the village church, their distant melody carrying clearly through the frost-touched air.
Yet it was not their familiar sound that made Charlotte’s breath catch, but rather the look that William gave her - full of such tender promise that her heart thundered in her chest.. .