Fourth Day of Christmas #3
“Ah,” he said, shaking his head at himself. “I should not have . . . I did not mean to . . . Lily was my young wife, so lively and kind, with a gentle heart. But alas, last Christmas she took a fall. Within a fortnight, she had passed this mortal realm.”
“Oh, Mr. Culpepper, I’m so sorry.” And she meant it. The sadness in his eyes looked so real. He was far too young to be a widower.
Mr. Culpepper’s smile was still sad but no longer hopeless. “I feel I can say anything to you. Do you know you have an air of openness? A nonjudgmental manner that simply invites others to be who they are.”
It felt like a sincere compliment. Not the you’ re-so-pretty variety, which she enjoyed but didn’t take much stock in. This was an observed truth. Others had observed this about her before.
Okay fine, others meant Hank. She got caught up in a certain memory.
They had gone to a New Year’s party separately but left together.
It had been in the cold of a Midwest winter, the air outside a block of ice too solid to breathe.
She’d forgotten gloves, so he held one of her hands inside the pocket of his jacket.
She had no idea what would happen next, but walking beside Hank, there was a confidence coursing through her, as if she’d been injected with a supersoldier serum.
His strength was becoming hers, and hers was his.
Together, they’d felt so much more. Immediately she’d doubted herself, a harsh scolding voice inside her head: You’re always overreacting.
This is just another flirtation. Stop trying to make everything a big deal.
But then, as if he’d heard her thoughts, Hank said, “I can’t believe this is real and not a dream.
I’m actually holding your hand.” She’d made some dismissive joke, but Hank had insisted, “I always liked being near you. Your atmosphere is a very comfortable place to exist. But being alone with you . . . It’s so much more. I feel drunk on your presence.”
Kestrel shivered. This constant awareness of Hank was interfering with her ability to enjoy a romantic moment with Mr. Culpepper.
She became conscious that the piano music had stopped and so shot a glance that way.
Hank was still on the bench with Lady Heartwright, who was running her hands along his back.
“You have such broad shoulders,” she gushed.
Kestrel could see in the subtle tension around his eyes that he was entirely miserable but putting up with it because . . . polite? Why wouldn’t he ever stand up for himself? Why did he let other people push him around? It drove her crazy!
“Ooh, and such strong arms!” exclaimed Lady Heartwright.
Mr. Culpepper’s attention was still wholly on Kestrel. “In just a few days, we will have a ball. If I might be so bold as to ask—”
“I’m so sorry, excuse me one moment,” said Kestrel.
“Of course,” said Mr. Culpepper, but his posture deflated.
Kestrel was annoyed with herself for not enjoying Hank’s discomfort even a little bit.
In fact, she felt on fire with the knowledge of his suffering and couldn’t rest till she’d relieved it.
She looked around for Andrews to aid her.
Strangely he was not in the drawing room.
But she spotted Mrs. Martinez just finishing a game of checkers with one of the Hardy Boys and went to her on instinct.
“Mrs. Martinez,” Kestrel whispered, “I suspect Mr. Kern is not the best at extricating himself from an awkward situation and could use saving. Do you think you could . . .”
Mrs. Martinez’s dark eyes scanned the room, and on finding him, she smiled, her cheeks pressing back with well-earned laugh lines.
“Ah, yes, Lady Heartwright is so kindly attentive to the gentlemen. But Mr. Kern is a sensitive soul, isn’t he?
I’ve got this.” She patted Kestrel’s shoulder and bustled into the fray.
“I am so sorry to intrude,” said Mrs. Martinez, “but, Mr. Kern, I understand Edwin is in desperate need of your help out back.”
Hank made apologies to Lady Heartwright, and though his words said he was sorry to go, Kestrel could see the relief in the lines of his forehead as he stood and followed Mrs. Martinez out. Just before he was gone, he glanced Kestrel’s way. And caught her watching.
“Cripes,” Kestrel whispered. She didn’t know what cripes meant, but it felt like a good expletive to use when in a drawing room.
Two love interests per guest, Mrs. Wattlesbrook had said. Since Hank was one of four gents from Windy Nook, did that mean he was here in an official capacity? Was he a wooer?
He didn’t return for dinner. Kestrel was comfy between a rhapsodic Mr. Culpepper and a bubbly Andrews, who had returned from who-knew-where, as had the previously absent Mr. Houlihan.
Kestrel only looked toward the door every minute or so to watch for Hank’s return. Not eager for it, of course, just mindful of him. Her entire body pricked with awareness of him. So that she could keep avoiding him.
And part of her, no matter how hard she shoved it down, floated back up again, to hope. Hope.