It Happened One Christmas: Christmas Eve Proposal / The Viscount's Christmas Kiss / Wallflower, Widow...Wife!

He pulled out a folded paper sealed with the merest dab of wax and held it out to her. ‘Behold.’

‘My goodness.’ She read, ‘“Codicil. In the event of my death, to be given to my solicitor.”’ She handed back the sheet as though it burned.

He took it. ‘“In the event”, indeed,’ he said. ‘We of the Royal Navy know death to be more of a certainty than an earl, evidently.’

‘It’s a turn of phrase,’ she said, happy to defend the old man who had always treated her kindly, once he overcame the initial shock of her birth.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘You have told me he was a good sort.’ He ducked his head like a little boy. ‘Should I apologise?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She looked at the folded paper. ‘His solicitor is Mr Cooper and you’ll see him tonight, if you feel brave enough to chance the choir practice.’

‘My dear, I served at Trafalgar. I can manage a choir practice, headache or not.’

He gave her such a look then, the kind of look she thought she always wanted some day from a man.

‘If I may escort you?’

She nodded, suddenly too shy to speak.

‘Should I ask your aunt’s permission?’

‘Master Muir, you already know that I am six and twenty. No need for permission.’

‘You’ll point out Mr Cooper, will you?’

‘Certainly. I wonder, sir, were you tempted to break the seal and take a peak?’

‘Tempted, but I wouldn’t. I hope it’s good news for someone.’

‘Lord Kelso died two years ago. I assume the will was read at the time.’

‘Maybe there is a new wrinkle. I do like a mystery,’ the master said as he rubbed his hands together.

Mandy hurried through the rest of dinner, a model of efficiency and speed. She thought Aunt Sal must be having a silent chuckle over her niece’s obvious excitement over something as simple as a walk to the church for choir practice, but she kindly kept her own council.

Mandy hurried up the stairs for one look in front of the mirror, even though she knew the face peering back at her too well. She mourned over her freckles and nose that no poet would ever rhapsodise about, then dismissed the matter. Her figure was tidy, teetering just slightly on the edge of abundance, and Aunt Sal had always seen to a modest wardrobe of good material. ‘You will never shame anyone,’ Mandy said out loud, but softly.

She sat on her bed, thinking about the mother she had never known, but fully aware that without the love, generosity and courage of her maiden aunt, her life would have taken a difficult turn. She owed the Walthans nothing and that knowledge made her wink back tears and know that in church tonight, she could spend a minute just sitting in the pew, thinking of the Babe of Bethlehem and His lucky blessing of two parents—no, three—who loved Him.

‘Some day, dear Lord,’ she whispered, more vow than prayer, ‘some day the same for me.’

She looked up at a slight tap on her door. She opened it to see the sailing master, smelling nicely of the lemon soap she had sniffed that morning. She had no mother or father to give her advice or admonition, but Aunt Sal had raised her to think for herself. No one had to tell her she was putting herself into capable hands, even for something as prosaic as a saunter to St Luke’s. She just knew it.

One thing she could certainly say for this navy man: whatever his years at sea, he had a fine instinct for how to treat a lady, if such she could call herself. He helped her into her overcoat, even while she wished, for the first time ever, that the utilitarian garment was more à la mode. He swung on his boat cloak with a certain flair, even though he had probably done just that for years. How else did one don a cloak without flinging it about? But the hat, oh, my. It made him look a foot taller than he already was and more than twice as capable. Did navy men have any idea what dashing figures they cut? Mandy doubted it, especially since Ben seemed so unconcerned.

As usual, the winter mist was in plentiful supply. Years of experience with salt air and mist had trained Mandy to negotiate even the slickest cobblestones. The sailing master had no idea of her ability, evidently. Without a word, he took her arm and tucked it close to his body, until she couldn’t fall down. She almost told him she didn’t require such solicitation, but discovered that she liked being close to him.

‘It gets icy on the blockade,’ he said. ‘You should see the lubbers slip across the deck.’

‘We haven’t seen snow in several years,’ she said, wondering when she had ever resorted to talking about the weather with anyone. Perhaps after the master left, she would have to broaden her acquaintance beyond the poulterer, the butcher and the dairyman. How, she wasn’t sure, but other females did and she could, too.

‘Is Mandy’s Rose open on Christmas Day?’ he asked, slowing down so she could match his stride, a nicety she enjoyed.

‘No, but we’ll fix you a fine dinner,’ she said, surprised at how breathless she felt. Before she realised what she was doing, Mandy leaned into his arm. Her footing was firm and she had no particular reason for her action, except that she wanted to lean. The experience was comforting and she liked it. He offered no objection, except she thought she heard him sigh. Hopefully, she wasn’t pressing on an old wound.

Maybe there was mist, but she thought it highly unfair of St Luke’s Church to loom so quickly out of the dark and fog. She slowed down and the sailing master slowed down, too.

‘Girding your loins for an entrance?’ he teased. ‘Is it that kind of choir?’

She could laugh and tease, but why? He was here three weeks, then gone. ‘The choir is good enough. I just like walking with you.’

He was silent for a long moment and Mandy wondered if she had offended him.

‘Amanda, you need to get out more.’

‘Happen you’re right,’ she replied, honest to the core.

The other choir members were already gathered in the chapel. To a person, they all turned to look at Mandy and her escort. She smiled—these were her friends—and wondered at their uniformly serious expressions.

‘We leave our coats here?’ Ben whispered.

‘Back here in the cloakroom,’ she said and led the way. The glances continued and she wondered about them.

The sailing master didn’t appear to wonder. He hung up his cloak and hat and helped her, then leaned close to whisper, ‘I think I know how the wind blows, Amanda.’

‘What do you mean?’ she whispered back, feeling surprisingly conspiratorial for St Luke’s, where nothing ever happened except boring sermons.

‘If I am not mistaken, those are the very people who ate in Mandy’s Rose yesterday evening.’

She looked at him, a frown on her face, then felt herself grow too warm, not so much because he was standing close, which was giving her stomach a funny feeling, but because she understood. ‘Oh, my,’ she whispered. ‘They are looking you over. Poor, poor Ben.’ She leaned closer until her lips almost touched his ear. ‘Should I just assure them that you’ll be gone after Christmas?’

By the Almighty, she wanted to kiss that ear. An ear? Did people do that? It was probably bad enough that she was breathing in it, because he started to blush. A girl had to breathe, so she backed away.

He surprised her. ‘Amanda, whether you know it or not, you have an entire village looking after your welfare. I’m not certain I would ever measure up. It’s a good thing I’ll be here only three weeks.’

‘Nineteen days now,’ she whispered and couldn’t help tears that welled in her eyes. Thank the Lord the cloakroom was dark.

‘Your coat?’ he asked.

Silent, she handed it over, wishing she had never heard of choir practice, or Venable, or the Royal Navy. Why hadn’t she been born the daughter of an Indian chief in Canada?

The humour of her situation saved her, because it surfaced and she started to breathe normally again. Three weeks, Royal Navy, her stupid half-brother, sailing masters and blue tattoos: beyond a smile or two over her silliness and a resolve to be smarter, she’d have forgotten the whole matter in a month or two.

‘Choir practice awaits,’ she told him, indicating the chapel. ‘We’re singing our choirmaster’s own version of “O Come All Ye Faithful”, and he does need another low tenor. But not necessarily in the worst way.’

There. That was the right touch. The sailing master chuckled and she knew he had no idea what she had wanted to do in that cloakroom.

Feeling brave, she introduced Benneit Muir to most of the people who had already met him yesterday at Mandy’s Rose. She was casual, she was friendly. It only remained to introduce him to Mr Cooper, the solicitor, when the practice was over.