“You win,” he sneered.
It was unlikely he would wear a paper hat even if he won, but it just wouldn’t be Christmas if she didn’t wear one. Ignoring his pained expression, she nestled the hat atop her blonde hair.
Her mother picked up the discarded motto. “What do you call a train loaded with toffee?” she asked timidly.
“Oh, oh, I know this one,” Grace shouted. “A chew chew train.”
Everyone groaned.
Brock cleared his throat. “Speaking of trains, I’m afraid I must leave. Early tomorrow morning, I am scheduled to attend a meeting of shareholders about the new bridge over the Severn. Last minute details concerning the official opening. If you’ll excuse me. Thank you for a delicious dinner, Mrs. Hindley,” he said without sincerity as he got to his feet.
Peeved, Samantha deemed it interesting he’d eaten the one thing on his plate that wasn’t up to her mother’s standards—the rock hard Brussels sprout.
“But tomorrow’s Boxing Day,” Grace accused.
“I’m aware of that,” he replied as if speaking to a nincompoop.
His announcement about the meeting held the first hint of enthusiasm in his voice they’d heard all day. Samantha knew he’d been charged by his employer to simply record the minutes, but the smug look on his face might lead one to believe he’d be chairing the gathering. She hadn’t mentioned Brock’s tenuous connection to the bridge which would sound the death knell for the ferry across the Severn her father captained.
She’d looked forward to dancing with her fiancé at the Annual Policeman’s Ball the day after Boxing Day. The local constabulary invited her father every year, as a courtesy to a local man in uniform. Now, she’d be just another girl tagging along after her parents. Dancing with one’s father at her age was embarrassing.
“And I’ve been assigned a seat on the first official train across the span on the 28th,” Brock crowed. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
Clearly more important than escorting me to the ball.
Samantha couldn’t settle on why she found the notion irritating. The police “do” wasn’t really a ball in the true sense of the word, more like a barn dance. Too parochial for the likes of Brock. The train would be full of dignitaries—influential people. Just the sort he should mix with.
However, not for the first time, she had a sinking feeling she’d been too much in love with the idea of being married to a man with prospects, and not with the man himself.
FULL MOON
Leaving his uncle snoring in the gloomy parlor, Parker collected his belongings from the butler.
His rooms were a good mile distant, but his leg was stiff with sitting, so he declined Kerr’s offer to summon a hansom. “The walk will do me good,” he said.
“Bundle up then, sir,” the butler replied. “It’s chilly.”
“I will,” Parker replied, wedging the bowler on his head before buttoning his heavy winter coat. He knotted the scarf around his neck and donned his leather gloves.
“Happy Christmas, sir,” Kerr said, handing Parker his cane.
“And to you,” he replied, bracing himself against the wind as he stepped out into the night.
He pulled the scarf up to cover his ears, chuckling at the realization he and his uncle had spent most of the afternoon and evening together yet hadn’t exchanged the usual season’s greetings.
After ten minutes walking faster than usual, his leg ached like the devil. He halted, leaned on his cane and looked to the distant river. The moon hung like a gigantic ball over the gaunt iron skeleton of the new bridge. Some might say it was blood red—not a good omen—but he couldn’t put his finger on the exact color. “Incandescent,” he murmured, his breath lingering in the frigid air.
The trees around him seemed to bask in the moon’s glow, their leaves rustling their response to her secret whisperings.
A shooting star caught his attention. It was traditional to make a wish, but such nonsense was for children. “I wish for a woman who will love me,” he breathed, feeling like a child who didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas.
The only reply was the whine of the wind howling out of the Bristol Channel.
Despite the discomfort in his leg and the fact his toes and fingertips were going numb, he couldn’t seem to move on. Under the moon’s spell, he watched her rise higher and higher, unchallenged by any cloud. “She’s mistress of this moment,” he said aloud, surprising even himself.
His only regret as he eventually forced himself to resume his walk was that he’d been alone. “Such wonders should be shared,” he mused, feeling pathetically lonely.
He halted abruptly when a strange bank of fog blocked his path—impossible given the wind. An eerie feeling that he wasn’t alone stole up his spine. He brandished his cane. “Who’s there?”