“Better. I begin to think I may make it to Martha before Christmas.”
“I am pleased for you.” Her gaze slid into the distance. “I know that to be your dearest wish.”
His dearest wish may very well be changing. “What's your dearest wish? Other than a husband by Christmas.”
She looked down at her lap and picked at her fingernails, then snapped her gaze to his. “That is it. To marry wisely and to know who my husband will be before Christmas. I cannot stay here with my father and Christiana any longer. It… hurts too much.” She attempted a grin. “Shall we discuss your thoughts on yesterday’s venture?”
“You have said love is not a consideration in your choice. Do you truly mean that?”
“Yes. Love is a terrible thing, dangerous and deadly.”
Not if it was done responsibly. Safely.
The footman appeared with a steaming pot of coffee and fresh cups.
When Jane held a steaming cup between two hands, she brought it close to her face and closed her eyes.
George sipped the drink carefully this time.
Eventually, she lifted large dark eyes to him. “The last Christmas my mother lived, my father came up with silly games for us all to play. A new one every night until Christmas. And the winner of a game got to choose the next night's dessert. But father's rather good at games, so he won every single night. It probably did not hurt that he came up with the games himself. I am almost positive he chose games that play to his own strengths.”
It seemed safer to speak now that she’d broken the silence herself. “That hardly seems fair. Was there a riot?”
“Oh, no. Because when Papa won, he declared he did not care for sweets, so everyone could have whatever they wished. There were three different desserts every night. One for Mama. One for Edmond. And one for me.”
“Poor cooks.” George chuckled.
“No. Papa asked cook whatherfavorite dessert was and made sure that she had it every night, too.”
“Didn't she have to cook it herself?”
“Papa ordered it prepared by and delivered from the bakery.”
“Clever man.”
“He is. He used to be. No… I suppose he still is, but he’s changed so much since Christiana. No… further back than that… since mother's death.” Jane’s entire being seemed to droop, to darken. “He told me yesterday that he so loved my mother… after her death… he wished to die. And he would have, had he not married Christiana.” She ran her finger around the rim of her cup.
George stood and dragged his chair around the table with his one good arm. He placed it right next to hers. The chairs were insubstantial things, and he could lean his body close to hers and gather her against his side, hugging her tight.
At first, she stiffened, but after a breath or two, she loosened and laid her head against his shoulder. Good. Her head felt right there.
“Grief can do odd things to a man,” he said. “To women, too. Changes them. Especially the loss of a loved one.”
She pushed out of his arms. “See! Love is dangerous. That’s why I’ll make my decision today and love be damned.” She scooted her chair a bit farther away. “Thank you for your sympathy, George. And for your help in making my decision. Shall we begin? We shall lay all the facts on the table before us, and my choice will take as clear a shape as that tea ring right there.” She rubbed at the worn, brown ring stained onto the tabletop.
George settled down into his seat. Help her make a clear decision? He no longer felt capable of that. “Are you leaning in any one particular direction?” Every word he spoke sounded like a question, a hesitation.
“I am. But I would like to hear what you have to say first before I give away the man’s identity.”
What to do? Throw his hands in the air and tell her none of the suitors would suit? Or be honest and truly helpful, giving her what she asked for instead of what he wanted. He bit back a curse.
She sat before him, almost shivering. He could do nothing to hurt her.
“Newburton. Dour is too reserved for you and Quillsby not confident enough.”
“Hm. Excellent points, George. Mr. Dour does have a lovely head of hair, though. Thick. Sticks up just so. And Mr. Newburton’s hair is thinning a bit.”
George resisted touching his own hair. Was it thinning? He didn’t think so, but what did Jane think?
