George followed her inside. “I disagree. You kissed a pig—”
“Shh!” She swung around, her eyes darting in every direction around the crowded room.
“Braving illness of one kind or another. Then you”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“kissed me in the middle of the street for anyone to see. Then we were caught laughing hysterically together by the curate. We risked your reputation, surely, and at the very least endangered the curate’s good view of you.”
“My reputation is already ruined. And the curate already disapproves of me.”
“Hm. It felt terribly risky to me.”
“We were never in danger.”
George unloaded his parcels on the bar as the innkeeper bustled out from the kitchen.
“Ah! Back so soon,” Mr. Crank said.
“We come bearing gifts,” Jane said.
“For the entire town, it appears.”
“Just so.”
Mrs. Crank appeared from the taproom and peered into a basket. “You can give a few of these away right now and cut down your visits. I’ll pour you both a pint of my cider to keep you warm and festive.”
“Much appreciated, Mrs. Crank.”
Mrs. Crank lifted a hand to her hair, flying out of a low coil at the base of her head. “Don’t smile like that, my lord. Save your charm for Lady Jane.”
“Alas, she does not want it.”
“Bah.” Mrs. Crank bustled off to fetch the cider presumably, and George turned to find Jane and many of the baskets missing. He followed a gust of laughter from the taproom and found her by the large fireplace, kneeling by an old woman sitting cozy near its warmth.
A man sitting in the corner already had a basket and smiled as he pulled the tangle of mistletoe from it. “Maud! Look at this. You’ll have to kiss me this Christmas.”
A woman, Maud apparently, slapped his arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Did you get socks in yours?”
He held up a pair of stout wool socks in answer.
The woman sitting with Jane near the fire smiled, but it was a distant sort of thing, a smile George had often seen on his uncle’s face, dreamy and absent.
Jane returned it, though, and squeezed the woman’s hand before rising and joining George. She stood close and leaned even closer as she surveyed the few inhabitants of the taproom, then she looked up at George. “Mrs. Merriweather’s memory is not what it used to be, not since her husband died. She thought I was her daughter, Sally, but Sally drops her off here every day before coming to Whitwood. She works in the kitchens and wants her mother to have company, says it keeps her mind sharper. But she still always thinks I’m Sally. I go along with it. Seems kinder. And Mr. and Miss Jimson are always here.”
“What do they do?”
“Mr. Jimson lost his arm in the wars, but he helps Mr. Crank with the bookkeeping. His business has much improved since they began collaborating. And Miss Jimson, Mr. Jimson’s sister, works as a maid.”
George should likely say something, but the only words that came to mind were ones she was not ready to hear. How was a woman who wore love as easily as a perfectly tailored gown so scared of the emotion? She was not scared to give love to her friends and others. It seemed to come as naturally to her as breathing. It was only romantic love that had been ruined for her.
“Here you go, my dears.” Mrs. Crank appeared with a steaming cup of cider in each hand. She handed them off to Jane and George and rummaged through another basket on the bar. She pulled out the mistletoe. “Lovely. Will you do the honors of being the first?” She turned toward the kitchen. “Mr. Crank!”
He appeared almost immediately. “Yes, my love?”
She held up the tangle of green and red. “Hang it, will you?”
He waved a hand and disappeared once more.
Jane bit her lip. “I’m afraid we cannot stay much longer. Many more baskets to deliver.”
Mrs. Crank dusted her apron. “Of course, dear. Stop by before you leave the village.” She winked.
