“My breaths are so slow, so it would take years to get to my toes.”
Curious statement, but much he had said made not a lick of sense. She would let it be.
He patted her hand, his irritation leaving him as quickly as it had come to him. “You’re a good girl. Georgie has done well for himself. You do not like poetry, but… perhaps you might read to me? You have a lovely, deep voice.”
“Thank you. I would, but I dislike reading. I prefer being told stories. And telling them. I know one about a ghost. Would you like to hear it?”
His dim eyes lit like candles. “Yes, indeed.” He settled into the chair.
She returned to her own seat. “I suppose the story starts with a highwayman. A Scottish highwayman.”
Neville’s eyes took on a faraway look.
Jane returned to her seat and looked up at George, who still stood like a sentinel over his uncle. “Will you sit and listen?” She reached a hand to him, trying as much to reassure him as she had his uncle.
“Yes. I’d like that.” George sat nearby and even dared relax into the cushions, crossing one booted ankle over his knee.
“Excellent,” Jane said. “I do not have Christmas gifts for anyone, so this tale will have to suffice.” Jane smoothed her skirts over her legs. “Excellent. As I was saying, there was a Scottish highwayman. But he’s the hero. You must know that from the start. Oh! And it’s not a particularly happy ending. Not for him, anyway.”
George laughed, an actual happy and light bubble of a sound. “Jane, that’s not how you tell a story.” He grinned at her, an expression to match his laugh.
Jane welcomed the teasing, though it had come later than expected. She had to show him there was no danger here. She had traveled from Whitwood with Lillian, she had said goodbye to her friend at George’s doorstep, and now she would face George’s uncle, who seemed more a lamb than a tiger.
And it felt right to face these fears, to do these bold and daring things. They were not mistakes.
Jane reached across the space between them and tapped George on the arm. “I shall tell it my way, thank you.”
He captured her hand and thread their fingers together. “Then continue.”
Jane smoothed her skirts and focused on the fire in order to find her words. The story she’d meant to tell was dark and sad, full of dungeons, prisoners, forced marriages, and broken hearts. But perhaps a man who’d lived such sadness needed a different tale, and perhaps his lonely, terrified nephew needed a different story, too. One of hope and courage, a Christmas tale to put the disappointments of the past behind them so they could boldly step into their futures.
* * *
George could not relax, no matter how many reassuring glances Jane sent his way, no matter how softly Martha played her music, or how cozy Wix’s snores made the room feel. Because Jane sat near his uncle, because every risk he’d worked hard to avoid collided in this room.
His uncle was volatile. He knew they’d lessened his doses, and though he’d agreed to continue at the set pace of reduction, he’d grown irritable, unpredictable.
Yet Jane sat before his uncle. And everything was… peaceful.
Impossible.
And yet…
“George. George! George, are you listening to me?”
George’s head snapped toward Jane. “My apologies. I was woolgathering.”
“Your uncle has fallen asleep. Should we leave him there?”
“It will not hurt him. And I would like to speak with you someplace private.”
Jane stood. “I would like that as well.” Her eyes flicked toward Martha and Wix.
George took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Say your goodbyes, Jane. I’ll take you home now. Martha, will you see about getting Neville to his bed before you leave?”
Martha stood from the pianoforte. “Certainly.”
“You’ll come to the New Year’s Eve ball,” Wix said, nodding his goodbye.
