A Kiss For Midwinter
Page 26
“His son. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to discover. How you felt about his son.”
“But…” She swallowed.
“Let me tell you a little about the family before you proceed,” Jonas said. But he didn’t think he could finish this, not on the public streets. Instead, he put his hand in the small of her back and led her across the street to the park.
In the last day, the tree had been trimmed. Little metal candleholders graced the ends of the branches. Snowflakes made of quills and goose feathers nestled among the greenery, and a gold ribbon had been threaded around it. As he came closer, he could smell the orange-and-clove of constructed pomanders mixing with the smell of fresh pine.
“Are you well acquainted with the family?”
“You might say that,” he said, guiding her to the tree. He left her standing at the edge of the stage. He himself leaped up and examined the ornaments. It gave him something to do other than look in her eyes.
“As you may have surmised,” he said, “Lucas was born poor. He was the sixth son of a costermonger, one who learned only the rudiments of reading and writing. He started buying and selling scrap-metal, rummaging through middens to find bits that he could trade. He saved every penny he could and worked arduously to build not just a living, but a thriving business. He married late in life—it had taken him several decades to build himself up. Even after he married, his wife had a difficult time having children. His only child was born after twelve years of marriage; his wife died five years later. Lucas was solely responsible for his son from that point on.”
There were painted angels made of tin hidden within the branches of the tree, angels that would reflect the light of the candles once they were lit. He supposed a tree wasn’t the worst of traditions.
“I would wager he was a good father,” Lydia said, coming up on the stage to stand by him, and Jonas felt a twinge.
“A very good father.” Jonas’s throat closed, and he leaned in to look at a bugle of frosted glass. “Strict, mind you, and frugal, but he made sure his son got a good education. And when the parish teacher came to him and told him that his son had a real talent for learning, he…”
A little string of bells hung on the tree, and a passing breeze made them ring lightly. It reminded him of his father waking him on Christmas with bells, making the holiday feel like a large family affair when it had really just been the two of them. That Christmas, his father—his father who thought carefully before purchasing a pair of socks, if the ones he had could possibly be mended—had given him a wildly extravagant gift.
Jonas swallowed. “He didn’t hesitate to purchase his son an expensive set of encyclopedias. That from the man who once picked horseshoe nails off the street, who refuses sugar to save a few shillings every week. Another man might have insisted that his son take over his business; instead, when he found out that his son had the chance go to university, if only he could find the money… Lucas sold the scrap yard that he’d spent two decades building.” The one his father had thought was the beginning of not just a business, but a real empire. “He gave up all that, just for his son.”
Lydia looked over at him. “This is the son who allows him to live…”
He breathed in pine and closed his eyes. “This is the son who lets him live in that pile of refuse,” Jonas told her. “That very one.”
Her eyes grew shadowed. “I suppose he has become a barrister or some other sort of important individual.”
“I suppose he has.”
“And he no longer has time for his father,” she said sadly. “He cannot have visited, not since…not since all this started. Or he would never have allowed it to happen.”
Jonas let out a long breath and forced himself to turn to her. “He visits,” he said softly. “He visits every day. But he is at a loss as to what to do with him. He’s tried to have the wreckage forcibly cleared, but…the last time he attempted it, the constables were called. He’s afraid his father will work himself into an apoplexy if he tries again. At this point, his only option is to have his own father—the father who sacrificed everything to make him what he is—declared incompetent, his house cleared by force, and his father sedated during the whole process so that he does himself no injury. What kind of son does such a thing?” He balled his hands into his fists. “What kind of son does nothing? I fear for his heart, if he were to be removed from those surroundings. I fear for his health, if he stays.” He took a long, shaking breath. “My God, Lydia, I wish you would tell me what you think about his son.”
Her eyes met his. He wasn’t sure how long she’d known, at what point in the story she had figured out the truth. Hell, when he started talking, he hadn’t been sure if she knew at all. His father might have made it plain in their conversation, before Jonas came up with the tea things.
She took a step toward him. “His name is Lucas…Grantham?”
A single, short nod.
“You didn’t tell me you were taking me to see your father.”
“No.” He looked away. “I didn’t. I told him I was bringing you to see him, though.” He smiled. “He gave you his lard-and-rice receipt, which is proof positive that he likes you. He only mentions that to people he approves of. And don’t worry about the sugar in your tea. He hates when I take sugar, too.”
It was all babble. He couldn’t look away from her. She was standing in front of him, looking up at him.
“You want me to tell you what I think of you.” She took another step toward him.
“I wanted to spend time with you, to convince you I wasn’t the ogre you feared.” He looked away. “Little did I know that over the course of these last days, I’d learn more of you, too. That you were brave. That beneath your laughter and your cheer, there lies a solid measure of good sense.” He swallowed. He was babbling still. “You make me happy. And what I most keenly want to know is… Do you think I could ever do the same for you?”
She put her finger on his lips. “Jonas.”
His Christian name sounded awkward on her lips. It was the first time he’d heard her say it. The smell of pine was strong. He couldn’t look away from her. She set her hands on his arms—the curls that hung at her cheeks brushed his jaw. She stood so close, he could almost taste her. She stepped closer still. Jonas bent to her, tasting the sweetness of her breath. Her lips were dizzyingly close. And then…
“But…” She swallowed.
“Let me tell you a little about the family before you proceed,” Jonas said. But he didn’t think he could finish this, not on the public streets. Instead, he put his hand in the small of her back and led her across the street to the park.
In the last day, the tree had been trimmed. Little metal candleholders graced the ends of the branches. Snowflakes made of quills and goose feathers nestled among the greenery, and a gold ribbon had been threaded around it. As he came closer, he could smell the orange-and-clove of constructed pomanders mixing with the smell of fresh pine.
“Are you well acquainted with the family?”
“You might say that,” he said, guiding her to the tree. He left her standing at the edge of the stage. He himself leaped up and examined the ornaments. It gave him something to do other than look in her eyes.
“As you may have surmised,” he said, “Lucas was born poor. He was the sixth son of a costermonger, one who learned only the rudiments of reading and writing. He started buying and selling scrap-metal, rummaging through middens to find bits that he could trade. He saved every penny he could and worked arduously to build not just a living, but a thriving business. He married late in life—it had taken him several decades to build himself up. Even after he married, his wife had a difficult time having children. His only child was born after twelve years of marriage; his wife died five years later. Lucas was solely responsible for his son from that point on.”
There were painted angels made of tin hidden within the branches of the tree, angels that would reflect the light of the candles once they were lit. He supposed a tree wasn’t the worst of traditions.
“I would wager he was a good father,” Lydia said, coming up on the stage to stand by him, and Jonas felt a twinge.
“A very good father.” Jonas’s throat closed, and he leaned in to look at a bugle of frosted glass. “Strict, mind you, and frugal, but he made sure his son got a good education. And when the parish teacher came to him and told him that his son had a real talent for learning, he…”
A little string of bells hung on the tree, and a passing breeze made them ring lightly. It reminded him of his father waking him on Christmas with bells, making the holiday feel like a large family affair when it had really just been the two of them. That Christmas, his father—his father who thought carefully before purchasing a pair of socks, if the ones he had could possibly be mended—had given him a wildly extravagant gift.
Jonas swallowed. “He didn’t hesitate to purchase his son an expensive set of encyclopedias. That from the man who once picked horseshoe nails off the street, who refuses sugar to save a few shillings every week. Another man might have insisted that his son take over his business; instead, when he found out that his son had the chance go to university, if only he could find the money… Lucas sold the scrap yard that he’d spent two decades building.” The one his father had thought was the beginning of not just a business, but a real empire. “He gave up all that, just for his son.”
Lydia looked over at him. “This is the son who allows him to live…”
He breathed in pine and closed his eyes. “This is the son who lets him live in that pile of refuse,” Jonas told her. “That very one.”
Her eyes grew shadowed. “I suppose he has become a barrister or some other sort of important individual.”
“I suppose he has.”
“And he no longer has time for his father,” she said sadly. “He cannot have visited, not since…not since all this started. Or he would never have allowed it to happen.”
Jonas let out a long breath and forced himself to turn to her. “He visits,” he said softly. “He visits every day. But he is at a loss as to what to do with him. He’s tried to have the wreckage forcibly cleared, but…the last time he attempted it, the constables were called. He’s afraid his father will work himself into an apoplexy if he tries again. At this point, his only option is to have his own father—the father who sacrificed everything to make him what he is—declared incompetent, his house cleared by force, and his father sedated during the whole process so that he does himself no injury. What kind of son does such a thing?” He balled his hands into his fists. “What kind of son does nothing? I fear for his heart, if he were to be removed from those surroundings. I fear for his health, if he stays.” He took a long, shaking breath. “My God, Lydia, I wish you would tell me what you think about his son.”
Her eyes met his. He wasn’t sure how long she’d known, at what point in the story she had figured out the truth. Hell, when he started talking, he hadn’t been sure if she knew at all. His father might have made it plain in their conversation, before Jonas came up with the tea things.
She took a step toward him. “His name is Lucas…Grantham?”
A single, short nod.
“You didn’t tell me you were taking me to see your father.”
“No.” He looked away. “I didn’t. I told him I was bringing you to see him, though.” He smiled. “He gave you his lard-and-rice receipt, which is proof positive that he likes you. He only mentions that to people he approves of. And don’t worry about the sugar in your tea. He hates when I take sugar, too.”
It was all babble. He couldn’t look away from her. She was standing in front of him, looking up at him.
“You want me to tell you what I think of you.” She took another step toward him.
“I wanted to spend time with you, to convince you I wasn’t the ogre you feared.” He looked away. “Little did I know that over the course of these last days, I’d learn more of you, too. That you were brave. That beneath your laughter and your cheer, there lies a solid measure of good sense.” He swallowed. He was babbling still. “You make me happy. And what I most keenly want to know is… Do you think I could ever do the same for you?”
She put her finger on his lips. “Jonas.”
His Christian name sounded awkward on her lips. It was the first time he’d heard her say it. The smell of pine was strong. He couldn’t look away from her. She set her hands on his arms—the curls that hung at her cheeks brushed his jaw. She stood so close, he could almost taste her. She stepped closer still. Jonas bent to her, tasting the sweetness of her breath. Her lips were dizzyingly close. And then…
