“Right, what was I thinking?” Molly winked, accepted her change from Eberta and her packages. “Mercy, it’s lovely to meet you. I hope to see you again soon. Amelia, try and stay out of trouble.”
“I’m never in trouble.” Amelia grinned widely. “It all depends on how you look at it.”
“Hmm, you sound like my girls.” Molly laughed, smiled warmly at Mercy as she passed and leaned in to say something quietly to Cole. She waved at George, slipped through the door Cole opened for her and was gone, leaving them alone.
Even in the busy store full of bustling shoppers, even with their children between them, she felt alone. Lonely. Mercy sighed quietly, for this was what she had expected. It was what she knew, what her first marriage had become. Why would this relationship be any different? As if not knowing what to say, either, Cole turned to help George off with his coat, for one of his buttons had gotten stuck. She’d sewn it on too tightly when it had popped off on the train.
“Amelia,” Cole said as he worked the button free. “Why don’t you take Mercy and George to their rooms? That is, unless you want to stay here and help me in the store, George.”
George bit his bottom lip, debating. Torn between going with his mother or staying with his new father-to-be. His blue eyes met hers imploring. “Can I stay here, Ma?”
“Of course you can. You come upstairs and find me when you’re ready.” Her words felt scratchy, sounded thick and raw with the emotion she felt. A mix of gratitude and relief and sadness. In gaining this marriage, she had to let go of George just a little bit, to share him with Cole.
This was for the best, she hold herself, knowing deep in her stomach it was true. Look at the care the man took with her son. Leading him around the counter, talking to him kindly, telling the boy he was just the helper he needed. Dreams for her son, the ones that had brought her here, filled her heart. George gazed up at the man with adoration, eyes wide with wonder.
Yes, a loveless marriage was worth that, she thought to buoy herself, letting Amelia pull her away. She touched her fingertips to the sprig of mistletoe pinned to her coat collar, remembering the conductor’s kindness. Well, she did not need a kiss on Christmas. No, she wanted a happy son and a happy daughter. It was the children who mattered.
Chapter Three
“It’s getting dark.” Amelia dropped both satchels on the landing outside the door at the top of the narrow staircase, turned the knob and burst across the threshold. Her shoes tapped a merry rhythm as she darted ahead into the twilight room. “But Eberta lit the fire for you. It’s toasty warm up here.”
“Yes, it is.” Mercy unbuttoned her coat, moving into the shadowed rooms. Her steps echoed around her. “Can I help?”
“No, I’ve got it.” A flame snapped to life and Amelia carefully lit a glass lamp on a table next to a horsehair sofa. A nice, comfortable-looking sofa. The girl carried the match to the second lamp on an identical table, careful to protect the flame. “What do you think? Eberta and I worked real hard.”
“You surely did. It’s wonderful, Amelia.” Her throat ached at the thoughtfulness. What a comfortable room. A warm wool afghan graced the back of the sofa, quilted throw pillows added color to the room and lacy doilies lent an air of elegance. Warm braided rugs made the space cozy. “Thank you. I’ve never felt more at home.”
“Eberta made all of the afghans and lacy things.” Amelia lit the second lamp, shaking out the match.
Light danced to life, flickering into the recesses of the room, showing off a small kitchen and an eating area in the corner. A doorway must lead to the bedroom. After such a long journey, sleeping on the train, the thought of a warm comfortable bed made her weak in the knees. She eased onto the edge of the sofa, hand to her heart, more thankful than words could say.
“I think Eberta was hoping I’d take a notion to try the needle arts,” Amelia explained as she grabbed a pot holder and opened the potbellied stove’s door. Reddish-orange flames raged inside the metal belly. “Nope, there’s plenty of fuel. You know, I have no interest in learning to knit and stuff, but Pa says I have to learn. I suppose it would be okay if you taught me, but I want you to know my feelings.”
“I hear you loud and clear.” Mercy reached out to smooth a stray strawberry-blond lock of the girl’s hair. What a sparkle she was, full of life and light. “It might be a nice way for you and me to get to know each other. My ma and I would sit for hours on a Sunday afternoon knitting or sewing away, just talking.”
“What was your ma like?” Amelia tilted her head to one side, curious. “Was she like you?”
“Goodness, no. She was very refined. Very cultured. She was the youngest daughter of a very wealthy man and ran away from home to marry someone her family didn’t approve of. She became a farmer’s wife, but she never regretted it. She said love was the greatest treasure in this life.”
“Pa says children are.” Amelia grinned, full of mischief. “Except for me. He says I’m nothing but trouble.”
“Is that so? I’m dying to know what kind of trouble you are.” While she waited for the girl’s answer, the motherly side of her couldn’t help wondering about George. Or the man with him, the tall and tough-looking store owner. Was that the rumble of Cole’s baritone through the floorboards? And why was she straining to listen?
“Well, you know about the sledding.” Amelia scrunched up her face, most adorably. She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling, thinking. “I tend to get in trouble at school for whispering or writing notes to my friends on my slate.”
“I have a hard time imagining that,” Mercy gently teased.
“I know! I try to be good, I really do, but I’m naturally bubbly.” Amelia didn’t seem all that troubled by it. “I have snowball making down to a fine art. No one can make a better one than me. The trick is to spit on it just a little. It ices up, so it holds together better when you throw it.”
“Good to know.” Mercy wondered just exactly what kind of influence Amelia might be on poor George. An aspect she hadn’t considered when she’d been in North Carolina, trying to decide which newspaper advertisement to answer.
A tap of footsteps caught her attention. A floorboard squeaked as a man’s heavy gait marched closer, accompanied by the patter of a boy’s. Her attention leaped, eager to gaze upon her son and see how he was doing, but her senses seemed focused on the tall, shadowed man pausing outside the open door to grip the fallen satchels.
Oh, my. His thick dark hair swirled in a thick whirl around his crown and fell to his collar. As he straightened, hauling the satchels with him, muscles bunched and played beneath the material of his shirt. He strode powerfully into the room like a man more suited to the wild outdoors, hefting a rifle at a bear, perhaps. He dominated the room and made her pulse skid to a stop. He looked immense with his broad shoulders and muscled girth. When he caught her watching him, he jerked his gaze away, staring hard at the floor.
“I’ll put these in the bedroom.” The smoky pitch of his tone came gruff and distant. As if he didn’t want to talk to her. He said nothing more, crossing behind the couch, where she couldn’t see him, where his step drummed in the room like a hollow heartbeat. “George, did you want to come along?”
“Yes, sir!” The boy hurried after him, disappearing into the shadowed, narrow hallway.
Mercy didn’t know why her chest ached so much it hurt to breathe. Her husband-to-be was doing his best to avoid her. He was courteous and responsible toward her, but she felt a vast distance settling between them. It felt lonely.
“Pa?” Amelia hopped to her feet with a flat-footed thud. “What about supper? We are gonna have Ma and George over, right?”
“She’s not your ma yet.” His voice thundered from the far room, sounding muffled and irritated. Something landed on