Page 47 of The Winter Companion

He stopped in the middle of the carpeted floor to remove his hat and coat. The butler wasn’t about. No doubt he’d joined Mrs. Quill outside to oversee the preparations for bringing in the Christmas tree. It was an undertaking that affected his domain as much as hers.

“Mr. Cross!”

Neville’s head jerked up at the sound of the familiar laughing voice. It was Mary, the housemaid. The one who got such pleasure in teasing him. He was hard-pressed to conceal a grimace.

She crossed the hall with a bouncing step, stopping directly in front of him. “Just look at where you’re standing, sir. Almost as if you’d planned it so.”

He gave her a blank look.

She giggled and pointed upward. “You’re under the mistletoe, ain’t you?”

His gaze shot up. Sure enough, there was a cluster of yellow-green leaves and white berries above him, suspended from the gasolier with a red velvet ribbon. He felt the unholy temptation to snatch it down. “This isn’t the time. I’m in…n-no mood to—”

“Ah, listen to you stammer,” she teased. “Don’t be nervous. Everyone kisses under the mistletoe at Christmas. It’s bad luck not to.”

“It’s not—”

Before he could finish his sentence, she jumped up, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

He pulled back immediately, setting his hands at her waist to keep her from falling against him. Mary was a tall girl, but not anywhere near as tall as he was. She’d practically had to leap on him to kiss him.

Her arms still twined around his neck, she gave him a cheeky grin. And then she looked up at the landing. “Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to shock you.”

Neville stomach sank. Somehow he knew who it was even before he turned to find Miss Hartwright standing at the top of the stairs.

His hands fell from Mary’s waist. He drew away from her, forcing her to release his neck.

“Privilege of the season,” Mary said, giggling. She dropped a curtsy and darted out through the door to the servants’ stairs. As it shut behind her, she and another maid burst into raucous laughter.

Neville stared up at Miss Hartwright. His heart pumped in a heavy, desperate rhythm. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

Very slowly, she descended the steps. Her face was a mask of genteel composure. Her eyes downcast, her lips compressed.

“Miss Hartwright—”

“Mr. Cross.” There was a faint tremor in her voice. So faint, he wasn’t sure he didn’t imagine it. “Forgive me for interrupting you. Do you perhaps know if—”

“You weren’t interrupting—”

“It’s quite all right. I’ve only come down to ask if you know whether there’s a way I might send a telegram?”

He blinked. “To where?”

To whom? he wanted to ask.

“Edinburgh,” she said. “I can pay for it.”

The telegraph office in King’s Abbot was only open until noon on Sundays. Neville knew that well enough. He’d sent messages there as part of his duties for Mr. Boothroyd. “You c-can write it out. Someone will…will have to t-take it down to…to the village.”

She pressed a hand flat against her midriff. It was the only sign that she was upset. “How soon can they take it?”

And suddenly he knew he’d do anything to remove that worried expression from her face. “I’ll take it. I can…at once.”

She nodded. “Very well. Give me a moment to write the message down. It’s rather private.”

He stood there, unable to formulate another word, as she slipped into the library.

A kiss under the mistletoe was no great thing. It was a Christmas tradition, that was all. Why then did he have the decided impression that he’d done something wrong? That he’d broken some part of the friendship he was forging with Miss Hartwright?