That wasn’t to say he hadn’t been kissed.

Lady Helena had kissed him on the cheek beneath the mistletoe more than once last Christmas. So had Cook, and Jenny. They’d been sisterly kisses, with nothing of romance about them. This Christmas, however…

He glanced at Miss Hartwright. The hem of her skirts and cloak were muddy, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold. She looked back at him, smiling. A smile that lit up her face. That he could feel, igniting an answering light inside of him.

“‘God rest ye merry gentlemen,’” one of the footmen began singing.

The other servants joined in with laughs and foolery. “‘Let nothing you dismay!’”

By the third verse, Tom, Alex, and Laura were singing, too. And so was Miss Hartwright, in a clear melodic voice. “‘From God, who is our Father, a shining angel came.’”

His heart clenched. Having her on his arm, bright and beautiful, and singing so sweetly. There was a rightness to it that was almost painful. He wanted to keep it close. To save the moment forever, like a winter flower pressed between the pages of a book.

But such feelings couldn’t last. Miss Hartwright would be gone in a fortnight. And he would be…here.

Always here.

It was no revelation. It was a fact. One he’d accepted long ago. The recollection of it, nevertheless, served to dim the light glowing inside of him.

He felt, all at once, the full weight of his condition. Of being lonely, if not alone. Stuck in the same place while the rest of the world surged ahead at a startling rate of speed.

Miss Hartwright squeezed his arm. “Only five days until Christmas. The holiday will soon be over.”

He stared down at her, his chest tight with conflicted emotion. “Yes. But n-not yet.”

On returning to the Abbey, Clara hoped to find that the post had come, and with it, a letter from her mother. But though Clara’s own letter was sure to have arrived in Edinburgh by now, no reply awaited her.

It wasn’t entirely surprising.

As efficient as Mama was in other respects, she was woefully inadequate when it came to attending to her personal correspondence. Amid the chaos of lessons, and other professional responsibilities, her family was inevitably prioritized dead last.

An unfortunate fact, and one that Clara had little time to dwell upon at present.

The rest of the afternoon and evening was taken up with preparing the pine boughs, holly, and ivy to be hung. Footmen arranged card tables in the drawing room on which the maids set out ribbons, tinsel, and bowls of murky white liquid.

“We’ve all been lamenting the lack of snow,” Lady Helena said, “so we shall make our own.” She guided them to their tables. “The mixture in the bowl is boiled water and alum. We’ll use it to frost the leaves and branches.”

“It’s very thin,” Mrs. Bainbridge remarked as she sat down.