She had corrected the mistake immediately, of course. She had taken away the cup, folded the unused napkin, and told herself that grief was an unfortunate habit of the hands.But the following Christmas, she had done it again. And now, on Christmas Eve in the year 1818, she stood beside the little dining table at Willowmere Cottage, staring at two porcelain cups: one for herself, and one for Aunt Beatrice.Rosamond closed her eyes. "Oh, you ridiculous woman," she murmured. She picked up the second cup. Then she put it down again.Outside, snow drifted past the windows in slow, uncertain spirals. The garden walls had disappeared beneath white blankets, and the bare branches of the apple trees trembled whenever the wind crossed the valley.Inside, the cottage was warm. A fire burned cheerfully in the sitting room. Evergreen branches decorated the mantelpiece, tied with ribbons Rosamond had saved from the previous year. A small dish of oranges stood beside a bowl of walnuts, and the scent of cinnamon drifted from the kitchen. Everything was exactly as Christmas ought to be—except that there was nobody to share it with.Rosamond looked at the empty chair. "Another Christmas alone," she whispered.She had not intended to say the words aloud. They sounded rather more pitiful than she liked, and Rosamond Fairchild, at 29 years of age, had very little patience for self-pity.She straightened her shoulders. "Come now. You have a perfectly good fire, an excellent pudding, and enough food to feed a regiment. There are worse circumstances."From beneath the table came a sleepy snort. Rosamond looked down. A small, elderly terrier named Pickles opened one eye."Yes," she told him. "I am aware that you consider yourself excellent company."Pickles closed his eye again."Your enthusiasm is overwhelming."She smiled despite herself.There had been a time when Willowmere Cottage was filled with laughter. Aunt Beatrice had possessed a talent for turning the smallest occasion into a celebration. She had believed that every guest deserved the best chair, every child deserved an extra biscuit, and every Christmas required at least one completely unnecessary decoration.Rosamond had once asked her why she insisted upon putting ribbons around the handles of the kitchen cupboards."Because, my dear," Beatrice had replied, "life provides quite enough ordinary days without our assistance."Rosamond still remembered the way she had laughed. She remembered the sound more clearly than she remembered her aunt's face. That frightened her sometimes. She crossed the room and adjusted a crooked evergreen branch above the fireplace."There," she said softly. "You would approve."A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes. Rosamond glanced toward the clock. Half past six.