“Another Christmas Alone,” She Thought — Until a Duke’s Carriage Broke Down at Her Gate
Chapter 16
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Something in his voice made her believe him. And for a brief, foolish moment, Rosamond wished that the snow would never melt.That night, Julian sat alone in the guest room. The little wooden star lay on the table beside his bed.He had spent five years convincing himself that the best part of his life was behind him: he had loved Catherine; he would always remember her with tenderness; but somewhere along the years of grief and obligation, he had begun to confuse remembering with refusing to live.Rosamond had changed that. Not through grand declarations, not through attempts to impress him; she had simply welcomed him into her home. She had laughed with him, challenged him, and listened when he spoke of Catherine without treating his grief as something that ought to be hidden. And she had shown him a life that was neither grand nor fashionable, yet seemed richer than anything he possessed.Julian picked up the wooden star. He thought of Rosamond standing beneath the apple tree, insisting that a woman ought not surrender her independence merely to avoid loneliness. He admired her for it—more than admired her. The realization came quietly, without ceremony: he was falling in love with Rosamond Fairchild. And tomorrow, if the roads cleared, he would have to leave her.Julian stared at the star. For the first time in years, he did not wish to escape Christmas; he wished it could last a little longer.Downstairs, Rosamond sat beside the dying fire with Julian's book open in her lap. She had read his inscription six times, perhaps seven. She told herself that she was merely admiring his handwriting, but she knew better: something had changed at Willowmere.For three years, she had arranged her life around the certainty that no one would come: she had made peace with solitude; she had learned to enjoy her own company; she had built a home, managed her affairs, and found satisfaction in useful work. She was proud of the life she had made.Yet Julian's arrival had reminded her of something she had almost forgotten: independence did not require the absence of love, and contentment did not mean that the heart could never wish for more.She looked toward the staircase. Tomorrow, he might leave. The house would become quiet again; the second cup would return to the cupboard.Rosamond closed the book. She would not ask him to stay; she would not mistake a few happy days for a promise; but neither would she pretend that those days had meant nothing.She pressed the book gently against her heart. "Thank you, Aunt Beatrice," she whispered, because somewhere she felt certain her aunt would have been laughing at the extraordinary way Christmas had answered a wish Rosamond had been too proud to make.