Page 43 of The Gift of Seeds
He tapped one finger on the table. “That’s a lot of dough. How big will thisapfelstrudelbe?”
“I can’t believe what I did. Oh, how silly of me!”
He cocked his head in a questioning motion.
“Without even thinking, I made the size I was used to—one that would feed a lot of orphans. With a smaller amount of dough, I could have managed the shaping on my own. That maelstrom of tears wouldn’t have happened.”
“Scanty portions?” he asked in tone of mock outrage. “You’d deny me the opportunity to eat my weight in strudel?” He puffed out his belly and patted it.
Hester couldn’t help but laugh at Dale’s silliness.
His eyes glinted with good humor, and then turned serious. “You do realize those tears were bound to come out at some point.”
“But not all over you!” she retorted.
“I can wash clothes. But right now, I’m more interested in starting on this elephantine dessert.”
Say yes, she encouraged herself.Yes, to help from others. Yes, to friendship. Yes, to the courage to reach for what I want.
“Let me add some water to our monster dough,” she teased. “It’s probably a little dry by now. Then we’ll see how well you contain the creature.”
CHAPTER 13
After the best night’s rest he could remember having, Dale woke up with an idea—brilliant or foolish, he wasn’t quite sure. He threw back the covers, jumped out of bed, and rushed to the stove.
Crouching and opening the door of the firebox, he stirred the banked ashes until some embers glowed orange, grabbed a handful of shredded birch bark, which he formed into a nest, and dropped it on top. He added kindling, blowing on the whole pile, until tiny flames did their duty of sparking the kindling to light.
After placing some split wood in the firebox, he stood, sliding the kettle of water over to boil. Only then, did Dale realize the room was much too cold to be moving around without more layers on, and it was really too early on Christmas morning to disturb anyone. His idea would have to wait.
Ruefully, he hobbled to his warm bed and huddled under the covers. He should have taken the time to put on his slippers, for even with thick stockings, his feet werenotpleased he allowed them to become chilled.
Chuckling at his own whimsey, Dale allowed himself to relax, thinking through last night’s profound encounter with HesterSmith. Her pain. Her tears. Afterwards, the clouds in her blue eyes had elicited a need to comfort her. Watching those clouds clear had made a few lingering icy spots inside him melt.
They’d eaten soup and stuffed themselves withapfelstrudel, to the point where both tacitly agreed to sit in the chairs by the fire, because mustering the energy to move wasn’t doing justice to the specialness of the dessert. They’d alternated between watching the flickering flames in comfortable silence and talking until the cinnamon candles burned down to the point Hester had to get up and remove them from the pine boughs for safety’s sake.
That signaled the reluctant realization that a gentleman should return to his abode, rather than keeping a lady up until Christmas Eve passed to Christmas day.Good thing we don’t have close neighbors to notice and spread gossip.
Soon, the room heated enough for him to rise and prepare for the day. After washing up, Dale cut an apple into quarters and found himself singing, “Good King Wenceslas.” He did have a nice baritone, or so he’d been told. The compliment was usually accompanied by an expression of surprise that such a rich sound came from a man who didn’t seemrobust.
He stopped singing long enough to eat half the apple as his breakfast. When he went upstairs, he started again with “Jingle Bells.” In preparation for his brilliant or foolish plan, he dressed in his good suit and paid more attention to combing and slicking back his hair than he’d done for last night’s aborted attempt at attending church.
Once downstairs, he wrapped Clarise’s tan, red, yellow, and green plaid scarf in the plain green fabric that had encased the supple leather gloves sent by his oldest sister, Agatha. He tied the present closed with Clarise’s twine, which he felt Sam would like better than Agatha’s splashy red-and-gold ribbon.
After bundling up in his outerwear, he tucked the gift into the pocket of his overcoat, dropped the two apple quarters into the other, and headed out into the cold morning.
Today looked to be another beautiful day, with the heatless sunshine making the sky a vivid blue arch overhead and the snow crystals sparkle. In the bright places he had to squint.
The walk wasn’t long, perhaps twenty minutes, because the Norton-Bellaire mansion was on the same street, just on the opposite side. The way was made easier by sleigh tracks, relieving him from having to trudge through snow up to his knees. He’d certainly heard enough sleighbells yesterday to know that almost everyone who owned a sleigh was taking advantage of the holiday.
Dale didn’t approach the three-story mansion, instead heading down the drive that led to fancy stables on the back corner of the property, built with the same rough pinkish-brown quartzite bricks as the house. He pushed open one of the broad wooden doors, just enough to slip through.
Sam, in a stall grooming one of the coach-horses, stopped mid-whistle from a mangled expression of “Joy to the World” and set down a brush. “Mr. Marsden.”
Dale shot him a stern look.
The man chuckled. “Dale.”
Curious horses looked over their stall doors, including the two black Falabellas peeking over their short ones. One black miniature horse nickered.
