Page 74 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
At least he wasn’t the highwayman.
* * *
The house was freezing.
It was a raw, wet, penetrating cold, the kind that seeped in through ancient stone walls and snaked across the floors of every room, found its way through your clothing and then settled into the very marrow of your bones, where it took up residence and made you shiver and hug your arms to yourself and long for hot tea, a hot fire, a hot summer, the latter seeming hopelessly distant as Katharine settled herself onto the settee in the darkened parlor and listened to winter moaning around the outside of the house.
Mama had had the right idea, going to London instead of staying up here in the country. Perry had found solace in drink, as well as an escape from the nightmares that plagued him. Mr. O’ Flaherty was surely warm and toasty beneath her heavy blankets and sheets, and she—she—was shaking with cold.
She eyed the cold hearth with bitter longing. She had no idea how to get a fire started. The butler had long since gone to bed and she probably wouldn’t have sought his help, anyhow; no sense giving him cause to wonder why she was down here in the parlor and not up in her apartments. For more reasons than she could list, it was best to keep Mr. O’ Flaherty’s presence in the house—let alone her bed—a secret between himself and her.
Still fully clothed, she lay down on the settee, shivering. She pulled the decorative silk throw down from the back of the sofa and huddled miserably beneath it, folding her arms beneath her head in a makeshift pillow and her body into itself in a desperate attempt to get warm. Her feet were wet blocks of ice and she wrapped them in the coverlet, shoving them into the seam between the cushions on which she lay and the hard, stuffed backing at her spine. She thought longingly of her bed upstairs.
Her bed that was being enjoyed by another.
Riff-raff, and a common criminal at that. A nobody, a foreigner, a poor, wet, dirty creature from the masses who’d been swept in by the storm and to whom she owed nothing.
In my house. In my bed. Under my warm covers. What kind of fool am I?
A cold and shivering one, that’s what.
She drew her legs up closer to herself and huddled against the back of the settee, clutching the throw and trying to press warmth into her body. Outside, the wind howled like wolves around a kill. Katharine stared miserably into the darkness, suddenly quite sorry for herself.
“I can’t believe I’m lying here freezing on a silly piece of furniture whilehe’supstairs, warm and cozy in my bed,” she whispered to herself.
Yes, poor little you. Aren’t you just the most miserable creature in the world tonight?
Where had that gentle, chiding voice come from? No matter, because she was indeed the most miserable creature in the world tonight. She deserved better than this. Resentment flared up from somewhere deep inside her, self-pity that was familiar and entirely justified.
Yes, lie there and feel sorry for yourself, Katharine. You, who have plenty to eat even though you’re cold. You, who could get up and find a thick, warm cloak and some extra blankets if only you were inclined to help instead of pity yourself. You, who have a roof over your head and ancient walls to keep out the cold, the snow, and the undesirables of the world that you so disdain.
Except, one of those undesirables was upstairs in her bed.
“Jilted, yet again,” she said aloud to the darkness, and a tear slid from the corner of her eye and down onto her wrist, folded beneath her cheek. “I have a right to be angry.”
The more you tell yourself that your anger is deserved, the worse it becomes and the more miserable you end up being. Can’t you see that, Katharine? Look at what you’re doing to yourself. You’re your own worst enemy. Think, instead, of the things for which you’re grateful and happiness will follow. Try to forgive those you’ve resented and the anger will fade. Isn’t it obvious after all this time, that Charles and Gareth were meant to marry others? That they’re deeply in love with their wives? Why can’t you be happy for them?
“Because I’m so desperately unhappy, myself,” she whispered brokenly, and another tear slid from her eye and trickled down her cheek. “I’m the laughingstock of the ton. Officially jilted twice, if not three times. Nobody wants me. Am I not beautiful?”
On the outside, yes, but we have some work to do on the inside. Lots of work. But you started that tonight, didn’t you?
Lady Katharine shivered in her sleep.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
You went back and opened that door to me. You invited me in.
“What?”
“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in....”
“But I did no such thing!”
You did. Not as bad a person as you think yourself to be now, are you? Oh, you fought against the idea and you’re fighting against it now, but you went back. You opened that door, you invited me in, and you did something you did not want to do, something you think you did not want to do. But you did it. And if you’re honest with yourself, truly honest, Katharine, you’ll admit that it felt good to do it. That it felt a whole lot better than the resentment and self-pity that have been the easier road to take, for so long. You opened that door and brought me into your home and yes, into your life, despite your revulsion toward me.
“Who are you?”
She stared into the darkness but there was only the voice, deep and wise and rich with an ancient, all-encompassing love that made her want to throw herself at its owner’s feet and sob with shame and joy, with regret and hope, with gratitude in the face of her own unworthiness. A voice that was slightly chiding, certainly challenging, laying bare the bones of her soul and exposing it to her own eyes when she didn’t want to look at it, couldn’t look at it, because to do so only made her ache with self-loathing.
