Tied With a Bow

she took the little girl’s hand, nothing grudging in her manner or apparent affection.
    “Mrs. Pockley is making my costume. She says I have the prettiest figure she has ever measured,” Julia confided. “Of course, she is only the village seamstress, but she has some very interesting ideas for matching costumes.”
    One of the girls clapped her hands together in excitement. “Romeo and Juliet.”
    “Mars and Venus.” A giggle.
    “Anthony and Cleopatra.”
    “Punch and Judy,” muttered Tom Whitmore.
    Lucien ignored them all, his attention on the scene outside.
    Aimée Blanchard was . . . By thunder, she was actually lying down with the children on the snowy bank, all of them waving their arms and swooshing their legs as if they had been struck by illness or madness. He could not hear them, but the two little girls were clearly giggling. Aimée’s face was bright with laughter, her bonnet knocked sideways in the snow, her dark hair and pink cheeks glowing against the stark white backdrop.
    He did not think her existence as an unpaid servant in her cousin’s house could bring her much joy. And yet frolicking with the children, she looked genuinely happy, young, exuberant, and vividly alive.
    Perhaps she made her own happiness.
    She slid on her bottom and rose carefully to her feet, leaving a crude outline behind her on the snowy ground.
    An angel.
    Inside him, something stirred and yearned like a hawk stretching its wings, straining to be free.
    “Mr. Hartfell,” Julia called. “What is your opinion of matching costumes?”
    He forced his attention from the window to focus on her pretty, expectant face. “My opinion must depend on the preferences of my partner.”
    “And on her identity?” Julia suggested, with a sideways look at poor Whitmore.
    Lucien was already tired of her game, but he had come to Moulton to play. Because he needed a rich wife. “Certainly on her identity.”
    Julia dimpled, satisfied. “Then perhaps you should apply to Mrs. Pockley for suggestions on your own costume.”
    The chit was telling him in no uncertain terms that she expected him to dress to match her own disguise.
    He bowed. “I will be guided by Mrs. Pockley’s expert knowledge.”
    The conversation around the fire turned to what feathers and trimmings the dressmaker might have in stock, what ribbons and laces might be purchased locally, what treasures might be found in the guests’ own wardrobes or in the attics. A reconnaissance trip to the village was proposed.
    Outside, Aimée and the children had abandoned snow angels to troop to the open summerhouse. She lined them on the bench while she dug through the basket. Lucien caught the glint of metal, a tangle of straps. Skates.
    A smile tugged at his mouth. His first winter at Fair Hill, Tripp had taught him to skate on the mill pond.
    “And I must have silver ribbons,” Julia declared. “Perhaps we will go this afternoon to look for silver ribbons at the shop. What do you think, Mr. Hartfell?”
    Aimée kneeled before the smaller girl to strap on her skates. They were not her children. But she cared for them as if they were.
    Did she have so much love to give, then, that she would lavish it on anyone?
    He watched her hold the little girls’ hands as she coaxed them to stand.
    “I think,” Lucien said slowly, “I would rather go skating.”

     
    “Stay near the shore!” Aimée called as ten-year-old Peter Netherby struck out for the center of the pond.
    After three days confined to the house, she understood the boy’s restlessness. Fortunately, the harsh weather that had kept them all in the nursery had also frozen the pond across. Aimée was almost as happy as the children to be outside again. But she was not taking any chances with their safety.
    Near the bank, Harriet, two years younger than Peter, waved her arms and fought for balance.
    Five-year-old Lottie Netherby clung to both Aimée’s hands, her short, double-bladed skates scratching back and forth on the ice. “Look at me! I’m skating!”
    Aimée smiled down at her, towing her gently along. “You certainly are.”
    Lottie’s cheeks were red with exertion and excitement, her lips almost blue with cold. Despite their thick stockings, pantalettes, and petticoats, the girls’ pelisses and play dresses simply did not provide the protection of Peter’s breeches and overcoat.
    It had been a mistake to make snow angels before skating, Aimée admitted. The back of her hair and her skirts were