Chapter 12

I n the weeks that followed, Yuletide grace settled upon the stately home with a resplendent hush, weaving through the corridors and grand rooms like a silent carol. Within these walls, Joy found herself enveloped by the gentle embrace of the season, the air redolent with the scent of pine and a hint of cinnamon. Her hands moved with practiced ease, festooning the verdant boughs draped around the drawing room with gilded baubles and silken ribbons alongside her young charges, whose laughter chimed more sweetly than any silver bell.

"Mrs. Sinclair, place the angel just so," urged Susan, her youthful eyes reflecting the flicker of candlelight.

"Yes, for it must watch over us all," added Anna, her cherubic face aglow with the innocence of childhood.

Joy complied, setting the delicate figurine on the mantle beside an ormolu clock.

As she crossed to the table where more boughs awaited, a knock at the door rung out. A minute or two later, Mr. Carruthers stepped into the drawing room doorway. "Mrs. Sinclair, a Mr. Russell wishes to speak with you."

Blinking in astonishment, Joy thought for a moment she thought she'd imagined the words. "I, uh…"

"With your permission," Carruthers said, "I'll show him to the morning room."

"Thank you." She exhaled in relief, but her thoughts scrambled in confusion. Why was he here? If she'd left behind a belonging, he would have sent it by post, surely.

"Mrs. Sinclair, I'll watch the children for you," said Jane, their nurse. "Just don't be long. Lady Peasemore doesn't allow us to have callers. Especially gentlemen."

"Oh, no, he's not—" Joy stopped herself. He was a gentleman, even if his purpose wasn't to court her. She smoothed a hand over her gown and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Girls, you listen to Jane. I shall return quickly."

She paused before entering the morning room, once again straightening her appearance. Turning into the room she saw the tall and imposing figure of Moses, his black hair and short beard framing a countenance that seemed eternally caught between a storm and calm seas. His eyes sought out Joy immediately, sparking an unnamed anticipation that fluttered in her chest.

"Mr. Russell," she greeted. "What a surprise."

In his hands, he held a parcel, wrapped in paper that shimmered like freshly fallen snow under moonlight, tied with a crimson ribbon.

Moses extended the gift toward Joy, his usual demeanor softening imperceptibly as he did so. "I brought you this," he said simply.

"Thank you." Her fingers grazed his as she accepted the offering, a spark shooting up her hand at the touch. "You honor me. I am most curious to discover what lies within."

"Perhaps it will speak for itself," Moses said, his words clipped but not unkind, a smile threatening the corners of his mouth. He was nervous, she could tell, the way his fingers brushed his short beard, a telltale sign she'd come to recognize in the brief time she'd spent with him.

With measured movements, Joy untied the crimson ribbon, her hands steady despite the fluttering in her heart. The paper fell away to reveal a sketchbook, its cover elegant in its simplicity—a deep burgundy leather embossed with intricate gold filigree that caught the light of the hearth. It was the size of the one at his house.

"Moses, it is exquisite," she breathed, cradling the treasure in her hands.

"Open it," he urged.

The first page contained a drawing of her face, one she'd not seen him draw. The next two were her in various poses, again new to her.

Joy turned the pages, her fingers trembling slightly with each unfolding image. Moses had captured her most mundane moments and infused them with a sense of wonder—her reading a book, or pouring tea—each sketch a vignette of everyday life seen through his eyes.

The sketches whispered secrets, telling tales without words. They held the softness of her laughter, echoes of their conversations woven into the lines. Each page revealed a layer of intimacy, familiarity. The artistry was undeniable, Moses had not merely rendered images but had imbued them with emotion, with an understanding that seemed to reach beyond the confines of paper.

Joy's breath hitched, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the next sketch. There was raw emotion in pencil strokes both tender and fervent, the embodiment of their passion. Joy and Moses were immortalized in an embrace that spoke of a love not just whispered in the shadows but shouted from the rooftops.

In this single drawing, he had captured the essence of their passion—a tempest of sensation, each line imbuing the intimacy of their union with a sense of urgency and profound connection. Joy's likeness was rendered with exquisite care, the arch of her back and the tilt of her head conveying a rapture so vivid it was as though she could step right into the scene. Moses' form, powerful and intent, was sketched with an expression that suggested reverence in their actions.

The details were intimate and sensually charged, the way her hair cascaded like a waterfall across the pillow, the interlocking of their fingers as if even in the midst of desire, they were promising forever. The shadowing around them seemed to pulse with the rhythm of their hearts, the softness of the bed linens contrasting with the fervency of their intertwined bodies.

Below the drawing, in a scrawl that betrayed a tremor of emotion, lay the inscription that bridged the silent gap between them.

Dearest Joy, my muse—each stroke is but a whisper of my longing for you. You are the light that guides my hand, the dream that stirs my slumber. I am adrift without your presence, a vessel yearning for the harbor of your arms. Come back to me, for in every line, in every shade, you are there, and I am ever yours.

The words penetrated Joy's heart, delicate yet powerful. Moses had stripped away the veneer, revealing not only his talent but the depth of his affection, his need for her that went beyond the physical entanglement. They were kindred spirits bound by the pencil stroke as much as by the flesh.

Surrounded by the festive air of Christmas and the laughter of children in the distant room, Joy felt a stirring within her, a pull towards the man who saw her not as a staid widow, but as a woman aflame with life and longing. A woman who might, just might, dare to defy convention for the promise etched in pencil before her.

With fingers trembling ever so slightly, Joy closed the sketchbook, her breath caught in a web of longing. Fear nibbled at her resolve, whispering of scandal and the wagging tongues of society's matrons, should she dare to embrace the desires that Moses' sketches had awakened. Yet, for every shiver of trepidation, there was a spark of adventure—a yearning for the brush of his hand against hers, not merely on paper but skin against skin, the most intimate of canvases.

The comfort of widowhood, with its unspoken permission to recede into the shadows, suddenly felt like an iron cage. How could she return to the muted existence of polite smiles and solitary evenings when Moses had painted her soul with such fervent strokes? His artistry had unveiled a part of her slumbering beneath layers of decorum—passionate, vibrant, alive.

She suddenly knew she could no longer deny the torrent of feelings Moses had unleashed. She was a vessel filled to the brim, longing to spill over into his waiting arms. Like the heroine of a gothic romance, she found herself perched on a precipice, the wind of change beckoning her to leap into the unknown.

"Joy?" Moses' voice, rough-hewn yet tender, broke through her reverie.

"Moses." The name felt like a caress upon her lips.

"Will you...?" he began, the unfinished query hanging between them like a dare.

Joy met his gaze and saw there all the words he was unable to say. She knew then, with the clarity of a winter's dawn, that she would follow her heart, regardless of the path it chose.

"I believe I need to speak with my employer. And then pack my bag. It's a good thing the children haven't grown too attached to me. They'll have a new governess soon."

His smile widened, his face brightening like she'd never seen. "I hired a carriage, which is waiting. Will you be long?"

The question struck her like an invitation, opening her thoughts to visions of his seductions. As her cheeks grew flushed, she stammered for a moment, then shoved the sketchbook into his hands. "Hold this. I must find Lady Peasemore."