Chapter 22

T he gentleman remained silent for one too many heartbeats, and Angelica forced her gaze ahead, refusing to look at him. If not for Mr. Knight’s arm holding her in place, she would’ve sped down the path, never to look back.

“Please do not take my words as a proper reflection of who I am,” she hurried to add. But upon consideration, she amended, “I suppose they are, but not the whole of who I am. Christmas is a trying time on its own, but this year has been more difficult than most, and the entire reason I write those thoughts down is so that I can release them into the ether rather than speaking them aloud. I have no other way to get the sentiments out—”

Mr. Knight pulled her to a stop and stared at her. “Peace, Miss Callaghan. You have nothing to apologize for. As you said yourself, I have been in your house long enough to see the chaos, and I’ve seen your efforts to manage it all. It is little wonder that you would be fretful and frustrated. You have nothing to be ashamed of on that score, and I do not think less of you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Though his tone implied that he had more to say on the subject, Mr. Knight fell silent. His gaze drifted upward as though in thought, and Angelica stared at the fellow, waiting for the conclusion. When his eyes lowered to meet hers, they were more blue than hazel, matching the pale world around them.

“Before you rushed on to stammer explanations, I was trying to think how to explain my feelings about what I read, for you left me quite in awe.”

Angelica leaned away, her eyes widening. “What do you mean?”

“Precisely what I said, Miss Callaghan. Curiosity may have pushed me to read the first lines, but I continued because of the beauty of your words. The way you write is compelling, bringing your feelings to life in a way that I couldn’t help but feel myself. You made me experience your anguish and frustration to the point where my heart truly burned with those emotions, and that is a gift. One I would love to see you develop.”

Huffing, she shook her head and continued down the path, though Mr. Knight quickly caught her, returning to his place by her side, and she took his arm. For warmth, of course.

“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Knight, but I am not a writer or poet. I simply scribble down my thoughts and feelings so they are not left burning in my head. It is not for public consumption.”

“I would beg to differ, Miss Callaghan. You most certainly are a writer and perhaps even a poet, for though your words did not form any traditional poetic structures, there was a lyricism to them.”

Then, before she could argue, Mr. Knight added, “And I wasn’t suggesting that you need to publish your words. Your father may claim that poetry is the essence of life, but I write it because I enjoy the challenge of quantifying the unquantifiable. To make someone feel emotions or see images because of the words I’ve written is magic, and even if I never publish my work, I will not stop developing that ability. I do it because I enjoy it, regardless of whether anyone else appreciates my efforts.”

As her skirts swept across the snow, brushing it about like a broom, Angelica considered that sentiment. But it was no use. The thought of her family discovering her journal entries sent a shudder down her spine. Angelica Callaghan wasn’t a writer or a poet. She was the sensible one. Not the artist.

Mr. Knight peeked at her from the corner of his eye. “I know your family is quite…forceful in their appreciation of the arts, but do not allow that to deter you. If you enjoy it, then continue with it. You needn’t follow in their footsteps if you do not wish to, and no one else need know of it, Miss Callaghan. Your secret is safe with me.”

Clearing his throat, the gentleman added in a halting tone, “And should you ever prefer a listening ear to a scribbling pen, I am quite willing to offer one.”

“You are?” asked Angelica, her brows rising.

“Of course,” he replied with equal surprise, as though confused that she would question the offer. “Everyone should have a confidant, and I would be honored to be yours.”

Angelica’s chest constricted, squeezing her heart. Or perhaps that organ had simply grown too large for her ribs. She couldn’t say which it was, except to feel the pressure building within her—but not the familiar (and unpleasant) frustration she often felt begging to be released. No, this sent tendrils of warmth through her as though the wintry landscape had melted into a beautiful spring.

“And perhaps when I leave for Newcastle after Christmas is over, you could write to me rather than stuffing those thoughts into a box in the woods,” he added.

A quick flutter of her pulse, and a shock of ice balanced out her internal temperature once more. Of course, Mr. Knight was leaving. It wasn’t as though he was going to stay in Haydon. And it wasn’t as though it mattered greatly to her.

“I do like the idea of having a correspondent—” Angelica’s boots shifted on a patch of ice, but Mr. Knight’s hold kept her from tumbling.

“Careful there,” he murmured as she found her feet again. “Now, Miss Callaghan, what has your heart so troubled?”

The very organ he referenced did another flip, as though her feet were still on unsteady ground. Holding fast to his arm, Angelica considered that question a moment before the words began to tumble forth, and Mr. Knight said little beyond the occasional murmur of surprise or frustration as she unburdened herself.

Despite capturing her feelings on the paper now hidden in the forest, Angelica felt a different sort of pleasure that came from seeing Mr. Knight scowl and scoff at the things her family did. After years of feeling like an oddity, here was someone who saw things as she did and didn’t brush her opinions aside as unfeeling or restrictive.

As she glanced at him, Angelica’s brows pinched tight. “I do not want you to think I despise my family, Mr. Knight, just as I do not want you to look at what I wrote and think I am an angry harpy of a woman. This time of year is simply so difficult because they are at their worst. In the winter, we are all trapped together in that little cottage, and then Christmas descends and they live in excess all the time, and I have so much more work to be done whilst they fight me every step of the way…”

A sigh built in her chest, and she released it whilst staring out at the wintry landscape as though it might have all the answers. “At those times, it is a struggle to enjoy them, yet I still love them.”

“Family relations are a complicated thing at times,” said Mr. Knight.

Angelica huffed a faltering chuckle. “‘Family’ is a testing ground. We choose our friends, and without fail, we connect with those whose friendship is natural. Easy. One doesn’t surround oneself with acquaintances who require significant patience or understanding, and when a relationship demands too much effort, we simply cut ties and move on to another.”

Lips pulling into a half smile, she glanced at Mr. Knight. “Family—though vexing at times—allows us to learn patience and empathy. Despite having little in common, we are indelibly bound together through our shared history, and though I would never naturally befriend anyone in the Callaghan clan, that familial bond pushes me to settle differences and forgive, and I am the better for it. Even the most wretched of families can be a blessing if those within it focus on how to improve themselves rather than fixating on others’ actions.”

And with that said, Angelica’s thoughts leapt to Thomas, and she felt like frowning at herself. For all that she had grand amounts of advice and knowledge to divulge to others, it seemed she was ignoring it when it came to her brother.

“I do not know if I’ve ever thought of it in that fashion before,” said Mr. Knight with raised brows.

“I would hazard to say you have a happy home life, and thus you haven’t had to consider it,” replied Angelica.

“That I do, but even the happiest of families struggle to keep the peace, Miss Callaghan. As you said, we are all very different people, and though there are similarities between us, they are not the sort of people I am naturally drawn to. That inevitably leads to the occasional conflict.”

A thought struck Angelica, and she couldn’t help the chuckle that accompanied it. Mr. Knight sent her a questioning look.

“I was thinking that you are not someone I am naturally drawn toward, and how that has led to the ‘occasional conflict,’” she explained.

“Nonsense. I would say we are quite naturally drawn to each other,” he replied, slanting a warm look that made her pulse quicken.

Forcing her throat to work, Angelica swallowed and turned her attention back to the conversation, ignoring entirely Mr. Knight’s insinuation. Their feet wandered the forest as their conversation shifted and flowed down different paths, drifting off into different territories before winding its way back to the original subject. And by the time they arrived home, Angelica felt ready to weather a year of Christmases.