Brock, she’d admired his serious side. Most young men of her acquaintance were shallow and frivolous. Brock was right that an ambitious barrister who hoped to become a partner in a prestigious legal firm couldn’t be flippant. He truly was a great catch for a girl of nineteen and a half, past the age when most were married and had children of their own. When he advanced in the firm, her social status would rise considerably. Perhaps her parents made him nervous. Once they had exchanged vows and Brock was her husband…
Her throat constricted when she noticed him eyeing the mound of food on her father’s plate with disdain. In sharp contrast, he helped himself to one of everything—one slice of dark turkey meat, one roasted potato, one Brussels sprout and one carrot. Nose in the air, he declined the gravy of which her mother was justifiably proud and raised his hands to ward off the bowl of stuffing when it came his way. It annoyed her that he didn’t seem to realize or care that he was insulting her mother’s Herculean efforts to ensure Cook provided a hearty Christmas dinner.
Distracted when Grace thrust the end of a cracker under her nose, she took hold and pulled. Her sister squealed with glee when she won. The paper hat was soon atop her golden curls. “Why was the snowman looking through the carrots at the greengrocer’s shop?” she asked, reading from the slip of paper she’d found inside the cracker.
“He was picking his nose,” her father declared.
Grace pouted. “Daddy!”
“Sorry, but it was too easy,” he replied, settling his own paper hat on his balding head and squinting at his motto. “What did Adam say the day before Christmas?”
Samantha knew the answer, but she allowed her father his punchline.
“It’s Christmas, Eve,” he bellowed.
Everyone laughed heartily, except Brock.
Determined to beard the dragon, Samantha offered him her cracker. “Pull with me.”
“If you insist,” he replied, taking hold of the very end.
She pulled too hard, yanking the cracker out of his hand entirely.
“You win,” he sneered.
It was unlikely he would wear a paper hat even if he won, but it just wouldn’t be Christmas if she didn’t wear one. Ignoring his pained expression, she nestled the hat atop her blonde hair.
Her mother picked up the discarded motto. “What do you call a train loaded with toffee?” she asked timidly.
“Oh, oh, I know this one,” Grace shouted. “A chew chew train.”
Everyone groaned.
Brock cleared his throat. “Speaking of trains, I’m afraid I must leave. Early tomorrow morning, I am scheduled to attend a meeting of shareholders about the new bridge over the Severn. Last minute details concerning the official opening. If you’ll excuse me. Thank you for a delicious dinner, Mrs. Hindley,” he said without sincerity as he got to his feet.
Peeved, Samantha deemed it interesting he’d eaten the one thing on his plate that wasn’t up to her mother’s standards—the rock hard Brussels sprout.
“But tomorrow’s Boxing Day,” Grace accused.
“I’m aware of that,” he replied as if speaking to a nincompoop.
His announcement about the meeting held the first hint of enthusiasm in his voice they’d heard all day. Samantha knew he’d been charged by his employer to simply record the minutes, but the smug look on his face might lead one to believe he’d be chairing the gathering. She hadn’t mentioned Brock’s tenuous connection to the bridge which would sound the death knell for the ferry across the Severn her father captained.
She’d looked forward to dancing with her fiancé at the Annual Policeman’s Ball the day after Boxing Day. The local constabulary invited her father every year, as a courtesy to a local man in uniform. Now, she’d be just another girl tagging along after her parents. Dancing with one’s father at her age was embarrassing.
“And I’ve been assigned a seat on the first official train across the span on the 28th,” Brock crowed. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
Clearly more important than escorting me to the ball.
Samantha couldn’t settle on why she found the notion irritating. The police “do” wasn’t really a ball in the true sense of the word, more like a barn dance. Too parochial for the likes of Brock. The train would be full of dignitaries—influential people. Just the sort he should mix with.
However, not for the first time, she had a sinking feeling she’d been too much in love with the idea of being married to a man with prospects, and not with the man himself.
Chapter Five
Full Moon
Leaving his uncle snoring