A Kiss For Midwinter

“You’re going out,” he said mildly.

She shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward. Lydia knew for a fact that she could tell her father anything. She’d told him about that dreadful ordeal with Tom Paggett, after all. Her father knew the absolute worst about her, and he loved her anyway. She didn’t understand why.

And she didn’t want to tell him about her wager with Doctor Grantham. He trusted her, and even though she knew why she’d agreed—for no reason other than to rid herself of him—she was aware that the situation might have appeared somewhat improper if she were to reveal the stakes.

A kiss? From Grantham? The very idea made her shiver. No, it had made perfect sense to make sure that Grantham never talked to her again. She’d never have to feel that nervous anticipation creeping up her spine. All she had to do was endure him for a few afternoons, and she’d be free of him.

“I am going out,” she said awkwardly.

He glanced down, caught a glimpse of her half boots. “Going out walking. With a man?”

Lydia made a face. “Not a man,” she muttered. “At least—not like that.”

Even though there was nothing exceptional in walking with a gentleman, another father—knowing what he did of Lydia—would have restricted her movements, refusing to let her do what the other young ladies did. He might have told her she was no longer trustworthy.

Mr. Charingford was not those other fathers. When Lydia had told her father she was pregnant, he’d held her close for many long minutes, not saying a word. He’d called her mother in, leaving Lydia in her comforting embrace. Then he’d left the house. She had no idea what he’d said or done, but Tom Paggett had left town two days later. Her father didn’t speak much, but she’d never doubted him.

One of Lydia’s first memories was playing on the floor of her father’s study. Her nurse had darted in, grabbing her up with a flood of apologies and a scold for Lydia.

“Can’t you see your father’s busy?” she’d remonstrated.

But her father had simply shrugged. “If you take her away every time I’m busy,” he’d said placidly, “I’ll never see her. She can stay.”

He’d not been too busy to take her to Cornwall when she was pregnant, hiding her condition from those who would have disparaged her. And on Christmas morning, when she’d not been sure if she would live, he’d come into her room with ribbons and holly. He hadn’t said a word; he’d only set them around the room, fussing with ribbons he scarcely knew how to tie because he’d wanted to do something.

Sometimes, when she thought of her father, she felt as if there were something vast and impossibly large inside his slight frame, something too big for words. It certainly felt too big for her.

And so now, she put ribbons in his study as Christmas approached. It was the only way she could return those too-large emotions.

“You’re not walking out with a man?” His tone was congenially suspicious. He looked pointedly at her.

So it was her favorite walking dress, the one she saved for special occasions. He’d seen her altering the trim last night, replacing the light blue cuffs with two inches of white linen that she’d embroidered herself.

Lydia felt herself flush. “I like looking well, no matter who I’m with.” She wasn’t even sure why she’d dressed with such particular care. Maybe she just didn’t want to give Grantham another opportunity to poke fun at her.

“Mr. Charingford. Miss Charingford.” A maid ducked her head in the doorway, interrupting the conversation.

Behind her stood the tall figure of Jonas Grantham. His coat was slung over one arm; he held a large black bag in the other.

“You see?” Lydia sad. “Not a man. A doctor.”

Grantham looked to one side, biting his lip, and her father raised an eyebrow at her.

“That’s not what I meant,” Lydia muttered.

But her father simply took off his spectacles and set them on his desk

Grantham didn’t look at her. “I believe what your daughter meant was that she agreed to accompany me on a call to the Halls, out by Lipham Road.”

“Halls, Halls.” Her father frowned. “Do I know these Halls?”

“It’s unlikely. She takes in laundry,” Grantham said. “Her husband died, leaving her with sole responsibility for eight children. When we spoke at the Workers’ Hygiene Commission, Lydia agreed to bring the Halls a basket for the coming holidays.”

Her father glanced over at Lydia with a small smile on his face.

“It will be a perfectly unremarkable visit,” Grantham said. “Public streets the whole way there, and Mrs. Hall there to chaperone your daughter once we enter the building.”

“Is that what you were working on this morning?” her father asked. “Putting together a basket for this Mrs. Hall?”

Lydia nodded.

Her father fixed Doctor Grantham with another look. “Well, Doctor, despite my daughter’s protestations, you do appear to be a man. A word with you, if you please.”

Doctor Grantham stepped into the office; with a jerk of his head, her father motioned for Lydia to leave. She sniffed and swept out, shutting the door behind her. It didn’t stop her from standing on the threshold though, and setting her ear to the door.

“So,” her father aid without preamble. “You’re walking out with my Lydia.” His tone left little doubt as to what he meant by those words.

She waited to hear Grantham deny the implication—that he had some sort of romantic interest in Lydia. But if he made an audible response, she could not hear it.

Whatever he said—whatever gesture he made—her father grunted. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I understand. But I want to make something clear. If you hurt my daughter by word or by deed…”

“Mr. Charingford,” Doctor Grantham said, “first, do no harm. Those are not just words I mumbled so that I could get a few fancy letters before and after my name. They are a belief. I don’t hurt people. I intend harm to your daughter least of all.”

Lydia pulled back, a little puzzled, and stared at the door. She’d expected Grantham to make some sort of caustic comment about how the damage to Lydia had already been done. But she’d not even heard a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“She’s far more delicate than she looks,” her father was saying. “Don’t think you can talk to her in your usual way. She’s sensitive and—”