Back at the shop, Alec mounted the stairs to his rooms, which were frigid and terribly empty. He made a fire and placed a bucket of water over the flames. He could just wash up at the basin, but he wanted the luxury of a full bath. He wanted to be in top form today.
While it heated, he shaved carefully. His hair was clean, so he brushed it in front of the glass until it was smooth as silk, then pinned it on top of his head to keep it out of the water. In the small tub, he washed with care. It was a shame to scrub away the smell of John on his skin, but he had hopes it would be replenished soon enough. He smiled as he bathed and hummed a seasonal tune.
John had liked his hair. Alec was glad he’d never cut it short. He wore wigs in the shop because his customers expected him to be fashionable. Many men cut their hair short so the wigs were easier to don. But he’d simply been lazy about it. Thank heavens. John had appeared to take great pleasure in running his hands through the brown mass, taking handfuls of it while they made love. He’d even played a hank over his lips as they’d lain in bed afterward.
Alec was so caught up in the memories, he was hardly conscious of exiting the tub, drying himself, and opening the wardrobe, until he stood there, blinking.
Oh, yes. What to wear?
The green silk waistcoat, he thought. And his showiest coat, a deep red one. It was Christmas, after all. And after witnessing Mrs. Simpson’s peacock feathers and Dante’s red cape, he no longer worried about looking foppish. John’s style was conservative, but then, black did suit him, and he had to wear practical things with all that walking and running and skirmishing he did as a Bow Street Runner.
Did John really get into fights so often? Alec wasn’t sure he liked that at all. But he dismissed that train of thought. He wasn’t going to worry about anything, not on Christmas Day.
No, he’d think about Mrs. Simpson instead. Alec had never seen a woman like that... or a man... or, no, a woman. What a brave and resilient spirit she must have, to live according to her own instinct and thumb her nose at society. Had she really married Mr. Simpson? Legally? Or did they simply follow their own star? And she’d welcomed others into her home too, gave them a place where they didn’t have to fear. He liked her very much.
And Mr. Stockbridge. What a sad man. Alec wished he could raise his spirits somehow.
He thought again of the gifts he wished to make. His inventory was low at the moment, thanks to the Christmas rush. But there was a queenly shepherdess surrounded by dogs and other woodland creatures that would be perfect for Mrs. Simpson. And for Miss Blume and Miss Wilfred, a small mantel clock for their rooms, one carved with two turtle doves. They could open it when they returned from Oxford. And for John... there had to be something.
Alec had just finished tying his hair back with a red velvet ribbon when there was a loud knock at the door.
He tilted his head, listening. Who would be at his shop door on Christmas morning? All his commissions had been sent out. But perhaps it was a regular customer hoping to purchase something for an unexpected guest.
The knock came again.
Yes, yes, very well, he thought, though he was in too good a mood to be very annoyed. He slipped on his best shoes, tugged down his waistcoat, and went downstairs to open the door.