Page 14 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
“Never thought I’d find myself missing chatter at dawn,” he said to Apollo, his speech causing a low rumble in the stillness of the barn. The horse snorted in response, as if understanding the weight of his confession.
He heaved a fresh bale of straw, breaking it apart to scatter across the cleaned stall floor. With each forkful he flung, he attempted to anchor his thoughts in his chores, but they drifted like dandelion seeds on a summer breeze, carrying him towards musings of what his life would return to as soon as the road cleared.
Laying down the last of the straw, Moses stood back, staring out the door at the blinding snow piled high. He envisioned a different life, one filled with companionship and contented silence. He saw them together, not in the passionate embrace of night, but in the tranquil harmony of daylight hours. He allowed himself to dream of sitting side by side with Joy, needing no conversation to fill the air between them.
In this daydream, Moses could nearly hear the scratch of his charcoal on canvas while Joy sat nearby, perhaps embroidering or lost in the pages of a novel. They would share glances and smiles, small gestures rich with meaning, speaking volumes in the tranquility of shared space. It was a vision contrary to the solitude of his life, one he’d never contemplated, sharing the beauty of the mundane.
In his imagination, the soft afternoon light spilled into his studio, dust motes dancing in the lazy afternoon beams. He stood before his easel, his hand moving rhythmically as he added life to the canvas. In the other room, a plush armchair cradled Joy’s form, her eyes following the words on the pages of a novel that held her rapt attention.
Occasionally, she would look up from her book and catch his gaze. A smile would play upon her lips, a silent conversation passing between them—a language only they understood. The intimacy of this unvoiced dialogue was more profound than any spoken word, a thread weaving through the very air, binding them softly yet irrevocably.
In those moments, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the quiet hum of their existence. Here, in this sacred space, Moses felt not the loner he presented to the world but a man capable of deep and abiding tenderness. And Joy, the solemn woman with fire beneath her surface, found a haven for her secret adventurous spirit. By night, their passion blazed, a dance of shadows and whispers against the linens, by day, it was the simple joy in the mundane moments.
Just as Moses dipped his brush into a pool of cobalt blue, a warm nuzzle against his palm pulled him back to reality. He chuckled. His horse peered at him with intelligent eyes, its velvety muzzle nudging insistently towards the apple in his pocket.
“Greedy beast,” Moses said affectionately, retrieving the fruit and offering it to the animal. As the horse crunched contentedly, Moses’ gaze again wandered out to the open barn door where the land lay buried beneath several feet of snow. It was then that the thought of Joy’s imminent departure pricked at his heart like a thorn amongst roses.
The laughter died in his throat, replaced by a solemn tightness. Moses wrestled with the desire to hold time itself, to keep Joy bound within these walls and the precious surroundings of his world.
He stroked the horse’s mane, a smile returning to his face, but now tinged with melancholy. “She will be leaving us soon,” he confided to the beast, who seemed to flick an ear in understanding. “And what am I to do with such silence?”
Moses patted the horse’s flank, a silent farewell as he scooped a final portion of oats into the feeding trough. The animal’s breath was warm in the frigid air of the stable, redolent with the scent of hay and leather. The simple act of caring for the creature offered a momentary respite from the churn of his thoughts, but it did little to ease the weight of inevitability that sat upon his chest.
With a last glance at the stall, he secured the latch and straightened his back, feeling each vertebra pop and crackle like the logs in a hearth. His hands, calloused and stained with pigments of sienna and cobalt, now carried the residue of the day’s labor—a tangible reminder of life’s constant demands, irrespective of one’s inner turmoil.
Securing the stable door behind him as he left, he trudged back to the house. He could admit now he’d had built these walls not just of stone and mortar but of stoic resolve and a guarded heart. Yet Joy, with her lighthearted laughter and intelligent eyes, had found her way through the barriers as though they were made of gossamer, leaving traces of her gentle spirit in every corner.
Knowing his wishes meant nothing in the grand scheme did little to quell the burgeoning hope that sprouted within him. A foolish thing, hope, especially for a man so accustomed to the shadows.
He closed the door behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. Yet he could feel her presence somewhere within. “Joy?”
“In the kitchen,” she called out.
He smiled. For the moment, he could pretend the dream was real.
Chapter 10
With a careful deliberation that belied her inner turmoil, Joy folded the gown she’d worn both days of her stay with Moses and placed it atop the modest pile within her travel case. He’d gone to the inn when he rose that morning and confirmed the coach would be leaving by noon.
His bedchamber around her was stark, filled more with an overflow of canvases than with comforts, but she would treasure the time she spent within it. Here, she’d discovered facets of herself she never would have imagined she could possess. She glanced around once more, her gaze lingering on the easel where one of his unfinished works stood—an arresting landscape that beckoned the observer into its depths much like Moses himself. A reluctant sigh escaped her lips, a soft note of sadness that fluttered through the quiet like a lost melody.
“Joy,” a voice grumbled from the doorway, its timbre roughened by disuse in tender conversation. Moses loomed there, his tall frame and muscular build at odds with the gentle man she’d discovered. His short beard and black hair lent him the air of a brooding romantic hero, though his demeanor seldom wandered into the realms of such frivolousness.
“I am ready,” she replied, turning towards him. Her lighthearted tone sounded hollow in her own ears, an echo of the woman she had been before circumstance had brought her to his door—before desire had rewritten her very being.
Moses’ gaze swept over her, intense and piercing, yet he offered no words to fill the void of departure. Instead, he stepped aside, granting her passage from the cocoon of their seclusion. As she moved past him, her shoulder brushed lightly against his arm—a fleeting touch that sent a current of longing through her heart.
“Thank you, for your hospitality,” she said when she reached the hook where her cloak hung, keeping her voice steady despite the tremors that rippled along her spine. It was a dance of manners, this farewell, an intricate step around the truth of their shared ardor. She pulled on her cloak and drew the hood around her face. “There’s no need to accompany me, I remember the way to the inn.”
“Safe travels, then,” he responded. His deep blue eyes held hers for a moment, then he reached for the handle, the door creaking open with a finality that resonated in Joy’s chest.
So, it was true, she acknowledged. He wasn’t going to ask her to stay. “Goodbye, then.” The two words hung between them, simple yet profound, as she stepped through the threshold.
Joy moved beyond the warmth of his home, the chill of the outside world greeting her with an unforgiving embrace. She inhaled sharply, the crisp winter air seizing her lungs and transforming her exhalations into ethereal mist that danced before her face. When she reached the street, she allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder at the stately house that had been her sanctuary.
The stark lines of the manor were softened by the accumulation of snow upon its eaves, painting it as a picture of serene isolation that mirrored its owner’s solitude. As she beheld the home that had cradled her through two nights of whispered confessions and days of quiet companionship, Joy felt an acute pang of longing. The windows reflected only the cold, silver glint of the overcast day.
With the scene imprinted upon her heart, she reluctantly turned her back on the dwelling, the crunch of her boots in the snow punctuating the stillness of the afternoon. Each step drew her further from Moses, yet the memories refused to go. She remembered the way his deep voice would rumble through the room. His words were sparse, but when he spoke of art, of the raw beauty he sought to capture with each stroke of his brush, his eyes ignited with a passion that surprised her.
