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The Christmas sermon went so long that Anne quite lost patience with the vicar. Yes, of course it was an important day, but if anything that should have meant a sermon of a more considerate length. The congregation was not going to be listening to him by that point. Far better to let them go home and think about Christ as they tucked into their dinners; they'd certainly be more pious than if they were damning Mr. Venander to Hell for keeping them out in the cold, drafty church. For God's sake, they might as well have been standing outside for all the good the walls were doing them.
Without her even being fully aware of it, her right leg began to pop up and down, using the ball of the attached foot as a fulcrum. The movement at least burned off a little of the excess energy, which also went toward warming her up somewhat. Marian glanced over and glared repeatedly to no effect, but after a moment Ann reached over and placed a gentle hand on her knee, drawing Anne’s attention. No words were needed: Anne exhaled in a huff, but slowed the movement of her leg until it was still again, and put her own black glove over Ann’s dainty apple-green one.
When they were finally allowed to leave, Anne gave out a massive sigh of relief and began to solicitously chivvy her father and Aunt Anne out to the carriage. They moved slowly, but they did move. Probably the chill seeping into their joints. Should she try to dissuade them from going to church on Epiphany? Her father would probably be more than happy not to, unless he got into one of his stubborn, Anne-can-never-be-right moods; Aunt Anne would be more difficult about it, though.
“There you go, up and in,” she said as she handed Aunt Anne up into the coach. “Now you, Father. Come on, Marian!” she called out. “Stop dawdling.” Marian, who was talking to some man or other, threw her a nasty look but did as she was bid.
“That was Mr. Hawkins,” she hissed as she drew near, fists clenched. “Can you please prevent yourself from embarrassing me in public?
“Oh, don't be silly,” Anne began, but was interrupted by Ann.
“Oh, Mr. Hawkins? From Wheatley? He's a very nice man. So … punctual. And solicitous.” Those, Anne knew, were two of the adjectives that Ann fell back on when someone was so boring that nothing that could be complimented came to mind. Still, Marian failed to pick up on that and preened.
“Yes, he is, isn’t he? And,” she went on, “he has those three very sweet little girls with no mother. Excuse me!”
Anne finished rolling her eyes. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“Marian,” called Aunt Anne faintly. “Do come in and sit down.” Finally, Marian made a noise like an angry hen and clambered into the coach, refusing the hand her sister offered. Good: when she was confined with her family she was far less trouble than when she roamed the streets, looking for gentlemen to prey on.
“Now you, dear,” Anne said, turning to Ann with her hand still held out. “You won't have as much of a squeeze: I'll be walking back.” Of course Ann would ride in the carriage to get back to Shibden. Ann’s precious feet needed to be kept dry and as warm as the heated stone cooling on the floor would keep them, her nose protected from catching a chill. But Ann smiled back at her as though she had a choice.
“I would rather walk with you. If you don’t mind?”
And Anne could have pressed it, could have made a fuss, but it was so charming when Ann chose her over convenience or comfort. She suddenly realized that she was smiling in a beatific way and glanced down, then aside, then back at those pale eyes that challenged her.
“Well — if you really want —”
“Then shut the door!” Father and Marian said together, Father with an extra “damn” in his version, and Anne barely even made a face at them as she flung the door of the carriage closed. Ann made a little hmming noise of pleasure, then put her arm through Anne’s and tucked her hand back into her muff as they started off.
Anne could have done it alone in twelve minutes, traveling at a brisk and even gait the whole way, but she was willing to make the allowances for her companion to take it in twenty. Perhaps she wouldn’t use up as much of her restless energy, but that consideration was more than balanced out by the warmth engendered by the soft body so close to hers, leaning on her arm.
There was hardly any snow on the ground, making the way fairly easy. Ann kept a firm grip on Anne’s arm on the wet cobbles, but as they left the confines of the town and stone gave way to earth underfoot, she relaxed.
Anne was just about to open with a joke about Ann not having wanted to be penned into the carriage with Marian when Ann suddenly spoke as though she knew what Anne was thinking. “I want to give you a present.”
That was touchingly sweet. “We usually exchange gifts after Christmas dinner —”
“I wanted to give you this one privately. And I suppose,” she went on, “I could have waited until this evening, but I finished it a week ago and I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting to give it to you, and I didn't want to wait anymore, so I brought it with me.” Disentangling her arm from Anne’s, she had to take her hand back out of her muff, and this time a folded bit of white muslin came out of the rabbit fur along with the green glove. Ann glanced back down at it and a little crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Perhaps I ought to have tied a nice ribbon around it …”
“It’s fine as it is,” Anne assured her. “Now, let me see what this is.” Well, it was a handkerchief, of course, but there had to be something more to it than that: Ann wasn’t a sap enough to be on edge over a simple bit of hemmed cloth. She turned the folded fabric over to check another corner, and caught her breath.
There was a drawing of a building in black India ink, the finest lines tracing over the muslin in the familiar form of Shibden Hall. It must have taken such a narrow crow’s quill pen to draw like that, and a very slow pace. And then below the hall, there was a pair of As embroidered in white — symmetrical, one facing left and the other right, straight legs crossing over at the center point and the others streching out into a satisfying curve. One for each of them.
Anne stroked the letters with her thumb, feeling the way the silken stitches were raised just slightly above the fabric, smoother and softer than the muslin. She prided herself on self-possession and business sense, her lack of sentimentality. But her eyes were misting up, damn it. She wasn’t walking anymore — when had she stopped walking? Why was there such a lump in her throat?
“It’s a bit silly to draw on a handkerchief, I suppose,” Ann was saying. “But I was looking at the laundry number on one of mine and I thought, well, if you can write on them you should be able to draw, shouldn’t you?” She looked anxiously at Anne, and Anne realized that she needed to express her gratitude.
She would only embarrass herself with words. So she glanced about her for prying eyes, and then, when she found none, leaned in to imprint the feeling she felt unable to properly express on Ann’s waiting lips.
“Oh,” sighed Ann when they eventually parted, before her eyes opened again. “So you like it, then? It’s not a disappointment?”
“I like it a great deal,” said Anne firmly, and then she tucked the gift into the interior pocket of her coat, over her heart, before threading Ann’s hand through her arm again so that they could keep walking. “Now I only feel ashamed that I haven’t got anything to give you later.”
“You beast!” cried Ann, but she laughed at the joke, and leaned her head against Anne’s shoulder as they continued up the road to Shibden.