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She reached below the counter and brought out the large hamper, placing it on the counter. “Have a look inside.”

Annie approached with curiosity, then lifted the checkered cloth. Her eyes widened.

“Is that⁠—?”

“I included mince pies and oranges this week,” Caroline said gently. “And I placed an order with Mr. Andrews that you may collect after service tomorrow.”

Annie blinked. “Mr. Andrews? Which one?”

“The baker.”

The girl’s eyes shone. “Never say, Mrs. Brown! Is it a Christmas goose?”

Caroline nodded, warmed by the child’s joy. “For you and your mother. A proper feast.”

Annie’s lip trembled. Then she darted around the counter and threw her arms around Caroline’s waist. “Please come eat with us, Mrs. Brown. It is not right for you to be alone on Christmas.”

Caroline’s heart gave a dull ache. It would be her first Christmastide truly alone. As a girl, she had spent the holiday with her grandmother. After Grandmama’s death, she had observed the day with the servants at Baydon Hall, and more recently, with the doctor’s household in Filminster.

But she had drawn too near the Greers already. She needed to remain apart, to protect her secret. She had no right to such closeness—not after what she had done.

No need to think of that. Work will keep the memories at bay.

“Christmas is for family, Annie. You should be with your mother.”

A soft sniffle came from where the girl’s face pressed to her. “You are family, Mrs. Brown.”

Caroline smiled and hugged her, then gently set her away. “Go enjoy your holiday. And do not forget the goose.”

Annie bobbed her head, struggling slightly with the weight of the basket. “Thank you, Mrs. Brown. Merry Christmas!”

Caroline waved as the child departed, then returned to her account books. The shop was quiet—being Sunday, Mrs. Jones and Mary Beth were home preparing their own Christmas feast.

As Caroline scratched numbers with her graphite pencil, a heavy silence settled over the room. The streets, lively earlier, had gone still. Most shops were closed for the Sabbath. She might be the only merchant at work. Finishing her accounts, she slipped the books beneath the counter and looked about. The stillness was eerie. She decided it was time to turn her attention to the walking dress before memory and melancholy crept in.

In the back, she approached the gown hanging in the corner. On the day she learned she would own her shop, she had purchased a fine bolt of Prussian blue velvet using her savings. She had resolved to create a signature garment—a walking dress that would showcase her craftsmanship and symbolize her new beginning.

She had sewn it piece by piece in her spare hours. The shoulders were stitched with textured loops and whorls. The high collar folded over gracefully, its edge embroidered with ornate detail. The hem was scalloped, and the trimming spanned two inches of intricate work. The bodice and cuffs remained unfinished.

When complete, it would be the finest garment she had ever made. A testament to everything she had achieved. But no dress, no matter how finely sewn, could fill the hollow place within her.

You threw away your chance for family when you betrayed Miss Annabel.

Caroline shook her head and reached for the gown. If she could not have kinship, she would at least have purpose. And purpose, she reminded herself, had always brought her comfort.

William closed up the smithy and made his way toward the cottages at the end of Market Street.

He had given his journeymen and apprentices time off for the holiday, and the forge would remain closed until Tuesday, the day after Christmas, save for urgent repairs. He had left a note on the smithy door that he could be found at his cottage, though he expected no business. The townsfolk were swept up in festive cheer.

He had plans of his own.

The widow next door, Mrs. Heeley, had departed the previous day to visit her daughter in Bath. At last, he could tend to her roof—without her knowledge.

Proud and fiercely independent, Mrs. Heeley insisted on paying or bartering for every kindness offered. But William had noticed a leak in her roof during his last visit and resolved to repair it while she was away. The work would be done quietly, and she would be none the wiser.

He had purchased the slate tiles a week ago. Now, all he needed were his tools and the old ladder behind his cottage. Usually, one of his apprentices would assist with such work, but he had sent them home early to ensure they reached their families in time for the holiday.

The street was quiet save for laughter and music drifting from the inn near his house. William did not mind solitude, but the holidays always brought back memories of Charles.