Page 68 of A Snowfall of Silver

I practise in the mirror, looking at my pale, unhappy reflection. “Foolish girl,” I say in Aunt Irene’s voice. “Causing nothing but trouble and strife for everyone, running off with your head stuffed full of ridiculous nonsense. Well, look where all that dreaming has got you!”

“Oh, shut up, Aunt Irene,” I mutter. “What do you know?”

I flop back on to my bed.

Now that the matter of my immediate future is sorted, I am able to unpick a previously unexamined thread from the general tapestry of my misery. I glance over at the parcel Nora gave me, still unopened in the corner of the room.

I miss my friends.

I miss all of the people I spent the last six weeks with. Well, maybe not all of them – I don’t mind if I never see Russ again. But I miss Nora and her keen intelligence and glamour, the flash of her red nails as she wields a needle. I miss sharing a room with Alma, whispering late into the night, laughing over silly stories, her quick understanding. I miss Dan and his sharp tongue and ability to gossip anywhere, with anyone. I miss watching Viola on the stage, her charm and vanity, her brilliance and her steel.

I miss Kit.

I think about him – I would estimate – perhaps a hundred times a day. I want to talk to him about every thought that passes through my brain. I want to lay my troubles at his feet. But I can’t. He is a talent, like Viola. Not a failure like me. And I spent the last few days of the tour, and all the time since then, completely ignoring him. He must feel like I don’t care about him at all.

Maybe he’s given up on me altogether by now, realized that I don’t belong in his world any more.

Finally, fed up with doing nothing, I decide to write him a postcard. It has a picture of a flaming Christmas pudding on the front, and when Robert is next going into town I ask him to leave it at the theatre. I assume Kit will be dropping in for his final meetings with Mr Cantwell and Miss Meriden. No doubt they’re already talking about the next production.

On the back of the postcard I write:

“I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.”

Merry Christmas,

Love

Freya

It is nothing really. A line from The Importance of Being Earnest, a smoke signal, a way of reminding him that I am here. In case he is thinking of me too.

Two days pass and my moping only gets worse. Perhaps I shouldn’t have sent the postcard after all. Would he think it was odd? I think about that night in the theatre when we were playing sardines. I think he would have kissed me if Viola hadn’t arrived. I think I would have liked him to.

I am checking the hall table for post for the hundredth time when I run into Lou, who is just back from visiting a friend. Her cheeks are pink from the cold.

“For goodness’ sake, Freya,” she says, tugging her hat off her curly head. “It’s like having the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come in the house. I know you’ve had a setback, but can’t you try for a little merriment?”

“It’s not that. I’ve decided to turn my back on my career and that’s the end of it.” I sigh. “If you must know, I am having a dilemma of the heart.”

“Well, that’s a different thing altogether.” She strips her gloves from her hands. “Come and tell me all about it.”

We sit together on the sofa, the tea tray at the ready. “The thing is,” I say, after I pour everything out over several cups of tea and three mince pies, including the almost-kiss during a game of sardines this time, “I don’t really understand how I feel or what I want.”

“It sounds like you’re very fond of him,” Lou points out.

“Oh, I am!” I say. “I feel comfortable with him. Sometimes we can have whole conversations without saying a word. And now, I miss him so much, it’s like an ache.”

“It sounds,” Lou pauses delicately, “as though you might be in love with him.”

“In love with him!” I clutch at my skirts. “No! It’s not that. It can’t be. He’s never made me want to miss a single meal. He’s never made me cry or feel sick and faint with longing.”

Lou laughs. “But being in love isn’t all weeping and wailing.”

“Isn’t it?” I ask doubtfully.

“Maybe on the stage it is,” Lou says, “or in novels, though I’d never put that sort of nonsense in mine. And I don’t act like that around Robert, I never did. I eat very well when he’s around, and you can’t tell me you don’t think we’re in love.” Her cheeks go pink. “Because we are, quite desperately, actually.”

I think about this. It’s true that Lou and Robert have seemed always very comfortable together. I remember this when we first met Robert and he came to visit the farm. They seemed relaxed around each other.