A Victorian Christmas by Catherine Palmer

window. A light snow had begun to drift out of the leaden skies. The flakes floated through the gray air like puffs of dandelion down to settle on the wreaths of holly and fir decorating the doors of the houses that lined the street. “I’m about to marry a baron from Yorkshire. His father is in partnership with my father, you see, and I’m the link that will forge the two families. My sister Bess was in the chute to marry the baron, but now she’s engaged to the neighboring rancher.”
    “The chap you wrangled with over Bible history, geography, and barbed wire stringing?”
    “That’s the fellow. He decided he wanted a nice, quiet, obedient wife like Bess.”
    “Which left you to the Yorkshire baron.”
    Star nodded. The man was smiling now, his chiseled features softening from rigid angles and planes to crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the hint of a dimple in one cheek. For the first time, she noticed the breadth of his shoulders beneath the black greatcoat he wore. Strong shoulders. Shoulders like a bulwark against all trouble.
    An urge swept over Star, compelling her to ask if she might lay her head on the man’s shoulder and if he might put his arms around her and hold her tight and warm. But then the dam holding back the tide of emotion inside her would break and she would start to cry, and such a display would never do. Star Ellis might be a rancher’s daughter, but she had attended a finishing school for a whole summer in New York City. She knew how a lady ought to behave.
    “I’m traveling to Yorkshire myself,” the man said. “It’s not such a bad place, really. Not a great deal of barbed wire about; ancient hedgerows are used for fencing. But we’ve a lot of sheep and cattle. Villages are scattered here and there—jolly nice people. And of course, there are some enjoyable prospects—the Yorkshire Dales in the north, the Lake District to the northwest, and Scarborough on the coast.”
    “Is Yorkshire your home?”
    “Was.” He leaned back and let out a breath. “I’ve been away a long time. The prodigal son, you know.”
    As Star studied her fellow passenger, he began to transform from a mere object of information and slight annoyance into a human being. Prodigal son . What could he mean by that? Why had he left his family? And more important, why was he returning home now?
    “I’ve always wanted to go to India,” Star said. “Africa, too.”
    “You must be joking.”
    “I heard a missionary speak about India once at a tent revival. He’d been in China, and he talked about crossing the Himalayan mountains and traveling down into the steaming deltas of the Ganges. It sounded exotic and beautiful—not a thing like west Texas, which is flatter than a chuck wagon griddle. But when he mentioned the crowded villages and the people worshiping fearsome idols made of clay and stone, that’s when I knew I wanted to go. I think if I could teach one woman how to sew clothes for her naked little children or tell one old man about the love and forgiveness of Jesus Christ, I’d be as happy as a little heifer with a new fence post. I just want to do something meaningful, you know, something worthwhile.”
    “A heifer?” The man’s dark brows drew together, but the dimple in his cheek deepened. “With a new fence post?”
    “Heifers like to scratch against a tree or a post. They get fly bit sometimes, and the bites are itchy.” Star picked up her quilting again, embarrassed that her common way of talking had made her notions about India sound silly. For all she knew, the man seated across from her was a baron himself, or even a duke. He probably thought she was addled.
    “May I inquire as to the name of the missionary who spoke to you about India?” he asked.
    Star glanced up. “I don’t remember. I was a little gal at the time.”
    “A missionary named William Carey worked in India for many years. I met some of his students. Remarkable experience.”
    “Why?”
    He shifted on the