He walked up to the front door and knocked.
An elderly servant answered. He was far too old to work, but Christopher's
tender-hearted mother hadn't been willing to dismiss him. “Good evening, sir,”
he said in a quavering voice.
“Good evening, Tibbins,” Christopher replied. “Are you well?”
“As well as can be expected,” he answered. “The cold, you know? My knees
dislike it.”
“I'm sorry to hear it,” Christopher said indulgently. “Is my mother in?”
“Yes. I believe she's in the parlor,” the servant said. He took a step in that direction and then groaned as the tortured joint gave off a noisy pop.
“No need to show me the way,” Christopher insisted. “Have a good evening.
Rest your knees.”
“Yes, sir.”
Christopher hurried to the parlor, where, sure enough, his mother had curled
up on a scarlet velvet settee near the fire, reading a novel. She looked up at the
sound of his approach. “Hello, my love,” she greeted him. “Out on such a cold
evening?”
“Yes, Mother.” He got straight to the point. “What's wrong with Katerina?”
She raised her eyebrows when he said her first name. “So, you've moved to
that level already, have you?”
“Yes,” he replied, crouching to meet Julia's eyes. “She asked me to be her friend.”
Her jaw dropped. “Did she? I'm astonished. She must like you very much.
She can scarcely bring herself to talk to most men.”
“She seems to feel rather comfortable with me,” he explained.
“And you?” she pressed, intensity radiating from her vivid green eyes.
“I enjoy her company,” Christopher said. Then he returned tenaciously to the
point. “What's wrong with her?”
“Nothing. What on earth do you mean?” She said it too fast, her voice
uncertain.
“So, there is something.” He sighed. “I want to court her. I asked her if I could talk to her father. She refused.”
Though Julia's eyes widened at his admission, she replied in a calm, neutral
voice. “She did? I'm not surprised.”
“What am I not understanding here? She accepted my kiss.” The words
escaped before he could stop them, and heat bloomed along his cheekbones.
“Christopher!” Julia sat up straight on the chaise and glared at her son.
“What?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against
the door frame, a study in false nonchalance. “I kissed her. I didn't seduce her. I
wouldn't do that.”
“Of course not,” Julia agreed. She set her novel aside and stood, pacing in front of the fire, her agitation radiating farther than the heat of the dancing flames. “Listen, she's right. You mustn't talk to her father. If you do, you will cause her all kinds of problems.”
“So, he truly doesn't want her to have suitors?”
“He truly doesn't,” Julia concurred.
