Mistletoe and Magic, page 10
Courtney: She didn’t believe me
Courtney: How’s the self-discovery going?
Courtney: Any news with the two guys?
Courtney: This is better than Netflix
Courtney: PLEASE tell me you’re writing this down
Eva glanced at the desk where sheets of Riddle & Quill stationery lay scattered, already filled with her observations and fragments of Margaret Wells’ story.
Eva: Actually, I am. First time in years.
Courtney:
Courtney: What about the grumpy map guy?
Eva considered how to answer. Something about Charlie felt familiar, like a book she’d read before but couldn’t quite place. The way he’d shown her the hidden corners of the Minster, how he’d tensed when she’d mentioned Margaret, the unexpected vulnerability when he’d talked about people leaving …
Eva: He’s complicated. Apparently taking me on a road trip to the moors tomorrow. Don’t get excited though, it’ll be out of obligation to Florence.
Courtney: Or maybe he likes you
Eva: He literally told me I was basically destroying British heritage with my tourist ways
Courtney: That’s probably flirting in British
Eva was saved from responding by a knock at her door. “Come in,” she called.
Florence peered around the door. “Charlie’s agreed to tomorrow. Nine o’clock. Wear something warm and waterproof—Yorkshire weather doesn’t care about cutesy matching ensembles.”
After she left, Eva sat at the desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of the inn’s stationery. The cream-coloured paper felt substantial under her fingers, the embossed logo at the top lending weight to whatever words she might write. She thought about Margaret Wells, leaving notes for wounded soldiers, trying to heal others when she couldn’t heal herself.
She began to write:
There are women who write love stories for everyone but themselves. They leave trails of happy endings in their wake—matchmaking friends, penning perfect proposals for tongue-tied suitors, crafting the words others cannot find. They become cartographers of the heart, mapping routes to joy they never take themselves.
Margaret Wells was one of these women.
I think I might be one too.
We are the architects of other people’s happiness, building beautiful structures we never inhabit. We choose duty’s grey uniform over passion’s red dress. We tell ourselves that sacrifice is noble, that putting others first is love’s highest form.
But what if we’re wrong?
What if the greatest betrayal isn’t breaking someone else’s heart, but ignoring our own? What if all our careful kindnesses are just elaborate ways to avoid the terrifying possibility of our own joy?
Margaret wrote: ‘The cruellest lies are the ones we tell ourselves in the early hours, when the house is quiet and our hearts are loud.’
I’m beginning to understand what she meant. In the daylight, we can pretend our choices were noble. But at night, when the world strips away its pretenses, we know the truth: we were afraid. Afraid to want. Afraid to reach. Afraid to fail at our own happiness after succeeding so brilliantly at arranging everyone else’s.
Tomorrow, I’ll follow her footsteps to the moors. Not to solve her mystery, but to understand my own. Because maybe—just maybe—it’s not too late to stop writing other people’s happy endings and start writing my own.
She set down the pen and picked up the brass key, looking over it beneath the lamplight. Whatever it opened, Margaret had wanted it found. But not easily, not by just anyone. By someone willing to look behind things, to see past the surface.
Through her rain-blurred window, York continued its ancient business of existing, indifferent to the mysteries it harboured. Somewhere out there, Charlie was probably bent over his maps, adding careful details to streets that had been walked for centuries. Florence was downstairs, creating her own small kingdom of warmth and belonging.
Eva sat with the brass key, turning it over and over in her hands. The more she did so the more soothing it became. Deep in her chest she felt a growing certainty that she was exactly where she needed to be, even if she couldn’t say why.
Tomorrow, the moors. Tonight, the surprisingly comfortable unknown of a story still being written.
She placed the key carefully in the desk drawer, next to the green book that had started it all, and the growing stack of stationery pages that had become something more than a journal—perhaps the beginning of the book she’d always meant to write. Whatever door the key opened could wait. She was learning, slowly, that not every mystery needed to be solved immediately. This wasn’t just one of the methodical to do lists she was so good at clearing through quickly. Some stories were better for the waiting.
Outside, the rain continued, turning York’s streets into rivers of reflected Christmas lights. And somewhere in the city, the rest of Margaret Wells’ story waited patiently, as it had for decades, for someone ready to understand not just what happened, but why it still mattered.
Chapter Eight
Dales and Doubts
Eva woke to the sound of paper sliding under her door. Not the violent shove of a pizza menu or the aggressive thwack of a noise complaint she was used to back home, but a gentle whisper of movement that somehow managed to be more intrusive for its politeness.
She stumbled out of bed, her feet finding the perpetually cold floor, and picked up the folded note. The handwriting was Florence’s—neat, no-nonsense cursive that looked like the standard to teach penmanship lessons.
Be ready at 9. Wear sensible shoes. Charlie’s taking you to see the real Yorkshire.
Eva checked her phone. 7.47 a.m. She had just over an hour to make herself presentable for a day with a man who seemed to regard her existence as a personal affront to British heritage.
“Fantastic,” she muttered, heading for the shower.
By 8.55 a.m., she was downstairs in her thick cable-knit cardigan she’d bought in London, jeans, and the only ‘sensible’ shoes she’d brought—a pair of ankle boots that were more fashionable than functional but would have to do. Florence was at her usual post in the dining room, arranging the breakfast buffet with military precision.
“Ah, good, you’re ready,” Florence said, not looking up from the perfectly aligned croissants.
“Quiet morning,” Eva observed carefully.
“Oh, it’s always peaceful this time of year,” Florence said, her tone determinedly bright. “People busy with their Christmas shopping, you know. January will pick up. Always does.” She moved a jam pot three millimetres to the left. “Besides, gives me more time to look after my special guests properly, doesn’t it?”
Eva suspected ‘special guests’ meant ‘only guest’, but didn’t say so.
“Charlie will be here any moment. I told him he needs to stop by Kilnsey to get fresh milk from the vending machine. You absolutely must see it—it’s one of Yorkshire’s hidden treasures.”
“A milk vending machine?” Eva’s voice rose with unexpected delight. “Like, actual fresh milk? Straight from cows? In a vending machine?”
“Everything’s a treasure if you look at it the right way,” Florence said cryptically. “Besides, Charlie needs to get out more. All he does is work on those maps and brood. You’ll be good company for him.”
“I don’t think Charlie wants—”
The front door opened, cutting off her protest. Charlie stood in the doorway, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. He wore a thick green jumper that had seen better decades and jeans with suspicious stains that could have been ink or mud or both. Tilly bounded in ahead of him, tail wagging enthusiastically at the sight of Eva.
“Morning,” he said to the air somewhere over Eva’s left shoulder.
“Charlie!” Florence bustled over. “Perfect timing. You’ll take the scenic route, won’t you? And stop at—”
“The milk machine, yes, you’ve mentioned it seventeen times,” Charlie interrupted. He glanced at Eva, taking in her outfit. “You’re not bringing a rain jacket?”
“It’s not supposed to rain,” Eva said, gesturing at the relatively clear morning sky visible through the window.
Charlie gave her a look that suggested she’d just announced plans to wrestle a bear. “It’s Yorkshire. It’s always supposed to rain.”
“I’ll be fine,” Eva said confidently. “The weather app says partly cloudy.”
“The weather app,” Charlie repeated, still not looking at her. “Right. Are you coming?”
Eva grabbed her coat and bag, giving Florence a look that said I’m doing this for you, not him. Florence just smiled serenely and made shooing motions towards the door.
Charlie’s Land Rover was exactly what Eva expected—ancient, mud-splattered, and held together by what appeared to be equal parts rust and stubbornness. The inside smelled of wet dog, old leather, and something earthy that might have been peat or just accumulated Yorkshire.
“Sorry about the …” Charlie gestured vaguely at the interior as Eva climbed in. “I don’t usually have passengers. Human ones, anyway.”
Tilly had already claimed the middle seat, her warm weight pressed against Eva’s thigh. The dog looked up at her with liquid brown eyes that seemed to say Don’t mind him, he’s always like this.
“It’s fine,” Eva said, buckling herself in with a seat belt that might have been original to the vehicle. “I appreciate you taking me. I know Florence probably strong-armed you into it.”
Charlie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Florence has her ways,” he said carefully. “She seems to think I need more … social interaction.”
“And I’m social interaction?”
“Apparently.” He started the engine, which coughed to life with the enthusiasm of someone forced to work on their day off. “She also genuinely believes you need to see a milk vending machine, so I’m not sure how much we should trust her judgement.”
Despite herself, Eva smiled. “Maybe she knows something we don’t.”
“Florence usually does,” Charlie admitted, pulling out into the narrow street. “It’s tremendously annoying.”
They drove in silence through York’s morning streets, the city still waking up around them. Eva tried not to stare at the way Charlie’s hands moved on the steering wheel—confident, careful, with the same precision he probably used on his maps. Tilly dozed between them, occasionally sighing with deep canine contentment.
As they left the city behind, the roads narrowed dramatically. Eva found herself pressing against the door as stone walls seemed to close in on both sides.
“Are these roads built for actual cars?” she gasped as Charlie swerved slightly to avoid an approaching delivery van, the vehicles passing with what seemed like mere inches between them. “How do you not have accidents every ten feet?”
Charlie navigated the tight spaces with relaxed confidence. “You get used to it. The roads were designed for horse carts, not Land Rovers. Some are a thousand years old.”
“And what’s with all the walls of bushes?” Eva asked, gesturing at the dense greenery lining both sides of the lane, occasionally brushing against the Land Rover. “It’s like driving through a very narrow green tunnel.”
“Hedgerows,” Charlie corrected. “They’re living fences, basically. Some are hundreds of years old—they mark ancient property lines, parish boundaries. Did you know there are enough hedgerows in England to wrap around the world ten times?”
“That’s … fascinating,” Eva admitted, her death grip on the arm rest relaxing slightly. “They’re beautiful.”
They drove for what felt like hours. Eva was unsure of what to say or how to present herself. Usually, she would tell someone exactly what they wanted to hear. But for some reason, in England, or maybe, around Charlie, she didn’t want to do that anymore.
“So,” Eva said when the silence became too heavy, “what exactly makes this milk vending machine so special?”
“It’s fresh milk,” Charlie stated simply, as if this explained everything. When Eva’s blank look persisted, he added, “Straight from the farm. You put your pound in, or credit card, whatever, place your bottle and fresh milk comes out. Still warm sometimes.”
“That’s actually kind of amazing,” Eva said. “Very un-American. We like our milk to travel at least a thousand miles and have a shelf life of several weeks.”
“Explains a lot about your cheese, you know it’s not meant to come out of a can.” Charlie muttered.
“Hey! We have excellent cheese in America.”
“You have orange cheese. That’s not the same thing.”
“Wisconsin would like a word with you.”
“Wisconsin can take it up with Wensleydale.”
Eva found herself grinning. Grumpy Charlie was actually kind of fun when he wasn’t actively trying to make her feel like a culturally insensitive tourist.
As the city gradually gave way to countryside, dry stone walls replaced shop fronts, and sheep replaced pedestrians. The landscape opened up like a book, each hill and valley a new chapter. Morning mist clung to the hollows, and the weak winter sun painted everything in shades of pearl and silver.
Eva couldn’t help but imagine Mr Darcy striding out of the mist, making his way across the moors towards Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. Though knowing her luck lately, she’d probably get Collins instead.
“It’s beautiful,” Eva breathed, pressing her face closer to the window.
“Wait until you see the Dales proper,” Charlie said, and there was something in his voice—pride, maybe, or possession. “This is just the preview.”
They stopped at Kilnsey, where the promised milk vending machine sat like a small technological miracle next to a traditional stone barn. Charlie demonstrated the process with the seriousness of someone explaining nuclear physics, while Eva tried not to laugh at the absurdity of getting a tourism lesson about fresh milk.
“You try,” he said, handing her a glass bottle that he’d produced from somewhere in the Land Rover’s cluttered back.
Eva inserted her pound, placed the bottle, and watched in genuine delight as fresh milk poured out. “This is the best thing I’ve seen in England,” she declared.
“Better than the Tower of London?”
“Infinitely. The Tower of London doesn’t give you fresh milk.”
“Fair point,” Charlie conceded. “Though that would improve the tourist experience considerably.”
They continued north, the landscape growing more dramatic with each mile. The Dales unfolded around them—vast moorlands stretching to the horizon, limestone cliffs catching the light, valleys carved by ancient rivers. It was beautiful in a way that made Eva’s chest tight, like the landscape was too big for her heart to hold.
Charlie pulled into a small car park beside a weathered sign marking a public footpath. “Come on,” he said, “you can’t see the Dales properly from the car.”
They set off along a well-marked trail, Tilly racing ahead then circling back, her tail a constant flag of joy. The path wound along a river, following the water between ancient trees and younger saplings. The water moved swiftly, dark and mysterious, catching occasional glints of sunlight that broke through the cloud cover.
“What about tea time?” Eva asked, remembering Florence’s comment about British traditions. “Is that as sacred as they say?”
“Absolutely,” Charlie nodded gravely. “Missing tea time is a criminal offence punishable by public tutting and disapproving glances. Last year, a man in Leeds forgot to offer his visitor a cuppa, and they exiled him to France.”
“Now you’re definitely making fun of me.”
“Maybe a little,” Charlie admitted, that almost-smile appearing again. “But tea is important. It’s not just the beverage—it’s the pause, the ritual. Everything stops for tea.”
They reached a bend in the river where a fallen tree created a natural bench. By unspoken agreement, they sat down, Tilly immediately flopping at their feet with a contented sigh.
“I thought British people were supposed to be reserved and formal,” Eva said. “You’re surprisingly sarcastic.”
“We’re not reserved,” Charlie corrected. “We’re private. There’s a difference.”
“And what does Charlie Blackwood keep private?” Eva asked, immediately regretting her boldness when his expression closed again.
Scared of the painful silence that was sure to follow, she filled it. “I can see why the Brontës wrote such dramatic novels,” she said, gesturing at the dramatic scenery around them. “This landscape demands it. All that passion and tragedy—it fits here.”
Charlie glanced at her sideways. “You’ve read them?”
“Multiple times. Wuthering Heights was my favourite in high school. All that doomed love and drama on the moors.” She pointed at the landscape. “Though I pictured it differently. More … I don’t know, purple? Gothic? This is beautiful but in a quieter way.”
“Life’s usually quieter than books,” Charlie said. “Less dramatic. More disappointing.”
“That’s a cheerful worldview.”
“It’s a realistic one.” His tone had shifted, becoming closed and defensive. Or as Charlie would say: ‘private’.
“Don’t you love the worlds that books invite you into? They are exciting and comforting and encouraging!” Eva could feel herself becoming aggravated.
“Books sell you stories about destiny and soulmates and love conquering all. Real life is more like people leaving. People choosing easier options. People forgetting you the moment something shinier comes along.”
Eva studied his profile, noting the tension in his jaw. “God, Blackwood, who left you?” she attempted to draw some humour from him.
“Everyone, eventually.” He said it matter-of-factly, but his hands tensed at the red worn leash in his hand. “That’s what people do. They leave.”
Before Eva could respond, the sky, which had been merely overcast this morning, suddenly opened. Rain hammered down with the enthusiasm of a percussion section, turning the path into a stream.
