It was five days before Christmas when the delivery arrived.
Florian had only just returned from a morning ride over the frosted northern grounds when a servant entered his sitting room to inform him that a parcel and letter had been brought in from the south.
The Erskine estate in winter was a different world from De Montfort.
Here, the cold was not decorative.
It ruled.
The air bit harder. The fields lay under a thicker, sterner layer of snow. Trees stood black and skeletal against wide pale skies, and even the stone of the house seemed to hold old northern chill within its walls. The servants moved briskly. Fires were kept high. Boots were always damp with snow at their hems.
Florian removed his gloves as he stepped toward the writing table where the parcel had been placed.
There was a box.
A plant, by the look of it, carefully wrapped and braced against movement.
A book.
And atop them, a letter.
He took up the letter first, turning it between his fingers with mild curiosity.
For a moment he wondered which of his sisters had contrived some elaborate seasonal gesture, or whether his mother had sent yet another admonition to eat more, sleep more, and avoid late-night company among university men, despite him being back at home.
Then he saw it.
The De Montfort crest pressed neatly into the seal.
And in one corner, in a hand he recognized at once from recent correspondence:
Miss Sophia de Montfort
A smile touched his mouth immediately.
Unexpected.
And all the more charming for it.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Sophia's writing, though still youthful, was neat and earnest — the hand of someone who tried very hard to make her thoughts appear orderly even when they were full of animation. As his eyes moved across the page, his smile deepened and once, at one particular sentence, he let out a quiet laugh.
She wrote of Christmas at De Montfort.
Of how loud it always was.
Of how Arthur and Fredrick could not be trusted in the same room as decorative objects, and how Maxim behaved as though he had personally been appointed guardian of order by heaven.
She wrote of the Duchess's preparations, of evergreens being brought in, of ribbons, of the great hall already beginning to smell of spice and beeswax and pine. She wrote that Christmas at the estate was never peaceful, only joyful, and that sometimes joy was even louder than quarrelling.
Then, in a softer turn of phrase, she wrote that she wished she had a sister to whom she might say such things directly.
That she envied him for having sisters.
That there seemed to be some sort of female language — of small understandings, shared glances, opinions on ribbon and fabric and letters and flowers — which she had been forced to invent for herself among brothers who, though loved, were of little use in such matters.
Florian laughed again at that.
He could see her writing it — serious, slightly dramatic, entirely sincere.
"Poor Sophia," he murmured, still smiling. "You imagine sisters are peace."
In truth, he adored his sisters. But he also knew exactly what it was to grow up with women who had opinions about everything from cuff-links to courtship to how a gentleman ought to stand when a lady entered a room.
He thought, not without affection, that he would happily exchange one of them now and then for Maxim or Fredrick.
Maxim, at least, had sense.
Fredrick would no doubt be exhausting but interesting.
Arthur—
Florian's smile broadened.
No. Arthur might be too much noise even for him.
And as for an elder brother like Laurence—
He paused there briefly, amusement quieting into reflection.
Laurence would be a formidable brother.
A useful ally in all practical matters, no doubt.
But not one with whom a younger sibling idled easily.
There was a gravity to Laurence that kept a natural distance even where there was affection.
Florian folded the letter carefully and set it aside before turning his attention to the gift itself.
He opened the box containing the plant first.
A small potted specimen nestled in protective cloth wrappings looked back at him.
He bent slightly, studying the leaves, then the label affixed to the pot.
The Latin name first, 'Panax Ginseng'.
Below it in English, 'Ginseng'.
He frowned faintly in concentration. No explanation or instructions could be found attached to it.
"Ginseng," he read softly.
For a moment he only looked at it.
Then he glanced toward the accompanying parcel and discovered the wrapped book.
Opening it, he saw at once that its pages had been marked by a silk ribbon book mark.
His expression shifted from curiosity into genuine pleasure.
How thoughtful.
He carried the book to the window for better light and turned to the marked section. There, in clear text, were the details he sought — the plant's origins, its medicinal qualities, its rarity, the proper conditions for cultivation, the esteem in which it was held in eastern lands.
He read more slowly now.
Attentively.
The deeper he read, the more impressed he became.
This had not been the random choice of a child selecting something exotic merely because it sounded foreign.
This had been considered.
Observed.
Chosen with reference to his interests.
He glanced again toward Sophia's folded letter, and something warm settled in him.
How very sweet of her to have listened and remembered his interests.
And then acted upon what she had heard.
"That is very like her," he said quietly.
Not shallow affection.
Not frivolous effort.
Something specific. Earnest. Intentional.
He closed the book and rested his hand lightly against its cover.
The gift deserved an answer worthy of it.
And not merely a letter.
Something more.
His thoughts moved naturally then toward the previous week's hunt.
Among the game taken had been several white rabbits and, more unusually, an albino fox — its fur immaculate, pale as winter moonlight. The animals had already been skinned, stretched, and dried, into pelts awaiting whatever practical or decorative future they might be given.
He thought of Sophia and of the snow at De Montfort, lighter than here but still cold enough that warmth mattered. He imagined it would be far more difficult to find good quality pelts down south and that white, which was less common, would suit the young and innocent Sophia very well.
What did a girl of ten require?
Gloves perhaps?
A scarf?
A muff?
He frowned slightly.
There was not enough for a full coat, and he did not know what she already possessed. Better, perhaps, to send the hides themselves and allow her, or more likely the Duchess, to decide what was most useful.
Yes.
That was wiser.
He sat at once to write.
His reply was longer than strictly necessary, though not to him.
He thanked her warmly for the ginseng, telling her with unfeigned enthusiasm that it was one of the most thoughtful gifts he had ever received, and that she had surprised him entirely. He wrote that he had spent the better part of an hour reading about it, and that any person who chose so carefully had already shown an admirable botanical instinct, whether she believed so or not.
Then he followed to tell her of Christmas at the Erskine County.
He described winter at Erskine.
The greater cold of the north.
The long white mornings.
The way snow gathered deeply against stone walls and remained for weeks.
He wrote of his mother insisting on more firewood than anyone could possibly need, of his sisters arriving with their children and noise enough to rival De Montfort, and of the annual Christmas supper in which everyone pretended order would prevail and everyone knew it would not.
He told her she need not envy sisters too much, for they possessed a talent for notice and interrogation that brothers, for all their faults, did not. He added — with deliberate humor — that if she truly wished to trade, he might possibly part with one sister in exchange for Fredrick, but certainly not for Arthur, who would overwhelm any household not already fortified against chaos.
At that, he laughed to himself and continued writing.
Finally, he mentioned the pelts.
He explained that, not knowing what she lacked or preferred, he was sending her the white rabbit and albino fox pelts and asking that she decide what she would like made from them. Whatever the commissioned craftsman charged, he wrote, he would gladly pay.
And then, softer:
He hoped she was keeping warm.
He had heard there was snow farther south as well, and though the winter there was gentler than in the north, cold was cold all the same.
He signed the letter simply:
Your affectionate friend,
Florian Erskine
Then he sealed it.
The next morning the parcel was sent south.
It arrived at De Montfort the day before Christmas.
The house was in a state of cheerful upheaval. Evergreen boughs had been tied along banisters, candles stood ready to be lit by evening, and the great hall smelled faintly of citrus peel, pine resin, and spice.
Sophia happened to be in the entrance hall when the servant carried the chest inside.
She turned instinctively at the sound.
Another servant followed with a letter.
She saw the handwriting before she saw anything else.
Florian's.
Her heart leapt so violently she almost missed the fact that there was also a chest.
A chest.
From him.
"For Miss Sophia," the footman announced.