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a surprise, too, my love."
    36 Linda Francis Lee
    One delicately arched brow rose. "You can't charm me with sweets, husband, as well you know."
    Browning laughed as he removed his coat and hung it on a peg by the door. "Then I guess I'll just have to throw yours away."
    "Give it to me! Give it to me!" Belle said, jumping up and down.
    "No, Blue," he responded, though his eyes, filled with a deep, gentle love, were locked with his wife's. "This is a surprise only for your mother. One I'll just have to see if she will reconsider later tonight."
    Madeline's eyes grew intense as she returned his heated gaze. At length, she turned away and headed toward the small kitchen at the back of the house.
    Browning closed the distance that separated them with a few bold strides. Pulling her back into his embrace, he nuzzled her cheek. "Ah, Madeline, my love. I missed you today."
    Madeline started to laugh and slap at his hands. "Mr. Holly, behave yourself. Supper's nearly ready," she said, pulling away, but not before she pressed one graceful finger of promise to his lips.
    "Tonight, then, my dearest love," he whispered after her.
    ***************************************************************************************
    They sat before the fire, a rare pot of stew and a freshly baked loaf of bread on the table to celebrate Belle's sixth birthday. The small family laughed and talked and sang a few songs. When the last song was finished, a contented hush fell over the table.
    "I take it all went well at the farm today," Madeline said, an earthenware cup held delicately in her hand.
    "As well as any day. He wasn't around much. Had things to attend to in town."
    Blue Waltz37
    "If only he would spend more time in town," Madeline replied, her tone suddenly harsh.
    Browning reached across and grasped his wife's hand. "Soon, love," he said, his eyes intense. "Soon, I'll take you back to Boston, just as I promised."
    Belle looked on, her tiny face screwed up with worry. "You don't like the farmer, do you, Papa?"
    Forcing a smile, Browning reached over and ruffled her hair. "Don't you worry your pretty little head over such things."
    "Then tell me the story about the Boston place," Belle demanded. "Tell me about the cobbled streets and tall houses built all close together, with grand ballrooms and huge candle tears."
    "Chandeliers, darlin'," Browning corrected with a laugh.
    Madeline shook her head, her lips parting with a whimsical smile. "The tales you've filled this child's head with, husband."
    "Not tales, love, the truth, as well you know."
    With that Browning became animated, regaling his audience with details of the life they would lead once they moved to Boston.
    It was always the same, the same stories, the same fairytale life. And Belle loved it, always had. She couldn't wait until it started, for though she knew the stories sometimes made her mother look sad, they also made her smile in a soft, dreamy way that Belle loved so very much.
    Belle ate her meal, the smells of herbs and fresh bread filling the room, the fire crackling, keeping the small family warm and cozy, far removed from the bitter cold outside and the hated farmer who made her mother and father so very unhappy.
    38 Linda Francis Lee
    "Tell me about the house," Belle pleaded, when her father's words began to trail off.
    He stared into the fire, and for one nearly panic-stricken moment Belle was afraid he wouldn't go on, would keep that horribly sad look on his face that she hated so.
    "Well, let's see," he said, blinking at the flickering flames.
    Relief washed over her. "The crenelated crown moldings!"
    "Ah, yes, the crenelated crown moldings." He turned back to the table, a sigh escaping his lips. "With fluted door casings. Carved marble colonnades. And a huge fireplace that has a finely wrought portrait hanging over the mantel."
    "Of who?" she asked, as she always did.
    His lips curved up on one side with a hint of a smile. "Your mother, of course."
    "No, sir," her mother