A/N: The people of The Age of Innocence are the creation of Edith Wharton and I do not own them. Day 22 (jingle bells) of the 25 Days of Fic Challenge.
Thereafter, May Welland Archer associated the first time with the clamor of jingle bells.
She was at a house party near Boston because Archer had some impenetrable business with one of the dour New England merchant-barons who subsisted on regimens of oatmeal and cold-water baths. After three days, she was heartily sick of both, but there was no helping it. A wife's duty is to her husband, and if her husband's business requires eating oatmeal for breakfast, she'll quietly see to it that she does her morning calling at houses where hot chocolate and little cakes are served with a lavish hand.
At one such house, she'd met the young man who drove this sleigh beside her. Edmund DeWitt of the Philadelphia DeWitts was neither short nor tall, neither blond nor dark, entirely ordinary and even of feature, pleasant in a way that ought to be utterly forgettable. When the chatter of girls his own age bored him, as it was bound to do, being of little but ribbons and parties and who had danced with whom, he had filled young Mrs. Newland Archer's plate with tiny cakes crowned with candied cranberries.
She had not been able to forget him.
Glancing sideways at him around the edge of her least stylish winter hat, which was still the cause of consternation in Boston, she could find no particular reason for this. High color from the chilly air—all the sleighing party had it. A steady hand on the reins—this was expected of their caste. Straight teeth, bright eyes, glossy hair—as much might be said of her husband or half the suitors who'd offered unsuccessfully for the delicate white hand of May Welland.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he said.
"They're scarcely worth it."
"You undervalue yourself." His smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. She had, in an unguarded moment over one of the endless cups of hot chocolate, found herself trying to determine whether they were brown or blue. "I believe you are thinking of how lovely the day is."
"So I am." The buildings of Boston made her think of housemaids and elderly spinsters, their hair skinned back in knobby buns, their lips folded inward as their hands folded in their aprons. Sunlight and snow painted them in shimmer and shadows, giving them the mystery of one of those new art movements that her dear Newland was always on about.
"I believe you are thinking that if it weren't for the jingle bells, not a soul would hear us come and go."
"Is that why we make such a noise?" She meant it as a joke, but DeWitt nodded.
"The city fathers of Boston, in their wisdom, have regulated that no sleigh may pass through the city streets without sounding its bells. If we stop jingling them, we violate the most sacred conventions."
"I bow to the knowledge of the Harvard man."
"The Harvard man bows to the charm of the New York beauty."
"You flatter me."
"Yes. I do. There's a wooded drive, not far from here, where the noise is less. You may feel, perhaps, that we're completely alone there."
"It sounds delightful." She meant that as a pleasantry, and only after hearing herself say it did she hope he would turn the sleigh toward that path, away from the others. The jingling of the bells, the swoosh of the sleigh's runners on packed snow, the lacy pattern of bare tree limbs against the blue sky, the unexceptional flow of DeWitt's conversation, with the certainty of coffee and little sandwiches after—the prospect enticed her.
The sleigh turned. DeWitt drew forth her opinions on theater and novels. He spoke at some length and vigor about the Oriental rugs that were so fashionable since the Centennial and listened with interest when she recounted the tragedy of Mrs. Manson Mingott's lapdog. At a turn in the road, he clasped her gloved hand as if to kiss it, then he turned it palm-up and his lips found the triangle of pale skin where her glove met her sleeve.
As a naive girl, she'd elevated dear Newland's fling with that foolish Mrs. Rushworth to the level of tragic romance. Later, when she'd counted so many dalliances with married women among their set—including dear Newland with her very own cousin—she'd dismissed the women as discontented, frivolous, or the slaves to animal passions about which the aunts and grandmothers made dire hints.
"A penny for your thoughts?"
"The drive is very lovely."
DeWitt leaned past her least-stylish winter hat and kissed her.
He smelled familiarly of soap, tobacco, and starch. His kiss was neither a hesitant peck nor anything like dear Newland's practiced, impersonal efforts to rouse ardor from her. It was—her mind rummaged for the word even as her lips parted under his—enthusiastic. His lips said it as clearly as if they spoke the words: he was delighted; he was honored; he adored her; he would treasure the bare whisper of her breath and the brush of her skin.
"I do believe it is," he whispered, breathless.
"Do you want to know what I was really thinking?" Though she'd been confused a moment ago, now her thoughts were as crystalline as the frost on passing windows. The workings of the world were clear, as was her place in it. Once May Welland Archer made a decision, there was little room in her mind for doubt or reconsideration.
"Always."
"I was wondering how deep in the woods this path goes."
Beyond that point, the path was narrow, and the sleigh slid along it with only the whoosh of the runners to mark its passing.