"I told you we should have taken the carriage," Eva said, brushing snowflakes from her eyelashes with the back of one ungloved hand and knocking upon the Pratts' door with the other. "I am monstrously cold."

"Did I not ask you to dress more warmly?" replied her vexed brother, his irritation contradicting the nearly imperceptible concern that briefly crossed his face.

"Yes, but I have misplaced my gloves."

Matthew rolled his eyes, but the censure that his sister was expecting was suspended as the front door to the Pratts' townhouse opened, quickly turning his intended reproof into a courteous greeting, which Eva echoed congenially, despite her chattering teeth.

The servant who had answered the door led them into the vestibule, a small and sparsely furnished room that was connected to a short but wide corridor whose walls were adorned with numerous portraits varying in size and quality. Eva scanned the depictions in search of a familiar face, her inquiring eyes flitting from one painting to the next before settling upon an amateur piece portraying two children sitting on a boulder beside an unnaturally blue river. As she neared the portrait, she unconsciously slowed her pace, her eyes already tracing the visible brushstrokes that had betrayed the artist's inexperience. But having never been too fastidious a connoisseur, she did not fixate on them long and smiled, instead, as she noted the children's incredible resemblance to her young cousins.

"Eva?" Matthew's stolid voice pierced the silence.

Suddenly recollecting herself, the adolescent girl turned around and faced her brother. Although Matthew's gaze was as disapproving as his tone, she was less affected by it than by the servant's anxious expression. The young woman seemed as though she wished to speak, her lips parting briefly before shutting, but her station, as well as Matthew's forbidding presence, prevented her from addressing Eva first. The latter was not insensible to this and, flashing the servant an encouraging smile, said, "This is a portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Pratt's sons, is it not?"

"Aye, Miss; 'twas done by one of the mistress' sisters."

Eva nodded and remarked on the prodigious likeness before returning to Matthew's side as the servant ushered them into the parlor. "It must be the product of the younger one," the stern man whispered, glancing quickly over his shoulder at the portrait; "it lacks the realism that I've seen in Mrs. Winters' drawings."

Eva scoffed, but said nothing until the servant quit the room to find Liam and Emma. Matthew seated himself on the sofa across from the fireplace, training his eyes on the flames in the hearth, his hat in his lap, one hand holding onto the brim and the other resting on the arm of the sofa. "When have you ever had the occasion to examine one of Mrs. Winters' drawings?" Eva asked as she wandered toward the mantel, her attention having been drawn by the small portraits sitting atop it.

"Those pieces that you are currently admiring, do they not belong to her?"

Dropping her eyes to the signature scrawled in a corner of one of the framed sketches, she grudgingly acknowledged that Clara Winters was the artist. "But," she added, eager to annihilate the self-satisfied look adorning her brother's face, "paints and canvases are much more difficult mediums to work with than pencils and paper. Perhaps Mrs. Winters was unused to painting and, therefore, was unable to reproduce the realism prevalent in these sketches when she created that portrait."

"Or perhaps she was not that portrait's creator."

"Or perhaps, Matthew, you are determined to think ill of Miss Browne."

An incredulous laugh escaped the young man's lips. "Think ill of her? Why should I think ill of a woman I have never met?"

Eva shrugged. "I have not a clue, brother. Why do you?"

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the merriment died from Matthew's expression. "You are impossible, Eva," he said, pushing back the brown locks falling into his eyes. "I do not know why I even bother arguing with you."

Eva gave a dismissive wave of her hand and, grinning, replied, "Perhaps you have nothing better to do."

Shaking his head in irritation, Matthew scoffed. "Have a seat, will you?" he replied firmly. "How unseemly you are, studying your cousins' furnishings so unabashedly."

A low murmur, a cross between a peevish whine and a defeated groan, was Eva's reply. But her brother's expression remained imperative, leaving her with no choice but to join him on the sofa. In a rather unladylike manner, she plopped down on the cushioned seat, provoking a deprecatory glare from Matthew, and, glancing down at her reddened fingertips, plastered on her pubescent face a look of faint alarm. "Matthew," she murmured, lifting her head in his direction, "I think I've the chilblains."

An uneasy expression momentarily took hold of Matthew's austere features, but upon glancing down at his sister's fingers, the worried creases in his brow relaxed. He held one of the slender digits up to her face. "What are the symptoms of the chilblains, Eva?"

"Redness, swelling, and itchiness."

Matthew nodded and roughly dropped her hand. "And since you are not scratching your fingers, I think we can safely assume that you are exhibiting only one of the three."

Gingerly, Eva ran the tip of her thumb across her other fingers, wincing as the moisture on it stung the raw, pink skin surrounding her nails. She bowed her head sheepishly and replied, "So, I haven't the chilblains, then?"

Beginning to grow impatient, not only with his sister but also the Pratts, whose continued absence from the room was starting to border on the curious, he brought a hand to his temple and murmured, "It is a bad habit, Eva, biting your fingernails." As he spoke, he reached into his coat pocket and removed from it his gloves. Tossing them in Eva's lap, he added, "It is even worse to go out in the cold with skin so exposed."

Casting Matthew a look of sisterly affection, Eva pulled on the gloves, the pronounced difference in the sizes of their hands, despite their similar heights, becoming less noticeable than usual. She grinned, contemplating slapping off of his face the sober expression that seemingly always ruled his features, as she tugged on the leather digits. But fortunately for Matthew, as well as for her, Emma's sudden and hasty entrance into the room prevented anything of the sort from occurring.

Quickly rising to their feet, the brother and sister attempted to greet their breathless relation, but the sight of Emma's disheveled appearance immediately put an end to their salutations. With a young boy clinging to her neck, the shock of blond hair atop his head appearing almost as tousled as her own locks, and the sleeves of her dress rolled up, she epitomized the distressed mother. "I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," she said in between sharp intakes of air. After depositing a sheet of paper onto the end table beside Matthew, she lowered the little boy to the ground and firmly secured a hand on his shoulder as though to keep him from bounding across the room. "I'm afraid Samuel here can be quite the troublemaker when his father is not home."

Matthew's dark eyes darted to Emma's son and much to his sister's surprise, a smile curled from his lips. Then, returning his attention to Emma, he said, "Ah, so Pratt is not in, then?"

"No, I fear business will keep him quite occupied these next few weeks," Emma replied, gesturing for them to resume their seats; "but do stay and take tea with me. I believe it has been quite long since we've last been in each other's company."

"We would be delighted to join you, Emma," Eva said warmly, her merry eyes continually flitting to little Samuel, playfully crossing whenever his dared to meet hers.

Chuckling softly, Emma took up the armchair facing the sofa. "Eva, my dear," she said, settling her son on her knees, "how mature you've become! And tall! I can hardly believe that it has been but two years since you were merely thirteen."

"Do not let her manner of speaking fool you, though, Mrs. Pratt," Matthew said with a wry twist of his lips; "I assure you, she is just as childish as ever."

Another gentle laugh escaped Emma's throat as Eva, glaring at her brother out of the corner of her eye, replied, "And do not let his manners fool you, Emma, for though he carries himself like a man of eight-and-forty, he is actually eight-and-twenty."

Matthew, whether offended or flattered by his sister's jesting comment, said nothing. He straightened his back and tightened his grip on the brim of his hat, the unreadable expression on his face never wavering.

Her curiosity piqued by his failure to defend himself, Emma turned toward the solemn man and said, in hopes of provoking him from his impassiveness, "Well, I've always admired young men with good heads on their shoulders." Her words were spoken in earnest and were received likewise, but as she continued to study him, she could not help agreeing with his sister. Although he was noticeably handsomer than Eva, he ostensibly possessed none of the warmth and openness that she seemed to exude from every pore in her body; and Emma was certain that if she had not already learned otherwise, she would have been hard-pressed to approach, let alone address, him.

As fond as Eva was of teasing her brother, she always knew when she was in danger of truly inciting his anger. Always the first indication, his unnerving taciturnity led her to redirect her attention to the golden-haired boy in Emma's lap. "Here we have sat for nearly five minutes and yet, I have heard not a peep from you, Samuel. Surely, you do not think your cousin so frightening that you will not speak to her?"

The little boy smiled shyly before burying his face in his mother's arm. "I'm afraid that is always the case with little children, Eva—quiet and demure when around others; full of mischief when left to themselves."

Eva nodded in agreement, unable to refrain from adding, "Unless they were Matthew's children, of course. Then, they would all be as grim as executioners." The dark-haired man frowned, but Emma's wry smile was enough provocation for her to continue, "Of course I despair of his ever having children now, you know? Of his ever marrying."

Matthew did not fail to show emotion at this repeat attack on his character. Raising an eyebrow, he shot his sister a wistful look.

"Why do you say that, Eva?" Emma said, saving him from voicing the same inquiry. "Though you may think otherwise, your brother is not so old."

"No, indeed he is not," the adolescent girl replied, flashing Matthew an impish grin, "but he is so disagreeable that I shall not wonder if he dies a bachelor."

"Oh, surely, you exaggerate," Emma countered, and meeting Matthew's steely gaze, added, "Will you not defend yourself, sir?"

Matthew cleared his throat, but was momentarily delayed from replying as the tea arrived. With her son sitting atop her knees, Emma was unable to play the part of hostess, so the task of pouring tea was left to Eva, who insisted on freeing the servant from any unnecessary exertions.

After stirring the contents of his cup more times than was the norm, Matthew returned his eyes to Emma and, vaguely answering her question, said, "I feel no need to defend myself, but I shall attempt to quell any fears that my sister has of my dying an old bachelor. I am not so much a disagreeable man, ma'am, as I am a cautious one. My only excuse for being still unmarried at eight-and-twenty is that I have yet to meet a woman who complements me well. But when I do, I assure you that I shall not hesitate to marry her."

His response brought a quick smile to Emma's lips. As she took a sip of her tea, she glanced at him over the rim of her cup. "It seems to me, Dr. Hamilton, that your notions are more romantic than cautious."

Feeling his cheeks flush, Matthew ducked his head and laughed quietly. "I daresay you're right, ma'am."

Eva, less inclined to believe her brother a sentimentalist than an authoritarian, scoffed. But sensing his unease, she drew Samuel's attention once more, in hopes of changing the subject of their conversation, and attempted a second time to persuade the young boy into speaking. At length, her perseverance and friendliness won her the child's trust and together, she and Samuel headed over to the windows, a book of fairytales in hand, in search of better reading light.

With one less child to fret over, at least for the moment, Emma quickly excused herself to go rouse her elder son from his afternoon nap, leaving Matthew alone in front of the fireplace. He did not remain on the sofa long, however, and was soon on his feet. His first turn about the parlor led him to the mantelpiece, where he stood examining Clara Winters' artwork.

The pieces, as he'd informed Eva earlier, were realistic landscapes and likenesses of the artist's family. Having been introduced to Gabriel Winters a few years back, he was able to recognize the older man in one of the sketches, as well as his four children in another. The portraits not of Clara's immediate family were of Liam, Emma, their children, and a fair-haired woman Matthew concluded must have been her younger sister, Sophia. They were all well-done pieces, but it was Clara's representation of Sophia that was the most detailed and lifelike of the drawings. Matthew momentarily contemplated asking Eva if the real Miss Browne did indeed resemble the one in the portrait, but loath to interrupt his sister and little Samuel from their reading, he contented himself with conjectures.

However, he was no less amazed by the depiction; having heard more than one disreputable rumor attached to Miss Browne's name, he had been expecting a mean and crude-looking woman. But the one in Mrs. Winters' portrait appeared almost angelic; though she possessed little of Clara's dark beauty, she was pretty in her own right—not extraordinarily so, but fair nonetheless—with light eyes, a pert nose, and an oval face framed by two golden curls.

After a short time, Matthew turned from the mantelpiece, convinced that, although she'd been incredibly accurate in her other portraits, Mrs. Winters had for some reason or other exaggerated in her depiction of her younger sister. He started for the sofa, but instead of resuming his seat, he stopped beside the end table and picked up the sheet of paper Emma had deposited there earlier. A quick skim of its contents revealed to him that it was a list of books.

Snorting in disgust, he murmured aloud the first item scrawled across the sheet of paper, "Frankenstein?" As his eyes continued down the list, however, his reactions became less unpleasant and more approving. Keats' Poems, Lamb's Essays of Elia, Donne's Songs and Sonnets, these were books that he could easily locate in his library.

With her children occupying nearly all of her waking hours, Matthew doubted that Emma could find time to read anything save fairytales and primers, but when she returned to the room with her other son groggily at her heels, he did not hesitate to say, "I have copies of most of these books, if you'd like to borrow them, Mrs. Pratt. I know some are difficult to find and some, like this Keats collection, are rather expensive—though I suppose that is always the case once a writer has died—and I am not averse to parting with them if others wish to read them."

"I thank you," Emma replied, grabbing a hold of George's hand to keep him from reaching for the dish of sugar cubes on the table, "but that list belongs to my sister and she has left me specific instructions to purchase those books."

"But is not Mrs. Winters' husband in possession of a rather sizable library at his country estate?"

"Yes," Emma replied, momentarily furrowing her brow before realizing that Matthew thought she was referring to Clara. "Those are for my other sister's collection, you see?"

"Ah," Matthew said, an awestruck look briefly crossing his face, followed by one of disbelief and confusion.

---

By the time the Winters' carriages entered the gates of Heathersfield the following evening, darkness had fallen across the estate, transforming the naked trees surrounding the palatial house into eerie wraiths that writhed in the wind. Sophia, her clothes wrinkled and reeking of vomit, emerged loudly from the barouche, roughly pushing past the footman attempting to help her alight from the carriage, and jumped to the ground on wobbly legs.

"Dear Lord, I think I'm going to be sick!" she cried, clutching her stomach as she leaned over a large mound of snow beside the circular pathway leading to the main entrance.

Gabriel and Clara, having just alighted from their own carriage, quickly rushed to her side. "Sophia," Clara said as she placed a hand on the young woman's back, "whatever is the matter?"

Pointing an accusatory finger in the direction of the barouche, Sophia shouted, "One of the evil little doubles retched all over my dress, that's what's the matter!"

"Which one?" Gabriel asked, forehead wrinkling with concern.

"I don't know! Edward? Henry? The one in the blue!"

Suddenly oblivious to her sister's complaints, Clara hurried over to the barouche, crying, "Good gracious, Edward is sick!" Her husband reacted similarly, leaving Sophia once more to herself.

The coachman had already helped Will and Henry to the ground and was in the process of lifting Edward out of his seat. Gabriel quickly took the child into his sturdy arms and, placing the back of his hand against Edward's forehead, turned toward Clara and sighed with relief. "His temperature is normal," he said, his words immediately relaxing the worried creases in her brow; "it was probably just motion sickness."

She nodded and, taking hold of her other sons' hands, said, "Come on, boys, let us go into the house; I'll have the nurse run you two a bath."

"But what about Edward?" Henry asked, glancing worriedly up at his twin.

Offering the young boy a reassuring smile, Gabriel reached down and ruffled his black locks. "Your brother is going to be fine, Henry. He's merely tired, that's all."

Clara cast him a grateful look. "Have him change his clothes before you put him into bed," she said. "And make certain that Gabby does not fall asleep in the drawing room again."

"Of course," Gabriel replied, nodding reassuringly as she ascended the steps to their house. Then, glancing behind him, he spotted his daughter standing in front of the fountain at the center of the walkway, catching falling snowflakes with her tongue. "Come on, Gabby!" he called, motioning her into the house with a wave of his hand. "You can play with the snow in the morning."

With her arms swinging at her side and her thick curls flying about her head, the little girl skipped over to her aunt's side. "Didn't you hear Papa?" she asked, tugging on the young woman's sleeve. "Come inside, Auntie. You can play with the snow in the morning."

"I'm not playing with the snow," Sophia snapped, resuming an upright stance.

"What are you doing, then?"

Sophia glanced down at the little girl, who was called Gabby not only to distinguish her from her father but also because of her partiality for talking. She sighed exasperatedly. "I'm eating it. What do you think?"

"Why on earth would you eat snow, Auntie? It doesn't taste like anything."

"Of course it doesn't," Sophia replied absently, grabbing the girl's hand and pulling her up the front steps; "if it did, then you'd be in a bit of a dilemma."

Gabby giggled. "You smell funny." She paused and brought a finger to her lip before adding, "What does 'dilemma' mean?"

Rolling her eyes, Sophia ignored her niece's question and proposed one of her own: "Your mother hasn't put me in that room across from yours, has she?"

"No, your room is in the South Wing."

"Good." She smiled and batted a stray curl out of her eyes. "'Dilemma' means a quandary."

"What does 'quandary' mean?"

"A predicament…"