November 1851, near Philadelphia 
  Falling always came easy for Emma Leigh, especially when she had her mind on other matters. She smoothed the skirt of her worn, brown and pink flowered dress, lifted her chin, and marched toward her employer’s office at The Jones Inn. Abruptly, she slammed headlong into Thad Benson’s armload of firewood. 
  The smell of freshly cut wood enveloped her senses mere seconds before the impact knocked her to the floor. Thad’s bundle fell with a crash, but thankfully, none of the pieces hit her. Emma Leigh’s hoop skirt, however, soared upward in a less than dignified manner.
   “Oh, my,” she cried, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment. She scrambled to push down her heap of snowy-white petticoats and restore some semblance of balance and poise.
   A callused hand reached for hers overtop her hooped skirt and righted her to her feet. 
   “Thank you, Thad,” she mumbled, unable to look at him. He should have seen her coming. A combination of ruffled feelings and a bruised backside produced an untimely bit of irritation.
   “Are you hurt?” he asked, shoving aside the pieces of wood.
   “I’m really sorry, Emma Leigh.”
    Forcing herself to stare into his face lined with concern, she swallowed a stinging remark and braved a smile. After all, sweet Thad, the young man in charge of the stables and all the outside grounds, would never intentionally harm anyone.
    Towering in the doorway, the owner of The Jones Inn looked nonetheless formidable. Alexander Jones cleared his throat.
    “What’s all the racket?” he bellowed. 
    Thad whirled around. “Sir, I collided with Miss Carter. I do apologize for the incident.”
    “Is the young lady injured?” Mr. Jones asked, crossing his arms over his narrow chest and leaning in Emma Leigh’s direction. 
    She met the owner of inn’s gaze, feeling more humiliated than before. “No Sir.” Only my pride.
    Mr. Jones pressed his lips tightly, but his mustache and beard jiggled, betraying his gruff reaction. The scene must have looked amusing, further intensifying her embarrassment. “Gather up the firewood, Thad. You are dismissed.” Nodding to Emma Leigh, he stepped aside from the doorway. “Miss Carter, I’ll see you now.” 
    Emma Leigh followed him into his office. She’d felt nervous before the fall, but now every part of her trembled. For a moment she feared toppling over his desk. 
    “Are you certain you are uninjured?” he asked, peering down over his long, pointed nose.
    “Yes Sir.” She hoped her voice sounded stronger than the weak reply rising in her ears.
    Mr. Jones, impeccably dressed in a black suit, eased into his chair. She’d heard some of the staff refer to him as Old Match Stick. Although Emma Leigh didn’t comment on his skeletal frame, she did wonder if he’d blow away on a blustery day. He smiled on occasion and greeted those who graced his inn with the utmost of hospitality and respect, but he insisted upon a meticulous establishment. Most of the staff feared him. He had the type of voice that carried – well, rather rolled like thunder. Perhaps his mannerisms had something to do with his military background, but in any event, Emma Leigh had been summoned to his office.
    “Sit down, Miss Carter.” He gestured to an empty chair in front of his desk. His booming voice, devoid of passion, further alarmed her. “I’ve been observing you, and there’s a matter we need to discuss.”
    The lump in her throat grew to boulder size proportion, and she rubbed her clammy hands together. A dozen grievances flashed across her mind, all of which bore discussion. He must believe I’m shirking in my duties. She lowered onto the chair, sitting stiffly on the edge, and gave him her attention.
    “Christmas will be here before we’re prepared,” he said. The grandfather clock in the main entrance struck ten times to punctuate his words as he continued. “In the past, the staff has engaged in merriment, of which I believe is appropriate for the celebration of our Lord’s birth. This year -” Mr. Jones cleared his throat. “This year I’d like for us to partake in something different, and I believe you can be of assistance.”
    Emma Leigh squeezed her fingers together. “In what way, Sir?”
    He drew out a sheet of paper from his drawer and placed his
spectacles on his nose. Picking up his quill, he dipped it into the ink well. “Miss Carter, you have a way of exhibiting excellent social skills; however, you do at times overindulge.” He scrutinized her over his spectacles. 
   “Yes Sir. I mean I’m sorry, Sir.” 
   He paused. “Very well. I’m assigning you the task of organizing a frugal, yet highly enjoyable Christmas party for the staff. In the past, too much emphasis has been placed on an abundance of gift giving. This year, I’d like to see the holiday more simple and meaningful.” He painstakingly wrote something on the paper then handed it to her. “This is your budget and your orders. Mrs. Weares will be notified of your extra duties and in assisting her in selecting the menu for the Christmas dinner.”
    Emma Leigh hastily read Mr. Jones’ directives. “Thank you, Mr. Jones. When would you like for me to have this completed?”
 “Ten days hence,” he replied. “I plan to call a holiday meeting to appoint those who will be decorating the inn and such. You can present your findings then. Of course, I need to approve them beforehand.”
    Humility washed over Emma Leigh. “Yes, Sir, I. . .I am greatly honored.”
    His eyes widened. “Goodness, girl. I don’t bite. Calm yourself and go on about your business.” A slight smile tugged at his mustache. “After all, we’re talking about a Christmas celebration. Just remember I want a memorable holiday.” With those words, Mr. Jones dismissed her with a perfunctory nod.
    Ah, he’s not so fearsome after all.