Like Laurel with Mama at the stove.
A good kind of kinship.
She gave her head a shake. No need spinning thoughts too far. Oftentimes they became tangled in poor assumptions or misplaced hopes.
She'd let God handle things like futures and tomorrows and intentions, because He was the only one who really saw that far and deep.
Besides, most likely, the Lewises offered simple politeness because the storm kept her here. They seemed like decent folk and unlikely to cast her and Charlie out to the elements, no matter how much they inwardly scowled at the state of her life, her past.
And she'd always have a past.
She could try to hide it, but it would find her, and she'd learned the value of forthrightness. It might sting at first, but it kept a whole lot of misconceptions from tangling up later on.
If she could keep more tangles out of her already knotted life, she would.
She followed Mr. Lewis from the room, his strong shoulders and gentle curl to the ends of his brown hair an interesting contrast. But they fit what she'd seen so far. Strong and gentle.
Her heart twinged at the awareness, and she looked away.
The last thing she needed was to entertain any silly notions with a family of this type, or any family at all, actually.
Charles still took up space there. A wounded space, but space all the same.
And a wounded heart knew better than to seek love from a place where it would only be wounded all over again.
Noah's cane clicked on the glossy hallway floors as he turned toward the kitchen, his neck tingling at the idea of Miss McAdams close behind him. He wasn't sure why she set him on edge. Perhaps, it was those eyes, or her overall … beauty, simply put. Or the directness in her stare.
Or the way she'd emerged from the hallway in her soft blue robe, hair tumbling around her shoulders and a look so … what was it? Innocent? Eager to help?
Apart from his mother, he'd not seen a woman in her night-robe since Elinor. He cleared his throat. Whatever the feeling, it left a strange sort of ache in his broken heart, and he wasn't certain what to do about it.
“The kitchen,” he said, switching on one of the gaslights to illuminate the space. He rolled his eyes at himself. As if the woman couldn't tell from the stove and sink and assortment of other items that this was the kitchen.
Miss McAdams crossed the threshold and scanned the room before sending him a crooked smile. “You sure Mrs. North don't mind me riflin’ around in the kitchen?”
He grinned, in part due to her quick humor and in part at the idea of Mrs. North's interest at all in the kitchen. The idea of Mrs. Candler, however, finding a strange woman in “her” kitchen in the middle of the night brought a renewed grin. The long-time cook could be quite possessive about the room. “One never wishes to skew the gentle balance of one's cook, Miss McAdams, but since Mother made the suggestion, I do believe we are safe.”
She nodded, moving more fully into the room but keeping a solid distance between them. Whatever had happened to place her in her current situation had left her careful and guarded but not scared. No, she didn't seem afraid. How curious.
“I don't have much experience with housekeepers, so I'll trust your observation on the subject, though the one housekeeper where I served last was sweet as honey.”
She'd been in service? But the clothes she'd worn when they'd met didn't fit the style or price range of a woman in service. From what little he'd been able to learn about her from their unconventional and brief meeting, she presented as a puzzle. A single mother in a snowstorm without a husband, from what his mother shared, but confident in her faith and modest in her presentation.
What was her story? And what brought her here?
He shifted forward to one of the cupboards and then turned in time to catch her looking at his leg. “Maybe you should just go on to bed, Mr. Lewis. I can fix tea and a poultice on my own and leave them for your mother to bring to you. It wouldn't do you any good to tire out your leg even more.”
“I'm fine.” He shrugged. “Besides, my mind is too busy to sleep just yet, and the idea of tea and perhaps some leftover bread and jam sounds like a good idea. I missed supper.”
“Well, starving sure ain't gonna help you heal none.” She moved, navigating the kitchen much more easily than he did. Before long, he sat dutifully on a chair by the counter with tea in hand while she “put a plate together” for him.
Already, just the scent of the chamomile began to uncoil his taut muscles. He took a sip and raised his gaze to her profile as she spread jam across a piece of bread. “Thank you.”
“You thanking me?” She shook her head and added a slice of cold ham to the plate. “You and your mama are kind enough to keep me and Charlie for the night. Fixing some tea and a plate is the least I can do.”
Ah, yes. She'd been placed in the Blue Room. Small, but nearer the stairs. “Is your room comfortable?”
“Gracious.” Her smile flashed wide, lighting those eyes, and she walked toward him, plate in hand. “I ain't never set foot in a place so handcrafted for comfort. I could fit almost all my siblings in that bed upstairs.”
