She laughed again. “Timothy Hack,” she explained. “A little seven-year-old who has a weak chest and has been bedridden for almost two years now.”
“Daniel Hack’s child,” he said. “Dan is one of my gardeners.”
“I know,” she said. “I know too that you brought a physician all the way from Eastleigh a while ago when Dr. Powis admitted he was baffled. And you paid for the medicine that was prescribed. These things do not go unnoticed in the village.”
“What is Timmy’s sunshine?” he asked.
“I took him some sweet biscuits in the shapes of various animals a month or so ago,” she told him. “We had some fun while he tried to identify them. He did not have a great deal of success, which fact reflected more upon my artistic skills, alas, than it did upon him. He thought the horse was a fox. But he was dreadfully pale and listless most of the time I was there, and his room was dark with the curtains drawn across the window. And stuffy because the window was shut tight. Nothing in the room had any color. He told me that what he wants more than anything else when he gets better is the sunshine. I cannot take him that, alas, though I do hope that when the weather gets warmer he will be carried outside some days to feel the sun’s rays on his skin. What Icando, though, is knit him some substitute sunshine. It is a blanket, small enough not to weigh him down, large enough to cover his legs and even be pulled up to his chin if he wants extra warmth without exposing his feet to the cold. When it is finished I am going to embroider his name across the top band in red, green, blue, orange, and purple letters. It is going to be downrightgarish.And I am going to buy him a book I saw the day I purchased the wool in town. It is full of adventure stories for children, and it has pictures.”
“Dan cannot read,” he said. “I doubt Mrs. Hack can either.”
“But Timmy can,” she said. “Isaiah taught him when he was just five. And he gave him a Bible and a book of moral tales for children to practice on.”
Harry smiled at her. “I will find out from the physician if fresh air and sunshine—the real outdoor sunshine—will be good for Timmy,” he said. “I cannot imagine they would not be, but who am I to claim to know for certain? If the doctor says yes, then I will have a word with Dan.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Come and chop my wood, then, if you must, but on one occasion only. You will not then have to make an exhibition of yourself by wearing a scarf of my making in July.”
“Oh, but I must have the scarf. I will not chop your wood otherwise,” he said, getting to his feet and grinning at her as she got to hers.
She laughed again, and he crossed the room and pulled on his greatcoat. He lit his lantern from the candle by the door, put on his hat and gloves, and turned to take his leave of her.
“Good night, Lydia,” he said. “Thank you for the tea. Oh, we did not drink it, did we? Well, thank you for the conversation. Anything but pink for the scarf. Though preferably not black or gray either. Too … staid.” He grinned at her again. “Why should Timmy have the sunshine while I have to make do with the rain clouds?”
“Good night, Harry,” she said. “You really must not feel obliged to come here to chop wood tomorrow, you know. I am quite capable of doing it for myself.”
“I do not doubt it,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek before opening the door to let himself out. Her cheek was warm and smooth and smelled of that soap or perfume he had noticed earlier. Her dog, which had been pitched off her slipper, was yapping at him, since clearly it was his fault that its sleep had been disturbed.
Perhaps, he thought as he made his way home, Lydia Tavernor really did not want him to go back there. It was what he should want too—ornotwant. Something had started between them last week and continued into this evening, however, and neither of them seemed to know if it was something they should encourage or … not.
The biggest surprise for him was that he found her attractive.Veryattractive, actually.
He had promised to return tomorrow morning.
To chop wood for her, for the love of God.
In return for a red or yellow scarf or some other color that was not black or gray or staid. Or pink.
Six
Lydia was in the kitchen, baking ginger biscuits and hovering over the oven more than was necessary. She was also glancing through the window more than she ought, though she did stand a little to one side as she did so, half hidden behind the curtain, so she would not be spotted. Not that he was ever looking her way. He was too busy.
Major Harry Westcott was chopping wood. Really quite a vast pile of it. Not just a one-day supply, which was all she could seem to achieve for herself before running out of energy, but enough to last her a week at the very least. And he was showing no sign of being finished yet.
Lydia had tried to persuade herself that he would not come. So she would not be disappointed if he did not, perhaps? She had also tried to persuade herself that she did notwanthim to come. Last evening ought to have convinced her beyond any doubt that the whole idea of having an affair with him, or with anyone else, was out of the question, not to mention outrageous. She could not remember ever spending a more uncomfortable hour than the one she had spent seated beside him in her living room. Especially—oh goodness—when he had covered her hand with his own and then actually curled his fingers about it. And when he had kissed her fingers and then her cheek as he was leaving.
He was too much—vastly too much—for her to handle, she had thought as she had peeped about her curtain and watched him walk away, his lantern swaying from one raised hand. It would be like trying to contain a hurricane or a tornado.
Oh no, she had not wanted him to come back. He was threatening to make her life unbearably … what? Alive? Andcarnal. And dangerous. There were too many complexities to him. Sheknewthere were. He was not as sunny natured and even tempered as he always appeared to be, or at least he was not either of those things through and through. She had sensed it before, but last evening she hadknownit. She had known it from his silences. And from his clipped answer when she had observed that his war experiences must have been dreadful.Yes, he had said.And no.And there had been something in his eyes, in his voice. Something she had shied away from. She had not wanted to know more. She had been afraid. Was that the right word—afraid? Her life had been too bland for too long a time, too structured, too predictable.
He was none of those things.
Then there was the fact that he was soattractive.So good-looking, so tall and broad shouldered. So …masculine.
She was just plain afraid to move out into the sun. Or, just as likely, into the storm. Ah, but she wanted sunlight in her life. And excitement. But did she dare? Would she ever dare? Such contradictory thoughts and emotions had teemed through her mind all night. She had woken from a troubled sleep, hoping he would not come—and dreading that he might not.
Hehadcome. And how had she proved that she had hoped he would not? Well, when his knock had sounded upon her back door, she had dropped her knitting in the middle of a stitch, shot to her feet, and rushed to open it lest he think she was away from home and leave before she could get there. Yes, she really had behaved that way.
It was impossible now to keep her eyes off the window for longer than a minute or two at a time—or to move out of the kitchen at all. The weather had turned suddenly warm overnight, as sometimes happened in springtime. By now—it was ten o’clock, Lydia saw with a glance at the clock on the sideboard—the sky was clear, the sun was shining, and Major Westcott was in his shirtsleeves, having abandoned both his coat and his waistcoat. And his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow.
