Oddly enough, it was Mrs. Williams who came to his rescue. “It was my suggestion. The army is a more respectable profession, you know. Remember old Mrs. Peterson’s eldest boy, who went off to be an ensign. He did very well for himself, you will recall.”
“I suppose so.” The concession seemed to be drawn from Mr. Williams against his will.
“He came home with enough money to buy that cottage for his mother.”
Was Silas dreaming? Mrs. Williams was the last person he would have expected to help him. Perhaps it was only a coincidence. Whatever the reason, her comment had turned the conversation down another path, and now Mr. Williams and Jacob were debating whether the cottage in question had been a good purchase considering the shabby state of its roof. Silas was quite forgotten.
He owed Mrs. Williams a debt.
When they went in to dine, they found the table richly decorated with an elaborate centerpiece. Juniper branches formed a wreath around the base, while roses and hyacinth alternated to form a crown rising from below. A little spray of matching greenery had been set on each of their place settings.
“Did you make these, Hannah?” her father asked, picking up the tiny bundle from his plate and twirling one between his thumb and his index. It had a carnation in the middle, surrounded by a sprig of juniper to match the centerpiece on the table, all tied up with a little blue ribbon.
“No,” she replied. “Mama did. Don’t you think she’s talented?” She was watching her father eagerly.
“Hmm.” Somehow, this one empty syllable managed to convey his immediate disinterest. “What am I supposed to do with it while I’m eating?”
“You may put it in your lapel as a boutonniere, Mr. Williams,” his wife suggested crisply. “Or you may give it to me if you don’t want it.”
Mr. Williams did neither, but simply cast the tiny arrangement upon a stretch of empty tablecloth before taking his seat without another word.
The temperature in the room must have dropped five degrees.
They hate each other, Silas finally understood. And not the routine annoyance that might build up between any couple if one caught them on a bad day. This was something deeper. The whole situation made a good deal more sense now—why Mrs. Williams and Hannah had come to town alone, why they had said so little about Mr. Williams whenever the subject came up. Silas wasn’t sure what was behind it, but he didn’t relish passing the rest of his evening walking the tightrope of their feud.
He examined his own boutonniere, which was complete with a little pin to ensure its safe anchorage, before he slipped it through the buttonhole in his evening coat as he’d been invited to do. He hadn’t thought that Mrs. Williams would have gone to such trouble over this meeting, given how little she thought of Silas as a future son-in-law. But the boutonnieres must have taken considerable time to make.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning it. “They’re lovely.”
There was a murmured agreement from her sons.
Mrs. Williams froze momentarily, as if surprised by his words. When she recovered herself, she offered him a tentative smile. “I’m glad you like them.”
It might be the first time he’d received a sign of warmth from thewoman. Silas hardly dared to believe he’d seen it. But then, she’d appreciated his dancing at the ball the other night too. Maybe he was finally beginning to earn her approval.
Just in time to disappoint her.Was that regret he felt? No. Mrs. Williams had hated him from their first meeting. Just because she’d let her guard down once or twice didn’t make them friends.
“So, where is your family from?” Mr. Williams fired the question off sharply.
Is he angry with me for complimenting his wife, or is that always his tone?
“Staffordshire, sir,” Silas replied.
“I told you that in my last letter,” Mrs. Williams murmured.
“No, you didn’t.”
Mrs. Williams bit her lip rather than arguing the point. She looked like she’d tasted a lemon.
“Mr. Corbyn has a brother and cousin here in town,” Hannah volunteered. “They seem lovely.”
“Are they in trade as well?” Mr. Williams looked suspicious, as if the possibility betrayed some damning information about Silas.
“Yes.” Better not to elaborate. Mr. Williams was no more likely to approve of their plans to start a brewery than his wife would be. It might be the only thing the pair would agree on, if their conduct this evening was any indication.
“Hmm? Speak up. I can hardly hear you.”
“Yes,” Silas repeated, a good deal more sharply.
