“Just so you know,” he said. “I don’t date actresses.”
“Really?” Chloe frowned. “Why not?”
“They’re fickle, self-absorbed, insecure, and forgeteverasking one out for pizza.”
“I like pizza.”
Jesse’s laugh rolled over her as he drew her into him, their dialogue fading, his cheek resting against her hair. After a moment, a soft, low, Mel Tormé kind of voice sang in her ears, each note, each word sank straight into her heart.
“I love you for sentimental reasons.”
Tears spotted her eyes.Hold on to yourself, Chloe. Jesse was just singing the song his grandma used to play.
“I’ll hope you do believe me, I’ll give you my heart.”
His breath brushed her skin, and for a moment, she lost all sense of herself. Heaven help her, every lyric he sang felt like it was meant for her.
5
ESTHER
She waited under the willow as the June sun slowly disappeared beyond the dark line of the western horizon. For the fifth night in a row, she was meeting Hamilton here.
Each meeting, while brief, allowed them to get reacquainted. Perhaps tonight they could bypass shallow exchanges for more confidential dialogue. Perhaps, if Hamilton were willing, they could speak of how they felt about one another.
So far, they’d talked of London, the seasons, being presented at court, and Esther’s voyage home.
“I’m never leaving South Carolina again!”
Hamilton had rehashed details he’d penned in his brief and few letters. Quill Farms was surviving. Aunt Mary and Uncle Laurence were well, save for Uncle’s gout and now, perhaps, the sugar disease. And, praise God, he was not enlisting with either army.
When she’d asked why Father and his uncle Laurence were at odds, he’d confessed he was unclear.
“Uncle is angry at your father, over what I cannot say, other than one is a Whig and the other an ardent Tory. I know your father does not care for Uncle’s preaching as of late. But he has not forbid me from Slathersby Hill. Nor you from Quill Farm. Not that I have to obey him. I’m twenty-two.”
“As am I, but I try never to go against Father. He must have his reasons for being cross with your uncle.”
“Yet here you are.”
She’d batted her eyes and leaned into him. “Yet here I am.”
Would he say it? The words she longed to hear?
“I’ve missed you. Don’t ever leave again.”
Yet tonight he was late. Esther peered around the tree and down the road. Surely he was coming. He’d not sent word otherwise. Behind her, a few feet away, the creek flowed with the force of spring rains, fat trout flipping along the current.
Esther knelt on the bank, wishing she had brought a fishing line. Trout made a fine meal. But if she returned with a line of fish, Father would quiz her over her afternoon wandering, and she could not lie to him. ’Twas not her gift, to fib. She tried once, and he gave her the strap.
Not that she worried about being discovered away from the house, secretly meeting Hamilton. Father remained distracted, confined to the library, poring over his books, scribbling correspondence to Lord Whatham, sending Kitch into Ninety Six to meet a postal rider.
He claimed that when the war ended, he’d look into establishing an organized postal service such as the one the wiseacre Ben Franklin developed for the rebels.
The breeze rattled the branches as the sunlight dipped lower. What was keeping Hamilton? Back at the tree, Esther leaned against the trunk, listening to the song of the evening birds.
Now home a week, she’d reclaimed her position as mistress of Slathersby Hill. She’d taken over the household accounts and would soon ride into town with Sassy to bargain with the traders.
The chickens were producing well this year, as well as the cows. They had eggs, butter, and cream to spare.
