Pastor Guthrie congratulated them, his hearty effusiveness raising their own quiet joy a notch. Before they could adjust to their newfound state, a servant led them into the overflowing dining room to a private table. Supper smells swirled around them, a tantalizing hint of the fare to come.
Tessa placed a callused hand on the linen tablecloth, eyes on the sterling candlesticks, her wondrous expression caught in the yellow glow. His mind leapt from supper to the night ahead. He’d not seen their upstairs rooms, but Tessa had whispered they held the biggest bed she’d ever seen, and books.
Their plates were heaped with veal chops, celery, and thyme. She sipped her Madeira wine as he did, saying little but caught up in the currents of conversation on all sides of them. Dessert was just as impressive, almond creams served in fluted glasses with tiny spoons. And cake.
She looked at him, fingering the locket. “I feel I’m in Philadelphia already.”
“Semple’s is a good imitation.” He set his napkin aside. “In all honesty, I recall none of this finery from when I was here last. But I was with Maddie and Jude and we stayed near the stables.”
From the connecting chamber came an oddly melodious sound. Clay smiled. “I think you’ll find the parlor worth visiting.”
They left the table and threaded their way past diners to the front parlor, which was, for the time being, empty. Anticipating her delight, Clay led her to a far wall where an elegant mahogany case clock stood, engraved with floral scrolls. Opening the glass window, he pointed a gilded arrow to some lettering and stepped back as the selected tune began playing. Above the clock’s face, several automaton figures tapped their feet in time to the music, a little dog jumping up and down.
“This is one of the wonders I told you about. Crafted by a Philadelphia clockmaker.”
Lips parting, Tessa studied the separate dials showing the phases of the moon and the alignment of the planets, until Clay took her in his arms and began dancing her slowly about the room. They had once danced in the blazing firelight of a fort frolic, the humid air and exertion leaving them all undone. Here all was closeted and cool and elegant.
“Superb!” Behind them came Mistress Semple’s gentle applause. “I know a good pairing when I see it. Our case clock boasts twelve lovely tunes.”
Their hostess selected another, “Shady Bowers,” and left them to their dancing with a smile. Pulling his gaze from the open parlor door, Clay mastered his self-consciousness and lost himself in Tessa’s pleasure. Let her have this one night away from the dust of the trail, the dark memories, and any cares of the unknown future. She seemed at her best, cheeks pink, smiling up at him without that taint of sorrow.
As the notes faded, he perused the other offerings. “Hob or Nob.” “The Maid of the Mill.” He bypassed “Indian Chief.” No need to remind her of that. Or himself either. He chose “Marquis of Granby,” a familiar, merry tune.
A half hour passed. Tessa yawned behind her hand. When a few sated diners joined them and the parlor became crowded, they slipped away up the back stairs. Clay drew a relieved breath to be free of trail companions and Semple’s staff and their fellow lodgers.
She led him to their rooms, pushed open the door, and stood on the threshold to await his reaction. The bedchamber still held the rose fragrance from her bath, her discarded robe draped over the dressing table.
“A big bed, aye,” he agreed, gaze straying from that to the small parlor beyond, which did indeed seem to hold a great many books. “Enough to keep you up all night reading.”
“’Tis early yet.” She turned to him, palms flat against his linen-covered chest. Her heart was in her eyes. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him softly and said entreatingly, “Mind if I read to you a bit?”
Was she jesting? Or a mite bashful? Reading was not on his mind. Denied time alone till now and they would . . . bury their heads in a book?
In what seemed the first test of their married life, he gave a long-suffering nod and released her.
The room was growing dark, though one taper had been lit within a glass globe atop a small table. Into the parlor they went, taking the light with them. She stood before the bookcase as he held the light high enough for her to read the titles.
Though the events of the day were catching up to him, he’d rarely seen her so enthralled. She chose a thick, leather-bound volume, then curled up like a cat atop a sofa, not beginning till he’d settled down beside her.
Leaning back against the stiff brocade frame, he closed his eyes as she opened the book. Her dulcet voice wooed him.
“How Candide was brought up in a magnificent castle, and how he was expelled thence . . .”
By chapter two the weight behind his eyelids grew heavier, the sofa more comfortable. Her nearness excruciating.
Reaching out a long arm, he plucked the book from her hands. “How a borderman wed the belle of the Buckhannon and nearly missed their wedding night . . .”
Her soft chuckle followed the book’s fall to the floor. “Fooled you,” she whispered. “I was merely trying your patience like Daniel did Rebecca.”
“The Boones . . .” Understanding dawned. “When he cut her apron, aye.” Bemused, he reached for her, rewarded with her warm, rose-scented, linen-wrapped softness.
Enfolded in his arms, she reached up and unbuckled the small clasp that held his neck cloth. The linen strip fell to the floor like the discarded book. Heart a-gallop, Clay threaded his fingers through her hair in search of the carefully placed pins that bound it into a loose knot. The rush of anticipation that washed through him nearly jellied his knees.
Between kisses, she said, “Clay, why not keep to these rooms till week’s end? Push back Philadelphia a bit.” Her soft words suffused all the affection-starved, sin-darkened places inside him with healing light. “Let’s stay right here, just the two of us, till we know the beginning and end of each other. Every nook and cranny, heart, body, and soul.”
Leaning away from her, he snuffed the candlelight with a snap of his fingers.
35
