“And you”—she gestured to his collection atop the mantel—“hardly need another, Master Renick.”
The game momentarily forgotten, he drew again on the pipe and continued to study her in earnest. “What is this business you bring me?”
With an aplomb born of years of store tending, Selah glanced at her brother. “Give us a few minutes of privacy, please.”
At once Shay went into the hall and out the front door, the dogs following. A closing thud signaled they were alone.
Selah looked to her shoes, willing her galloping heart to a trot. “I am here on another’s behalf.”
“Cecily Ward’s?”
She nodded, focusing on the smoke rings rather than his bearded face. “I need not tell you why, astute as you are.”
Another draw, the pipe stem between perfect teeth. “Mistress Ward fancies me for a husband.”
“Bluntly put, aye.” She silently chafed at the prospect. Could he tell? “Pray, what is your answer, sir?”
“Nayis my answer.”
Nay? Profound relief turned to gall at his next utterance.
“I have in mind another bride.”
This time her eyes went wide. Another? Who?
She dared not pry. Her boldness over Cecily was enough. He was watching her again, clearly enjoying this exchange. Or was he simply flattered by Cecily’s audacious offer?
“What shall I tell her?” The question was as tart as Cecily herself.
“The truth.”
“But I do not know it,” Selah said, unable to kill her curiosity. “Who is she?”
He ran a hand over his jaw. “You have a streak of your father’s persistence, asking me such.”
“And you would rather I beat about the bush?”
“No one need know the object of my affections.”
“I would hopeshedoes.”
He ceased smoking to admire the pipe again. “I confess I know not her heart.”
“But ’tis not Cecily Ward who moves you.”
He shook his head, removing all doubt. Excusing himself, he went to the front door and called for Shay to resume their game. Flummoxed, Selah went in search of Widow Brodie, the tobacco bitter on her tongue.
8
Widow Brodie set a lovely table. A linen cloth was anchored by a vase of cowslips, buttery yellow and so fragrant the entire dining room was sweetened. The herbed, prepared fish reclined on a pewter platter amid cobalt-blue porcelain bowls heaped with early garden fare. Despite Selah’s warning glance, Shay reached out and snuck a bite from a stack of corncakes fried to crisp perfection. A pot of freshly salted butter and fig preserves completed the feast.
But first they bowed their heads, and a scandalously short grace was said.
“Come, Lord Jesus, be Thou our guest, and let Thy gifts to us be blessed.” Xander’s voice echoed in the large, mostly empty room. “Amen.”
Selah picked up a two-tined fork, its handle of ivory and piqué work unfamiliar. Never had she eaten here. Only Shay and Father had. Xander came mostly to their table, though not for many months after he’d overheard her cross words when he returned alone from England.
Widow Brodie seemed to relish their company. Was her melancholy over the lack of a mistress on its way to beingremedied? Though Xander and Shay kept up a merry discourse, supper seemed riven with new tension about the unknown lady of his choice. A miss from Middle Plantation or Point Comfort or Bermuda Hundred? Selah’s mind whirled with possibilities as she dined.
