He rubbed his beard with the back of his hand. “End of April, mayhap, if not before.”
“Splendid! Barring storms or piracy, we should see them any day now.” Her satisfaction knew no bounds. “How are you feeling about this noteworthy reunion?”
“On tenterhooks,” he answered, gripped by another misery.
“That stands to reason. I’d be on tenterhooks too. Not only are you being reunited with your son, you’re meeting a woman you might well marry.”
He eyed the open nursery door. “You get ahead of yourself, Aunt. ’Tis my kinsman’s futile wish for this woman, not mine. Don’t make too much of it.”
“Well, a doting aunt can dream!” she fussed good-naturedly.
“I have in mind another miss.”
She brightened again. “Do go on.”
“Would it not be wise to tell the object of my affection first and foremost?” he said.
“I suppose so. And when might this heartfelt revelation happen?”
“Not soon enough for you, I take it.”
“Really, Nephew. This hearkens back to your father’s courtship. I had nearly given up all hope he’d marry my sister, your long-suffering mother.”
“’Tis not as if I’ve never wed. I am, I remind you, a widower.”
“And need I remind you that you gave me my first gray hairs over Mattachanna? Who on earth would have imagined you’d choose a Powhatan princess!”
“I am not the only colonist to take an Indian wife, Aunt.”
“None but the chief’s daughter!” With a wave of her feather duster she retreated into her new room, only to pop her head around the door frame with a last word. “Whatever your faults, you are not stingy. I adore my new bedchamber and cannot wait for the furnishings you ordered to arrive.”
“You kindly gave up your dormer room to Nurse Lineboro. Some recompense was needed.”
He began climbing to the third-floor attic, the narrow stairwell little more than the width of his shoulders. The door at the top was open, sunlight spilling into the small space. ’Twas a cheerful, simple room with a princely view. His head brushing the low ceiling, Xander sank to his haunches before a west window, mired in a single thought.
Was Laurent pursuing Selah?
He stared past the glass, mostly unseeing. Here at the roofline of the house the vista was unmatched. Fields formed a patchwork of greens, rolling toward a haze of bluish mountains on the distant horizon that looked more watercolor. Wanderlust danced at the corners of his conscience. Whatever lay on the other side of those rolling, winsome swells beguiled him. Yet he was entrenched here, still besotted with the rivers and tides of coastal Virginia.
And wildly concerned about Selah’s circumstances.
He pulled himself to his feet, returned to the second floor, and tried to dismiss his unease over his aunt’s revelation. But even Oceanus’s room with its abundance of playthings made him no merrier. There, near the cold hearth, was the chair where Mattachanna had sat and rocked him till he grew so big he squirmed to run free. After she died, Xander had nearly burned the furniture, as its presence grieved and haunted him so. But somehow it had returned to being a lovely chair again with a mere melancholy echo.
Was that the work of grief? First the burning anger and numbing disbelief, then the slow slide toward a grudging acceptance of what was forever gone?
Over by a window, the painted, painstakingly carved rocking horse made him wonder. Had Oceanus outgrown such things? Here were enough toys to fill a future king’s nursery. Was he trying to make up for two years of absence and regret? Shuttering the thought, he moved to his own bedchamber, which his aunt had just finished dusting. She was downstairs now, humming a familiar hymn.
He stood in the open doorway, aiming for a dispassionate view. The big English oak bed and matching wardrobe were framed by colorful Flemish tapestries of foreign ports and ships. In winter the thick weave kept cold drafts out and the warmth of the hearth fire in. A pair of upholstered chairs nested near the dog irons. Here and there were a few practically placed candle stands. ’Twas the only room in which he didn’t allow the dogs. Ruby and Jett knew his preference and obediently waited at the door, watching him.
Would a feminine woman like such a thoroughly masculine room? Wouldshelike it?
Again, his thoughts swung in her direction, she who kept to the forefront of his head and heart. Not even a day laboring in his tobacco fields dimmed his growing preoccupation. A fierce longing rent his middle.
How much longer would he put off telling her his feelings were no passing fancy?
Should he decide upon a date to profess his affections? Timing was everything. At night, in that languorous lull between weariness and sleep, he allowed himself to consider approaching her in her garden. Or should he speak with her father first? His desire for her grew by the day, his hopes for a happy home again along with it.
But her regard of him? How austere at times. Hardly a speck of warmth to be had. And yet, sometimes ... sometimes he felt a turning, a kindling on her part. Laughter lurking in her eyes. Had he imagined it? Nay. More than once there’d been a telling, lingering look. A flicker of unspoken approval. Even ... dare he profess it?
