Twilight was filling in all that was left of daylight, the sun a spectacular splotch of gold as it rode the horizon to the mountainous west. From this portico he could both greetthe day and oversee its ending. How much sweeter if such glories could be shared.
Selah, what must I do to finally win your heart?
His gaze was drawn upward at the rapid wingbeat of a dove. Waiting for its mate, likely, its mournful cooing adding to his own hollowness in Selah’s absence. Before the week was out, a gathering of twigs would be beneath the eave. While the male provided the materials, ’twas the female who built.
In the same vein, he offered Selah himself and Rose-n-Vale, but ’twas she who would make a house into a home. A husband out of a widower. A motherless boy more whole.
Lord willing.
27
Selah held up the half-finished gown to the dimming light. Her sewing skills had been stretched to the seams in crafting such. Still, she pressed on, inspired by never having owned such a garment before. Now, two nights before the frolic, she lacked finishing the skirt seams and the ribbon pleating. Could she manage it? ’Twas a simple design turned fancy by a sumptuous fabric. Fit for a ball. A wedding.
Oh, Xander, will you dance with me?
Every stitch seemed woven with all that remained unspoken. Possibilities. Promises. Tongue between her teeth in concentration, she plied her needle with a dizzying array of stitches. Herringbone. French knot. Eyelet. Cross. Stem.
“What a glorious gown!” Candace eyed the ivory ribbon, which set off the sleeves and bodice. “Might you catch a certain gentleman’s notice?”
“I aspire to no such thing,” Selah murmured, then bit her tongue at the half-truth.
Candace took a seat, her fingers caressing the finished sleeve. “Needs be we discuss the matter further.”
“What means you, dear Mother?” Selah did not look up from her zealous stitching.
“I can only hope this frenzied labor is fueled by your heartfelt affections.”
“You believe I am smitten with Xander Renick.”
“I would be delighted if so, as would your father.”
Selah finished another whipstitch. “Xander has not spoken to Father about such.”
“Oh, but he has. First Xander spoke to me since your father was unwell—even before he approached you. And your father has since told him he has our wholehearted blessing.”
Selah’s needle slipped. She met her mother’s eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘aye.’” Her gray gaze lit with exasperation. “Yet I sense you are unsure.”
With effort, Selah stilled her hands. “I am not unsure of my feelings but his.”
“His?” Candace questioned gently. “When he has made plain his intentions?”
“Intentions are not affections.”
“Your father and I began our marriage with mere intention and little affection. We are quite well suited and content. There is no reason to think you and Xander would be otherwise.”
“I simply want to be chosen for the right reasons, not simply to warm a man’s bed nor mother a child nor manage a growing plantation.”
“Many women marry for far less.”
Such truth. Selah’s conscience pricked her, sharp as a pin. “You think I have overly romantic notions.”
“That is between you and Xander.”
Sitting back, easing the ache in her neck and shoulders, Selah focused on Watseka’s finished dress hanging from a wall peg. “I still wonder about Mattachanna at times.”
“How so?”
