“Still, Major…”
“Luke. Will you call me Luke while I’m here?”
How could she deny him when he’d been so ridiculously kind? “Luke.” At his raised brows, she added, “And you may call me Naomi.”
MOURNING, RENEWAL, SOMETHING NEW
Over the first few days that followed, Naomi remained in her bed long after the sounds of others being far more productive than she began—Luke pounding his hammer on the porch or sawing in the stable, and Ester banging around in the kitchen below.
All Naomi wanted to do was sleep. What was there to wake up for? She reasoned with herself that she wasn’t hurting the baby by hiding from the world. The tasks she’d undertaken before, sewing the drapes, mending the cushions, and polishing the furnishings and wood, had all been to make their home more welcoming for Arthur’s return.
She managed to rationalize herself into believing this for two days before the guilt set in.
“The major is finished with the porch and the trim. He even repaired the cupboard doors that didn’t close properly. But now he has a few questions for you.” Ester had entered the room without permission and was frowning down at her. “About the roof.”
Leaks tended to appear with no rhyme or reason. The stains around her window were evidence enough of that. And just a fewweeks ago, Naomi had spotted one in the room she intended to use for her baby’s nursery.
The reminder was a gentle nudge.
Arthur may not be coming home, but her baby would be here soon enough. And she wanted to have a welcoming home for her baby, didn’t she?
Reluctantly, she forced herself out of bed and, doubtless, nothing could have made Ester happier. Standing in front of her wardrobe, however, another conundrum presented itself. “I can’t wear any of these.” Because most of the gowns she’d brought with her were pastels. If they weren’t pastel they were an even less appropriate color: canary, jonquil, pomona, or puce.
As a newly widowed lady, she couldn’t wear any of them in public.
Ester withdrew a pale primrose and then a dull lavender muslin. “We can dye the lighter ones.”
When her father’s mother had passed, it was what her mother had done. Naomi remembered her mother had winked at her and said it would give them all an excuse to purchase the newest fashions when their mourning was complete. The memory was a bittersweet one. Naomi swallowed hard as she contemplated adding the cost of dye to her growing bill at the mercantile.
“Acorns,” Ester provided before Naomi said a word. “And we’ll need rusty nails.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Homemade is the best. You don’t need to be buying any fancy dyes.”
“Rusty nails?” Naomi immediately conjured up images of Luke tearing the boards off of her porch. “I believe I can track a few of those down.”
Together they placed two large pots of water on the stove to boil, and then her maid set out with a pail to collect the acornsfrom a nearby patch of oak trees. Wearing the lavender gown for now, Naomi marched toward the stable.
She wasn’t completely surprised to find Major Cockfield—Luke—inside, as she’d heard him sawing back and forth through one of the rough planks. She had not really prepared herself to see him half-dressed, sleeves rolled back, muscles rippling with each stroke.
Watching from the large open doors, she kept quiet, not wanting to break his concentration.
And truth be told, she was a little embarrassed at having lazed in her bed for the last two days. She had no doubt that Ester had mentioned it to him.
When he paused to swipe his arm across his brow, he glanced up and caught her watching him. Sparkling cobalt eyes were kind but also curious.
“Nails.” Her voice emerged sounding raw, so she cleared her throat.
A lock of chestnut hair fell along his jaw when he tilted his head.
“I’m in need of rusty nails,” she elaborated, indicating the empty bucket by lifting it slightly. “I thought you might have collected a few over the past few days? We, Ester and I, need them to dye my gowns black. I don’t have anything appropriate other than this.” She was babbling now as he turned his back to her. “I need to—It sets the dye… They have to be rusty.”
“Right here.” He cut off her clumsy explanation and faced her again, this time with a small cup filled with exactly what she was looking for.
He stepped closer, his gaze locked on hers, causing her to wonder how it was that her blood ran hotter in his presence. She startled at the clanging of metal when he dumped the cup into her bucket. “Will this suffice?”
There were quite a few. “From the porch?” she asked.
