“And the roof.” His chuckle was low and soft. “And the trim.”
How ironic that these remnants of something no longer useful would be used to make the clothing she would wear during her mourning. “I apologize for not?—”
“It’s fine.” He cut her off for the second time. She stared down at the hand he’d dropped onto her wrist. “We all grieve in our own way.”
“And you grieve by…working with your hands?”
“I was drunk three nights in a row after the ambush. If I hadn’t any responsibilities, I likely would have been drunk a week straight.” His rueful smile moved her senses around like puzzle pieces.
She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze to the orange and red-tinted nails. “This ought to be more than enough.” She shook the bucket. The boiling pots awaited her in the kitchen where she would spend the day removing the color from most of her wardrobe. Did she feel reluctant to go back to the house because she wanted to avoid this step towards accepting Arthur’s death? Or because of the odd comfort she found in Luke’s company?
Or perhaps a little of both?
“Ester mentioned you had a few questions—about the roof.” She lifted her lashes and caught him watching her, and then quickly glanced away.
“Which leaks concern you the most? Ester mentioned the one in the parlor, and one in your bedchamber.”
“The one in the attic is the worst.” It seemed every time it rained, she discovered new ones. “It fills buckets faster than any of the others.”
“I’ll check on that one first, then.” She could feel his gravelly voice in her chest.
“Thank you.” She stepped backward, bumping into a wheelbarrow and then stumbling around it. Her emotionsscrambled into an even less intelligible puzzle. “Do you have need of anything? Water? Tea? Are you hungry?” She barely remembered her manners. He was a guest, after all, who was laboring for free on her estate. A major, no less!
Eyes dancing, he shook his head. “I’m good. Thank you.”
“All right, then. And thank you again, for everything.”
“Naomi?” He called out just as she was about to bolt.
She paused and turned back around to meet his gaze.
“There’s no right or wrong way to handle this. There’s no one here to judge you. Whatever is right for you, is simply…right.”
The back of her eyes stung at his words, and she nodded.
In the days that followed, Naomi made it a point to rise each day before Luke arrived, wash up, and with Ester’s help, don her short stays and one of her recently-dyed gowns.
She’d intended to return to the task of sewing coverings for the windows, but when she discovered a lovely mint-colored muslin in one of the old trunks, she instead washed out the musty smell and went to work making a quilt for her baby’s bed. She embroidered stars and moons on the leftover material and made a few small pillows for decorations.
But babies didn’t require pillows, did they? For the hundredth time, she wished her mother were here to answer these little questions she’d never before considered.
It was handy having the major about, however, and… interesting.
Even when Arthur had lived here with her—before he’d joined up with his regiment—he’d grow edgy and irritated if he couldn’t go into town almost daily. He hated being housebound, he’d told her once.
It was always Arthur who completed any necessary shopping, and Naomi had usually been content to remain at their home. She’d not been naïve to the fact that he passed a good deal of his time at the tavern. A few nights, she remembered, he’d notreturned until the following morning. On those instances, he’d show up looking sheepish, bearing flowers or some gift, and full of apologies.
Ale made him sleepy. He’d always been sure to be home most of the next day and make love to her the following night. Sometimes, they’d lie in bed in the mornings together, he’d rest his cheek on her belly and talk to their baby.
He’d said he was excited that they would become a family and had promised to fix up the nursery before he left. But time had run out.
Luke’s reliability was a stark contrast to Arthur’s habits.
They were very different types of men, she reminded herself. Arthur’s devil-may-care attitude toward life had attracted Naomi. All her life, she’d been a good girl, done the right thing. He had personified some of what she’d longed for.
Luke, however, was levelheaded and practical. Solid.
Dependable.
