“That was a high compliment, Miss Callista. You’d hardly know he was a gentleman when he was digging away with his shovel.”
Gordon smiled as he drifted off to sleep. Apparently he’d passed Josh’s test.
* * *
He rose the next morning to find that someone had taken his muddy clothing and boots and brushed them off and laid them out to dry in the warm air. He was touched that someone was looking out for him. Callie? Molly? Josh? One of the women, he guessed. Josh had already put in a long day of work.
The digging was just as hard as the day before, but his body was adjusting. After supper, he suggested to Callie, “Shall we take a walk? I’d like to see more of the city.”
She hesitated before saying, “I’d like that. I don’t know Baltimore well, either.”
They descended to the street and she took his arm as they strolled east along the waterfront. Her light clasp felt right and proper. Feeling tired but generally pleased with the world, he asked, “How did you spend your day?”
“Sewing.” She smiled. “It’s what I do best. Since I have almost nothing to wear, I found a used clothing shop and bought a couple of gowns and a cloak and a few other necessities. I altered this dress today and will do the other tomorrow. I also bought fabric to make some new things.”
He realized that she wasn’t wearing the rather shapeless dove gray gown from the Greens, but a quietly elegant garment in pale green sprigged muslin. “I must be very tired not to notice that you’ve improved your wardrobe. Of course, you’re always lovely, so it’s easy to overlook what you’re wearing.”
“Flatterer,” she said, amused. “How is life as a ditch digger?”
He showed her his hands. “Blisters are flourishing, but this will make a good entry on the list of strange and interesting things I’ve done.”
He hadn’t had pampered hands to start with, so the blistering could have been worse, but there were raw patches where blisters had formed, then broken. She frowned. “Remind me to put salve on those tonight so they don’t become inflamed.”
She took his arm again and they resumed walking. “I can understand why digging fortifications is strange, but what makes it interesting?”
“The men,” he replied. “White and black, slave and free, rich and poor, and all in between. Working for a common, vital goal has created a wonderful spirit that binds everyone together. There’s a boy who can’t be more than eleven or twelve years old. His name is Sam Smith and he’s the grandson of the General Sam Smith who is commander of the city’s defense. The boy works till he’s ready to drop, and he’s proud to be doing it.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “There is nothing like a shared threat to lives or homes to bring people together.”
He’d learned that truth in places like that cellar in Portugal where five strangers faced a firing squad in the morning, but this was larger and involved the fate of a nation. “No one has even commented on my English accent. There are a couple of other Britons out there in the trenches, too. As long as we’re digging, we’re accepted as Baltimoreans.”
“Do you enjoy being part of something greater?”
“I do. The feeling is temporary, but powerful.”
She was about to say something when she flinched, then muttered an unladylike curse under her breath. He asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I caught another glimpse of the man who looks like my stepson, Henry. He must live near here, because I’ve had a couple of other sightings out of the corner of my eye. Not a clear view, just enough to set off my alarms.”
He looked in the same direction she did, but didn’t see anyone who seemed to be watching them. “What does he look like?”
“Henry is rather tall, brown hair, watery blue eyes. He looks like a man who is supposed to be skinny but has plumped up because of self-indulgence,” she said acidly.
“You still have a wicked tongue on you,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’m a great believer in intuition. Given your reaction, are you sure that man you’ve caught glimpses of isn’t your stepson? A different man might make you twitch less.”
She shook her head. “If it was Henry, he’d be causing trouble.”
“Could he be here because of Newell’s warehouse? I assume he owns it, and in more normal times I gather it does quite a good business.”
“The ownership is complicated,” she replied. “Remember I said that Matthew’s revised will had mysteriously vanished?” When he nodded, she continued, “The revised will left me the warehouse and several other business ventures that would produce regular income. Not a great fortune, but enough to keep me comfortable.”
“But you can’t prove that without the revised will.”
“True, but I do have the draft version that Matthew gave me to study. It has notes I made and which he initialed to show his intention to make those changes. He took it away to have a fair copy made and properly signed, but then he died very suddenly. I believe he did have the final copy made, but I never saw it. If it was done, Henry probably burned it as soon as Matthew drew his last breath.”
“But if Henry does show up, you might be able to use the draft will as evidence that your husband meant to give the warehouse business to you?”
“Exactly. I don’t know if it would work, but if Henry stamps in and demands we leave, he’s so obnoxious that a judge might be more willing to believe the property is mine. I have my marriage settlements, which state that Matthew promised to give me certain properties as my jointure to support me in the event of his death.”
