Jane recognized the husky timbre of Morgan Longstreet’s voice. Each time he spoke a slight rasp edged his words as though he were waking from a deep sleep or sharing his first thoughts after hours or days of silence. It was impossible to know how long he had been waiting for her.
Jane raised her head the few degrees necessary to find the deeper shadow that marked his location. She saw him standing with his back to the door. Remarkably, she was unafraid. She said the first thing that came to her mind. “I thought I locked that door after Walt left.”
“It opened for me. I did knock first.”
Jane nodded, supposed he could not see her, and said, “Yes. Of course.”
“You never returned downstairs.”
“No, I didn’t, did I?” She turned on her back and levered herself up on her elbows. “Have I missed dinner?”
“Yes, but I brought you something.”
“The Pennyroyal doesn’t carry meals to the rooms.”
“The Pennyroyal doesn’t. I do. To this room.”
Jane pushed herself upright and inched backward until her spine rested against the headboard. She wrestled the pillow free and laid it beside her. Her head ached abominably, a consequence, she supposed, of not eating since the night before. That meal had consisted of her last apple and a heel of brown bread. Money was not the problem. Her willingness to spend it was. “Is there a tray?”
“A plate.”
When he did not move, she said, “May I have it?”
Morgan pushed away from the door. “Chicken and a biscuit. Both cold. No gravy.” He held out the plate. When she took it, he gave her the napkin he had stuffed in a pocket. “You’ll have to use your fingers.”
Jane spread the napkin across her lap and placed the plate on top. As hungry as she was, and as much as the light made her head ache, Jane still wanted to see what she was eating. She leaned toward the lamp to adjust the wick.
“I’ll get it,” Morgan said.
Jane let him. When the golden glow from the lamp spilled over her shoulder and across her plate, she picked up a feathery piece of chicken stripped neatly from the bone and dangled it just above her lips. Her mouth parted and she dropped it in. It was a tender morsel, moist and tasty. Her enjoyment was so profound that she was unaware that Morgan was staring until after she had swallowed.
“You’re not going to take it away, are you?” she asked.
He frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Cousin Frances did. I was six. She said it wasn’t done, not by a lady, not by girls in want of a good home, not by anyone, except perhaps by a fish. Did I want to be a fish? I said I did. She took my plate and frog-marched me to the kitchen, where she ordered the cook to fill a bucket of water. Whereupon she dragged the bucket and me through the servants’ entrance to the outside stairwell and emptied the bucket over my head. I was not allowed inside until my clothes dried. That would give me sufficient time, she explained, to reconsider my desire to be a fish.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.” Jane took another strip of chicken, this time eating it in a manner approved by Cousin Frances. It did not taste quite as fine as her first bite, but then how could it? “Reconsideration was only sensible. I am not stubborn to a fault. It was February.”
“Your clothes never dried, did they?”
She shook her head. “Never. They froze.” Jane felt his eyes still on her. She looked up from breaking her biscuit. He was indeed watching her, but she found his expression unreadable. She said, “I do not like the cold.”
Morgan’s nod was all but imperceptible. He glanced at the stove. “I can lay a fire.”
Jane hesitated. She was uncertain if she wanted him to be useful to her, uncertain if she wanted him to stay, but then she noticed he had not taken a single step in the direction of the stove. He was waiting to hear her answer, and that decided Jane. “Yes, please. I’d like that.”
Jane continued eating while Morgan pulled kindling and coal from the scuttle and laid the frame for the fire. Her eyes strayed sideways as he hunkered in front of the stove. He patted down his pockets, came up with a matchstick, and struck it against the stove. The flame burst brightly, illuminating his face for a moment. Jane caught his profile as he briefly turned away from the light, and she had the wayward thought that he had features that were meant to be cast in bronze. The notion was disquieting.
Morgan shut the grate when the flames caught. He stood and approached the bed again. “I brought you an apple.” He pulled it out from under the sleeve of his long leather coat and polished it against his shirt. “I can slice it for you.”
Jane nodded. “I don’t suppose you have something to drink up your other sleeve?”
“No. But there is a tap in your bathing room, and the water in Bitter Springs is better than the name implies.”
Jane started to put her plate aside, but Morgan put out a hand to stop her.
