“Please, Ruby. Sit,” I say motioning to one of the high-backed chairs. “Don’t be nervous.”
We start with the alphabet. Ruby is a fast learner. By midafternoon, she’s forming letters just as gamely and easily as I. We go through the alphabet twice more, and by the third time, Ruby has memorized it. We pause to enjoy the tea and lemon cakes Alex brings us (I’ve learned he does all the cookery himself—quite rare for a man) and then resume our lessons. I can tell Ruby is invigorated. As the afternoon advances and we begin sounding out simple words, her face glows with pride and her posture relaxes. She even laughs once, a sweet sound that makes me beam. She’s beginning to trust me. I realize how much of a gift her trust is. It’s unlikely I will ever have children, but teaching Ruby gives me a motherly sense of pride, even though what we are doing is highly illegal.But at this point, what does it matter? Having faced my own execution makes me bold and reckless in ways I never would have been before.
When Noah comes to fetch Ruby that evening, she nearly skips to meet him. Although Noah is wary of me, he nods at me once from the library’s threshold, his hat in his hands. When they depart, I can hear Ruby’s excited chatter filtering from the hall. “I learned how to spell ‘cat’ today, Daddy!”
I go to the shelves and begin choosing books for our next lessons. I find a New England primer from the last century, proof that children once lived in this house, and a well-loved volume containing Washington Irving’sThe Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Alex comes in as I’m perusing his collection.
“You must be tired,” he says. “You’ve been at this since morning.”
I turn to him, smiling. “On the contrary. I’ve not felt so well in a long time.”
“It seems you’ve found your calling.” His eyes linger on mine, and I feel my cheeks redden. “I’ve never seen Ruby so giddy. Even Noah smiled to see her joy. A rarity.”
“Heisvery stoic, isn’t he?”
“He has reason for it. He’s told me enough about his life to understand why.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Neither of us can, Miss Jones. Supper will be ready soon. We can eat in here, if you’d like. Together.”
“I ... I would like that.” My blush deepens. I clutch the books in my hands. I’m becoming besotted with him. And is it any wonder? He’s kind, handsome, and generous. My bitterness over William’s betrayal has faded, with each day I’ve spent in this house. My attraction to Alex makes my courtship with William seem childish and shallow by comparison. Though I enjoyed our walks through the garden and about town, William never inspired desire in me. Only the familiar comforts of friendship. But now ... something new is stirring within me. Andperhaps the chance is there, slight though it may be, that Alex might feel the same bloom of longing as I. At the very least, he enjoys my company.
“I should go wash up before supper,” I say, placing the books on the table, next to Ruby’s slate.
“I brought a fresh ewer of water to your room. And another dress. I hemmed it this morning. It should fit.” He grasps the back of his neck, as if nervous, gazing at me through his long lashes. “I believe the color will enhance the color of your eyes.”
“I’m eager to see it,” I say, pondering his ability to sew. Like his skills in the kitchen, it’s another rarity among men, but he stitched up my leg remarkably well. Papa often had modistes and seamstresses for customers, who came in to choose fabrics with the ladies who hired them, but there was also the occasional tailor. Perhaps a man knowing how to sew wasn’t so far-fetched.
Alex excuses himself to see to our supper. On my way to my room, I imagine I see Rebecca’s form in front of the window, lit by the setting sun, her eyes hard and accusing. I brush aside the chill her presence engenders. Perhaps my senses are only deceiving me.
Ten
The dress Alex chose fits as if it were made for me. Its graceful neckline sweeps across my shoulders, exposing their freckled tops before falling into subtle ruffles that cover my upper arms. The fabric is embroidered with vines along the edges of the Basque waist and layered, bell-shaped skirt. I recall seeing samples of this fabric in one of Papa’s swatch books. Chinese silk taffeta, in a rare shade of periwinkle blue. Fine and very, very expensive. This dress must have been Lucrezia’s. One her modiste made from the same fabric I helped Papa choose years ago, when I was but a girl. Even though Rebecca was the fashionable one, Papa always trusted my instincts when choosing our inventory for his mercantile. How strange for my old life to intersect with my new one. I take it as a sign. A hopeful one. I think Papa would approve of Alex. Perhaps, in some small way, this is his way of guiding my future, and giving me his blessing, from beyond the grave.
I glance at myself in the mirror above my dressing table, pinching my cheeks. The color of the fabric enhances the violet tone of my eyes, and livens my sallow skin. I step into the hall. Candlelight streams through the open library doors, beckoning me. Inside, Alex has laid the table with china and crystal, sparkling in the light of a multiarmed candelabra, fitted with sperm oil candles. No smoking tallow at Angel’s Rest. A roast sits on the table, surrounded by carrots and potatoes. The smell is so delicious it makes my head spin.
“Miss Jones,” Alex says, rising as I enter. He looks even more handsome than usual, dressed in formal dinner clothes, a silk cravat tied at his throat. His dark waves gleam. The candlelight etches shadows beneath his high cheekbones, accenting the lift of his smile. “I see the dress fits.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, gesturing to the layered skirt. “This fabric. My fa—” I bite my tongue, cursing myself for my near, careless slip. I’ve decided to tell Alex my father was a soldier, not a merchant, if he ever asks about my family. I long to be truthful with him about my former life, but I cannot. The stakes are much too high. “The dress is very fine. Thank you.”
“Well, it seems a shame to let it go unworn. Beautiful things deserve to be enjoyed. Please, will you join me?”
I sit next to him, and he pours wine into the crystal goblet nearest me. I raise it to my lips and drink. It’s rich and dark, with an underlying peppery tone.
“Zinfandel,” Alex says with a smile. “A newer wine variety. Have you ever tasted anything like it?”
“I can’t say that I have.” It’s been so many years since I’ve enjoyed a proper, seated dinner, much less wine. Papa preferred ale and cider with supper, although Mother would insist upon French wine for formal occasions. “It’s delightful.”
Alex carves the roast and serves it to me, ladling sauce over the meat. I dredge the meat in the sauce and lift my fork to my mouth. A moan of pleasure escapes my lips. It’s so tender it melts on my tongue. After years of near starvation in prison and in the marsh, and nothing but broth and soup during my recovery, this meal feels worthy of a queen. It makes me curious about Alex’s financial standing, and how he can afford such sumptuous food.
“Is it good?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.
“Heavens, yes,” I say, laughing. I carve another piece with my knife, savoring the taste more slowly this time.
“Perhaps in a day or so, we might try the stairs, and have supper together in the dining room,” Alex says. “I’m pleased with how your recovery is progressing, but you still need to build your strength.”
I thrill at the thought of more dinners with Alex. Not just because of the decadent food, but his company. “Meals like this will certainly help, I think. I already feel quite restored.”
