Logan didn’t answer. He viewed Cassandra gravely.
“When did you send the letter to your mother announcing our marriage?” Cassandra asked.
“I had it sent out the afternoon we agreed to marry.”
“And he has been missing for three days?” she said.
“Which would have been around when the letter arrived.” Soren looked to his son. “Is that what it was?”
Logan didn’t answer. Instead, he turned from Cassandra and grew very interested in the knot in Soren’s neck cloth. A maid appeared with a tray of sandwiches, whisky for Soren, and cold spring water for Cassandra and Logan.
“Beg pardon, my lady, but shall I fetch some sherry?”
“No, this is fine,” Cassandra said. She set about serving the sandwiches as the maid poured the water.
“I’ll take a water as well,” Soren said. Cassandra had noticed that he only imbibed in spirits on occasion. She still had much to learn about this man that she married.
The maid left. Cassandra set the plates out. Soren sat up but Logan did not make a move. He’d hooked his skinny bare legs around his father’s thigh as if he was on a horse.
“Where are your stockings, Logan?” Soren asked.
Large dark eyes glanced up to him, but he did not answer.
“I thought we talked,” Soren continued. “Proper young men wear shoes here. They wear shoes in Canada as well.”
“I don’t like those shoes.” Logan spoke clearly.
“You are not used to them. If you wear them, they will fit your feet.”
“They are stiff.”
“They are new.”
Soren glanced at Cassandra as if asking if she was taking this all in. He then said the words she sensed both she and Logan were dreading. “My son, I want you to meet your new—”
Whether he was going to say “stepmother” or “mother,” Cassandra knew neither would be acceptable.
Logan’s determined little chin lifted. He spoke in his native tongue.
Soren’s expression was carefully neutral. “In English, my son.”
Logan was not afraid to comply. “I had only one mother.”
“And I imagine she was a very good one,” Cassandra agreed with him.
The child drew his brows together in suspicion but he gave one curt nod. Logan was not one to waste words.
“So, if it is all right with you,” she said, “perhaps you should consider me a friend.”
“A friend?” Soren made a face. “What is he going to call you? Friend?”
She thought of the child who had clung to her skirts. “If he chooses. I like the name Friend.” She pushed his plate and sandwich toward him. “I’m not certain I like the flavor of the cheese on this sandwich. Please let me know what you think, Logan.” He had to be hungry. Whatever he could purloin from around the foodstuffs in the house would not be enough for a growing child’s appetite.
Still he sat.
“Does my offer of being your friend sound good to you, Logan?” she asked, wanting him to respond to her.
He looked to Soren. “Is she your friend?”
