Whatever it was, it left her feeling both curious and unsettled, and she couldn’t shake the sense that there was more to this man than met the eye.
“Oh, Miss Tabitha.” Mrs. Stiles leaned closer and whispered, “I do believe you have caught the eye of Mr. Woodland.” She grinned. “He’s a handsome man, is he not?”
Handsome?Tabitha rubbed her forehead. She hadn’t really noticed. “I suppose for a man of his age, he’s handsome.”
“His age? Oh, Miss Tabitha, he isn’t very old.”
“What age is he? He looks like he’s in his fortieth year.”
“But that’s not too old, is it? He probably looks a little older to you because of his recent illness. But he’s well now.” Mrs. Stiles bumped her elbow against Tabitha’s. “And it seems to me that he fancies you quite a bit. He is unwed, you know.”
Tabitha’s stomach roiled with worry. “Mrs. Stiles, I appreciate your trying to play the matchmaker, but I’m not here to look for a husband. In fact, I don’t believe I wish to marry at all.”
“What?” Mrs. Stiles gasped. “Are you jesting? You are too lovely not to marry. Why would you not want a husband?”
“I’m just not ready to be married.” Taking a deep breath, Tabitha calmed her raging mind.
Whenever she reflected on her past and the hardships she had endured, she was certain that marriage was not somethingshe could ever consider. The idea of relying on a man—of opening herself up to vulnerability—seemed utterly foreign and unwelcome. She was convinced that she would be far happier and more content if she never had to deal with a man again.
Thankfully, time passed quickly this evening, and Tabitha kept herself getting to know her aunt’s guests. They were kind and warm, just as the clergyman had predicted. They welcomed her with open arms, making her feel more at home than she had anticipated.
Inwardly, she chuckled as she recalled the way Mr. Woodland had said it. There had been something about his expression right after the words left his mouth—an almost startled look, as though he hadn’t meant to reveal his thoughts so openly.
What an odd fellow.There was something about the clergyman that didn’t quite fit with the small town’s simplicity. Yet she couldn’t quite place what it was that made him so difficult to ignore.
When the time came for Aunt Clara to open her gifts, she settled comfortably in the center of the room, surrounded by her guests. The giver of each present stepped forward, offering it to Aunt Clara, who received each with the delight and enthusiasm of a young girl, her eyes sparkling and her laughter light and girlish. Tabitha watched with a warm smile, charmed by her aunt’s joyful spirit.
When Mr. Woodland stepped forward to present his gift, Aunt Clara’s face lit up with eager anticipation. She tore at the wrapping with surprising energy, her fingers trembling with excitement. A gasp escaped her lips as she held up a beautifully painted box adorned with butterflies, hearts, and delicate flowers. The old woman’s expression glowed with delight as she turned the box over in her hands, marveling at the intricate designs.
“Oh, it’s simply lovely!” Aunt Clara exclaimed, her eyes shining as she looked at Mr. Woodland with deep appreciation.
The whole room shared in her joy, but Tabitha couldn’t help but notice the subtle way Mr. Woodland shifted, as if the attention made him slightly uncomfortable. Still, there was something undeniably sincere in the way he smiled at her aunt—a warmth that made him seem, for a fleeting moment, more familiar than ever.
“It’s a music box.” He reached over and lifted the lid.
As the room quieted, the soft strains of music filled the air, weaving through the crowd like a gentle breeze. The melody was unmistakable to Tabitha—an old Irish song her mother used to sing to her when she was just a child. The familiar tune stirred something deep inside her, and in an instant, tears pricked at her eyes. A wave of homesickness washed over her, settling heavily in her chest. Those memories of her mother were among the happiest she had, filled with laughter and love. But the reminder that her mother was no longer alive made her heart ache, the bittersweet nostalgia clinging to her like a shadow.
“Mr. Woodland…” Aunt Clara brought a hand to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes as well. “You remembered my favorite song.”
“Indeed, I did.” He smiled brightly.
“Then if you remembered, I’m certain you also recall that I enjoy hearing you sing it to me.” She waggled her thin eyebrows. “Would you do so now?”
Mr. Woodland’s eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, the color drained from his face. Tabitha noticed the brief, almost imperceptible shift in his demeanor—his usually composed expression had faltered, giving way to something that looked unmistakably like panic.
It was strange, almost unsettling, to see such a reaction from a man who should be well accustomed to public speaking. Afterall, as a clergyman, he regularly stood before his congregation, delivering sermons and leading them in hymns without hesitation.
Yet here he was, in a room filled with familiar faces, reacting as though the simple idea of joining in song terrified him. Tabitha couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Why would a man so accustomed to the spotlight of spiritual leadership appear rattled by the mere thought of singing in front of a few guests?
The contrast between his role and his apparent fear intrigued her, deepening the sense of curiosity she already had about Mr. Woodland. There was something more to this man, something hidden beneath his calm, clerical exterior. She couldn’t help but wonder what it was—what secret he was guarding so carefully that even a simple gathering like this seemed to threaten its exposure.
Very curious, indeed.
Chapter Four
I’m going tokill him!
Nic struggled to maintain his composure as anger simmered beneath the surface. Frederick knew full well that Nic hadn’t sung in public for years. Yet his foolish cousin had still allowed him to give the music box to Mrs. Burls, putting him in this precarious situation. Now, everyone in the room was watching him, their eyes filled with expectation. They could see it, too—the panic that had gripped him the moment the music began to play.
