“Do not mistake this congenial conversation for a lack of anger on my part,” Mr. da Silva said, his voice low and laced with ire, his jaw tightening his smile into something that struck Maddy as pure threat. “The lady definitely has better things to do than be insulted by an undersized steer. I insist you apologize so we can both get on with the busy nothings of our day.”
The man stepped back, swallowing, his face a touch paler than it had been a moment ago. Mr. da Silva may have said he wasn’t a man prone to violence, but he certainly sounded threatening in that moment. He stepped back and looked up at Maddy.
She recognized those eyes. Like a shade from her past, here to haunt her. Icy blue eyes that belonged to Malcolm’s friend Nelson Taylor, one of a handful of young men Maddy’s parents had tried to induce into marrying their contrary, oversized daughter.
A lump formed in her throat and she struggled to remain calm. Perhaps it was just the strain of the trip. After all, the Maritime provinces were small, and family ties cut across the region. It was entirely possible that this man was only distantly connected to the Taylors from southern New Brunswick. The young Nelson had been handsome, with curly brown hair and square shoulders. The man before her walked with a stoop, and seemed far too old to be the same man who’d been invited by her parents to the dinner parties they’d held as she’d been trotted out as marriage material with a healthy dowry as the prize.
“My apologies,” he said, his lips twisting as he attempted a halfhearted smile, mostly to satisfy Mr. da Silva. Maddy did not dare watch him too closely, but there seemed to be no flicker of recognition. Only disdain.
That she could manage. Recognition would shatter her completely.
Maddy fixed her feet to the ground, her fingers reaching for the knife she had tucked in a sheath on her left forearm. She wanted to take Mr. da Silva by the arm and drag him to the carriage. They were drawing a crowd. She nodded in acknowledgment, unable to speak. She just wanted this to be over.
The man scurried away like an angry badger, and Maddy swallowed the jagged panic she’d been holding.
“Are you all right?” Mr. da Silva asked, concern clear in the lines around his eyes. It was clear he wanted to press the issue, but she couldn’t let him—for both their sakes.
“It’s time to go,” she said, clearing her throat. “Before you draw any more attention than you already have.”
According to Mrs. Turnbull’s notes, the journey would take a couple hours depending on the state of the roads. Eager to get out of sight, the two climbed into the cart.
Maddy sat in the back and watched the world go by, the unpleasantness of her encounter to shrink into the distance as they made their way out of town. Mr. da Silva sat on the driver’s bench with the two Chandlers. It didn’t take long for the men to fall into an easy rapport.
The roads were a little dusty but not overly rutted, and the horses went at a steady pace. The countryside was pleasant, alternating between wood and meadow, the landscape dotted with little hills, and the air was heavy with the sweet, earthy scent of grass. Sometimes the road took them by tidal rivers, the muddy red-brown waters highlighted by borders of lush green tidal grass. The countryside was sparsely populated by the odd farm, and in the distance, what appeared to be a Mi’kmaq summer encampment.
The afternoon was warm, and Maddy was glad for her straw hat. Unlike Gemma, whose skin bronzed in the summer, and Rimple, whose naturally darker skin warmed even further during the season, Maddy’s skin turned an unholy shade of red if she was not careful, her freckles blossoming like asters in September.
At last, the cart slowed. Mr. Chandler signalled to the horses to make a left turn, leading them down a much small lane—so narrow in fact, Maddy wondered what they would do if they came upon a team of horses coming from the other direction. It soon became apparent the risk was almost negligible.
They continued on until they came to a ragged fence that bordered a small field, where a couple of cows lazed under a tree. Further up the hill was a few outbuildings, and a farmhouse that looked to have recently had a fresh coat of paint.
“Is this it?” Mr. da Silva asked.
Mr. Chandler shook his head. “That’s our farm. That and all the woods we just passed. Where we’re going is just up ahead.”
The farm disappeared from view, back into the trees. They seemed to be going to the absolute edge of nowhere. Without the Chandlers, they would invariably gotten lost.
The cart turned onto a gently curving road that snaked through the woods, the trees providing a welcome shade from the canopy overhead. A small sign, cut on board made grey by time and weather, was nailed into the side of a large maple tree. It announced The Grove was close by. Maddy started to wonder if Mr. da Silva’s property was indeed little more than a shack in the woods.
That was, until she saw it.
Outside of her books, Maddy had never allowed herself to be romantic. Romance was wasted on the beauties of the world, who had so many kind looks and words sent in their direction by those eager to woo them. She was thirty-seven years old. She was taller than many men, and somehow hard and soft in all the wrong places. The very idea of romance simply hurt too much. The pursuit of it had nearly ruined her.
But there was an undeniable lump that tightened her throat as the stately oaks drew her gaze to rest on the prettiest stone cottage she had ever seen.
Not that she’d seen many stone cottages, of course. There were only a few, generally created by more well-to-do immigrants from the British Isles who yearned for the feeling of home. In the Maritimes, even the most stately houses were made of wood, which was plentiful. But there was something about it that held Maddy’s attention, drawing her to the edge of the wooden seat. Something solid. Something timeless. Something magical.
The buggy came to a gentle halt near the entrance, allowing Maddy to see the building in greater detail. What looked to be a small, storey-and-a-half structure was in fact larger, as the building had been set into the side of a hill that sloped down and away. On the south-facing side was a mass of tangled green that looked to be overgrown grapevines. The paint on the sturdy wooden door and the window frames had long since faded, with only the slightest hint of the oxblood pigment that covered them. She couldn’t help but wonder how pretty they might look with some window boxes beneath them.
The sliding of trunks from the back of the wagon broke Maddy out of her reverie. Chiding herself for allowing her attention to be stolen, she cast a glance around for Mr. da Silva, who had disembarked and stood on the ground, looking up at her with an unreadable expression. He held out his hand, which she viewed with suspicion.
“I don’t bite,” Mr. da Silva said with that effortless charm of his. He smiled a moment, then took a pause. “Come now. It’s been a long day.”
An unnamable shame pinched at her heart, warring with her to do something so very normal, like take his hand. Maddy wasn’t graceful. She lumbered, her mother had often told her. She wasn’t interested in having Mr. da Silva bear the weight of her as she stepped down.
But he stood there, so bloody expectant. Like he wanted to help her. To her great surprise, she relented. She told herself it was out of some misplaced desire to play nice with him. To allow him to pretend to be useful. If that was what he needed to feel better, so be it.
She placed her hand in his, determined only to rest her fingers in his as lightly as possible while she gripped the edge of the cart with her other hand, allowing the sturdy wooden vehicle to bear her weight. But as his fingers wrapped around her hand, a shock of warmth rushed through her body, and before she was able to recover her senses, he’d held out his other hand, robbing her of the chance to use the cart to steady herself as she stepped down.
