“Why would you be worried about the Chandlers?” she asked. “You’ve told me more than once you’re a selfish man.”
“I have,” he said, scooping another forkful of supper into his mouth. If Maddy didn’t know better, she’d have guessed he was trying to avoid the conversation.
“Except you’re not.”
He looked at her as if she’d suddenly declared it to be winter and that pigs were flying by. He paused, grabbing his glass and taking a sip of his drink.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she continued. “You are many things, Beau da Silva, but you are not selfish.”
He set down the glass and sat back in his chair, his brow carefully arched. “And what things am I?”
“You’re rich,” she said, holding up a finger as she prepared to count his attributes one by one.
“Undeniably,” he shrugged, his lips turning up in a smug grin.
Maddy lifted another finger. “And cocksure.”
“Of course.”
“But you’re also hardworking,” she said, “And you are concerned about others.”
“I thought you were going to tell me I’m handsome,” he said, gesturing toward her hand. “That would make a perfect five.”
“Did you recall my comment about being cocksure?” she said, hiding her smile as behind a long sip of her shrub.
“I don’t want the Chandlers to lose their property,” he said.
“They aren’t your concern,” she said. “Or they weren’t until now. What’s changed?”
“They are good people,” he said, suddenly fixated on pushing the peas around on his plate. “And I don’t need this property. They need their farm.”
They continued eating in a comfortable silence. She’d pushed enough.
“Hollis Chandler seems like a nice man,” he said, just when Maddy thought the conversation had come to an end.
“He does,” she said. “He probably knows this property better than anyone.”
“He knew my mother,” Mr. da Silva said, almost abruptly, as if his thoughts were forming as he spoke. “He had the same dreamy look about him when he spoke about her that Frank used to. Frank called her his Helen of Troy. A face that would launch a thousand ships.” He gave his head a little shake, as he found a bit of humour in a memory. “If anyone could turn Frank da Silva into a romantic fool, it was my mother, apparently. Maybe Hollis Chandler was the same.”
Beau da Silva could turn her into a romantic fool, Maddy thought. Was he a Willoughby, or a Colonel Brandon? At one time she would have written him off as the first. But she was no longer a romantic fool.
Romantic fool.
The memory of that scrap of a poem she’d found in her room rushed back.
Then live with me and be my love.
H. C.
Almost on impulse, Maddy rose. “I have something to show you. And before you say anything, I know I shouldn’t be doing this because it’s none of my business.”
She rose and ran upstairs, returning with a piece of paper.
“I found this the other day, and I set it aside. I didn’t know what it was at the time. But I think—I think Hollis wrote this to your mother.”
Gently, she unfolded the paper, brittle with age, and placed it in front of Beau.
The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
