began her inspection, he knelt down by the fireplace and pulled a few pieces of kindling from the brass dish holding the cut oak.
She trailed her fingers over the large, carved dark table positioned near the latticed window. Her fingers paused on a stack of Henry Fielding’s work. “It’s like stepping back in time.”
He laughed. “Sometimes I think my grandfather shall walk through the door at any moment.”
“Truly?” she breathed. “How wonderful that must be. I barely knew my father let alone my grandfather.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Did they die young?”
She stopped and bit her lip before flipping open one of the books. “No. They simply had little time for a girl child.”
“That must have been very sad.” It was difficult listening to the pain she so desperately didn’t want anyone to hear. Though every fiber of his being urged him to comfort her, he tended to the fire, hoping that his actions would allow her to continue to speak openly.
She skimmed a finger along the parchment of the first volume then snapped it shut. “I think many girls never truly know their fathers or grandfathers.”
“You are most likely right,” he agreed before leaning forward and blowing on the small tinder coming to light beneath the kindling he’d so carefully arranged. “But I know if I had a daughter, I should wish her to know me.”
She moved to the window, her steps barely audible over the rug brought back from the Ottoman Empire so many years ago. She placed a pale hand along the seat just before the glass pane. “Then she shall be very lucky.”
“It is I who will be lucky, to have someone to love and love me in turn.”
She whipped towards him, her dark blond hair slipping free of its pins. “I— I’m not sure anyone has ever loved me. My mama, I suppose, but I saw her not above an hour a day for most of my life. As soon as I was old enough, I was married.”
He placed a log upon the licking flames, careful not to stifle the newly sprung fire just as he was careful not to stifle Clare’s admissions. “Mary loves you; of that I am certain.”
She smiled then, her gaze askance, as if she was conjuring Mary’s countenance. “Yes, I think she does.” That lovely, vulnerable smile dimmed. “But she mightn’t if she knew . . .”
He brushed his hands against his trousers before reaching for the bed warmer. “Knew?” he prompted casually.
She shook her head. “Nothing. A silly thought. Tell me more about your grandfather. Was this his room that you remember him here so clearly?”
Sensing her reticence and unwilling to push lest she withdraw from this easy flow of conversation between them, he picked up the fire tongs and dropped a few pieces of smoldering wood into the bed warmer. “Will you help me with the covers?”
Wordlessly, she crossed to the bed and took the great burgundy counterpane in her hands. She tugged backward and let out a groan. “Goodness, that’s heavy.”
“Only the best down. You shall be very warm.”
She tensed, her fingers clutching the white linen. As she stared at him, he could have sworn that the color drained so fast from her face she was almost as pale as the sheet. “Where will you sleep?”
“In here, but on that chair.” He gestured with his chin to one of the great chairs before the fire with its lion-clawed feet and cushioned high back.
“While I’m glad of your presence, it will be very strange . . . and uncomfortable.”
He laughed. “Speaking of my grandfather, he was quite the odd fellow. He liked to sleep outdoors, and when I was a boy he would take me with him.”
She gaped. “Out of doors?”
“Most strange, I realize.” He lowered the brass pan onto the exposed sheet and began running it back and forth. “But he had gone to the Americas and said there was nothing like the West where a man slept beneath the stars as he traversed across the terrain.”
“He went to the Americas?” she breathed.
“Yes. I always thought
She trailed her fingers over the large, carved dark table positioned near the latticed window. Her fingers paused on a stack of Henry Fielding’s work. “It’s like stepping back in time.”
He laughed. “Sometimes I think my grandfather shall walk through the door at any moment.”
“Truly?” she breathed. “How wonderful that must be. I barely knew my father let alone my grandfather.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Did they die young?”
She stopped and bit her lip before flipping open one of the books. “No. They simply had little time for a girl child.”
“That must have been very sad.” It was difficult listening to the pain she so desperately didn’t want anyone to hear. Though every fiber of his being urged him to comfort her, he tended to the fire, hoping that his actions would allow her to continue to speak openly.
She skimmed a finger along the parchment of the first volume then snapped it shut. “I think many girls never truly know their fathers or grandfathers.”
“You are most likely right,” he agreed before leaning forward and blowing on the small tinder coming to light beneath the kindling he’d so carefully arranged. “But I know if I had a daughter, I should wish her to know me.”
She moved to the window, her steps barely audible over the rug brought back from the Ottoman Empire so many years ago. She placed a pale hand along the seat just before the glass pane. “Then she shall be very lucky.”
“It is I who will be lucky, to have someone to love and love me in turn.”
She whipped towards him, her dark blond hair slipping free of its pins. “I— I’m not sure anyone has ever loved me. My mama, I suppose, but I saw her not above an hour a day for most of my life. As soon as I was old enough, I was married.”
He placed a log upon the licking flames, careful not to stifle the newly sprung fire just as he was careful not to stifle Clare’s admissions. “Mary loves you; of that I am certain.”
She smiled then, her gaze askance, as if she was conjuring Mary’s countenance. “Yes, I think she does.” That lovely, vulnerable smile dimmed. “But she mightn’t if she knew . . .”
He brushed his hands against his trousers before reaching for the bed warmer. “Knew?” he prompted casually.
She shook her head. “Nothing. A silly thought. Tell me more about your grandfather. Was this his room that you remember him here so clearly?”
Sensing her reticence and unwilling to push lest she withdraw from this easy flow of conversation between them, he picked up the fire tongs and dropped a few pieces of smoldering wood into the bed warmer. “Will you help me with the covers?”
Wordlessly, she crossed to the bed and took the great burgundy counterpane in her hands. She tugged backward and let out a groan. “Goodness, that’s heavy.”
“Only the best down. You shall be very warm.”
She tensed, her fingers clutching the white linen. As she stared at him, he could have sworn that the color drained so fast from her face she was almost as pale as the sheet. “Where will you sleep?”
“In here, but on that chair.” He gestured with his chin to one of the great chairs before the fire with its lion-clawed feet and cushioned high back.
“While I’m glad of your presence, it will be very strange . . . and uncomfortable.”
He laughed. “Speaking of my grandfather, he was quite the odd fellow. He liked to sleep outdoors, and when I was a boy he would take me with him.”
She gaped. “Out of doors?”
“Most strange, I realize.” He lowered the brass pan onto the exposed sheet and began running it back and forth. “But he had gone to the Americas and said there was nothing like the West where a man slept beneath the stars as he traversed across the terrain.”
“He went to the Americas?” she breathed.
“Yes. I always thought
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