gasped.
“You’re so rude,” Rosalie scolded. “She’s as beautiful as ever.”
Mia smiled and cradled her left wrist with her other hand. “I work hard and don’t have cooking as fine as Mrs. Goswell’s to sustain me.” She glanced at Rosalie. “And I’ll be wary of younger sisters bearing gifts of food and tea in the future.”
Ayden glared at his sister. “You didn’t ask her about the laudanum?”
“I, um,”—Rosalie bit her lip—“well, I said it was just a drop or two.”
“Rosalie, that’s—”
“She meant well.” Mia glided forward, her skirts rustling, her head high, though her neck seemed too thin to support so much hair. “I’m sure I needed the rest, but I would have liked to have gone looking for the boy’s mother.”
“He doesn’t even have a name,” the little girl said. “We just call him Boy.”
“The quality of his clothes is fine,” Ma said. “I sent them out with the laundry. They were filthy.”
“Did they have any initials in them?” Ayden asked.
At the same time, Mia asked, “Were they monogrammed?”
They looked at one another. Their eyes met in a flash of remembered camaraderie, for they had often spoken the same thoughts.
Ayden jerked back a step. “I’m going to Charmaine’s. They’re expecting me for dinner.”
“You should stay home.” Pa levered himself from his chair with the stiffness he had shown since his accident two years earlier. “We have that young man you invited to stay here coming.” He started to stoop to add more logs to the fire.
Ayden strode over and crouched before the blaze to do the task instead. “I’ll chop some more wood before I go.”
He needed the exercise and the immediate escape from the faint whiff of lemon verbena—Mia’s scent.
“The Taggart boy chopped plenty today.” Pa returned to his chair and lowered himself into it with a slowness that made Ayden’s back hurt to watch. “You run off if you must tonight, but tomorrow, I think you should help Mia hunt for that boy’s people.”
“He need not,” Mia protested.
“I really should be making lesson plans up on the hill.” Ayden referred to the college, his retreat, his escape, his lame excuse for not helping Mia. With his family giving him accusing glares, he turned away. “I should be going.”
“Running off.” Rosalie’s taunting voice rang after Ayden all the way down the street to the Finney house.
So what if he was. A prudent man ran away from trouble. And being near Mia was trouble.
With her staying in his parents’ house, he couldn’t run away from trouble in the form of coming face-to-face with Euphemia Roper. What had he been thinking to invite her to stay there? He should have known his heart would suffer. Yet he thought he had been healed of that pain, believed offering her accommodations far more comfortable than the boardinghouse was the right thing to do. And Pa had insisted. He was courting Charmaine Finney, and if he didn’t love her with the same devotion he had given Mia, that was the safer course for his future. Charmaine did not possess the power to wound his heart as Mia had.
Though he thought he could escape the house early to avoid taking Mia to hunt for the lost child’s people, she was up early with Ma. He rose from building up the dining room fire, turned toward the doorway, and Mia stood there before him, one arm balancing a tray laden with silverware and cups.
The sun hadn’t yet risen, but firelight limned her face, making her skin glow and drawing red highlights from her chestnut hair. She wore that hair braided and wound around her head, a severe style that emphasized her delicate bones and the dark shadows beneath her green eyes.
“You should be resting.” He removed the tray from her hand, his glance dropping to her bandaged wrist. “No portfolio this morning?”
She looked past his shoulder. “I don’t usually eat with it.”
“That’s not what I recall.”
A stab of pain struck him
“You’re so rude,” Rosalie scolded. “She’s as beautiful as ever.”
Mia smiled and cradled her left wrist with her other hand. “I work hard and don’t have cooking as fine as Mrs. Goswell’s to sustain me.” She glanced at Rosalie. “And I’ll be wary of younger sisters bearing gifts of food and tea in the future.”
Ayden glared at his sister. “You didn’t ask her about the laudanum?”
“I, um,”—Rosalie bit her lip—“well, I said it was just a drop or two.”
“Rosalie, that’s—”
“She meant well.” Mia glided forward, her skirts rustling, her head high, though her neck seemed too thin to support so much hair. “I’m sure I needed the rest, but I would have liked to have gone looking for the boy’s mother.”
“He doesn’t even have a name,” the little girl said. “We just call him Boy.”
“The quality of his clothes is fine,” Ma said. “I sent them out with the laundry. They were filthy.”
“Did they have any initials in them?” Ayden asked.
At the same time, Mia asked, “Were they monogrammed?”
They looked at one another. Their eyes met in a flash of remembered camaraderie, for they had often spoken the same thoughts.
Ayden jerked back a step. “I’m going to Charmaine’s. They’re expecting me for dinner.”
“You should stay home.” Pa levered himself from his chair with the stiffness he had shown since his accident two years earlier. “We have that young man you invited to stay here coming.” He started to stoop to add more logs to the fire.
Ayden strode over and crouched before the blaze to do the task instead. “I’ll chop some more wood before I go.”
He needed the exercise and the immediate escape from the faint whiff of lemon verbena—Mia’s scent.
“The Taggart boy chopped plenty today.” Pa returned to his chair and lowered himself into it with a slowness that made Ayden’s back hurt to watch. “You run off if you must tonight, but tomorrow, I think you should help Mia hunt for that boy’s people.”
“He need not,” Mia protested.
“I really should be making lesson plans up on the hill.” Ayden referred to the college, his retreat, his escape, his lame excuse for not helping Mia. With his family giving him accusing glares, he turned away. “I should be going.”
“Running off.” Rosalie’s taunting voice rang after Ayden all the way down the street to the Finney house.
So what if he was. A prudent man ran away from trouble. And being near Mia was trouble.
With her staying in his parents’ house, he couldn’t run away from trouble in the form of coming face-to-face with Euphemia Roper. What had he been thinking to invite her to stay there? He should have known his heart would suffer. Yet he thought he had been healed of that pain, believed offering her accommodations far more comfortable than the boardinghouse was the right thing to do. And Pa had insisted. He was courting Charmaine Finney, and if he didn’t love her with the same devotion he had given Mia, that was the safer course for his future. Charmaine did not possess the power to wound his heart as Mia had.
Though he thought he could escape the house early to avoid taking Mia to hunt for the lost child’s people, she was up early with Ma. He rose from building up the dining room fire, turned toward the doorway, and Mia stood there before him, one arm balancing a tray laden with silverware and cups.
The sun hadn’t yet risen, but firelight limned her face, making her skin glow and drawing red highlights from her chestnut hair. She wore that hair braided and wound around her head, a severe style that emphasized her delicate bones and the dark shadows beneath her green eyes.
“You should be resting.” He removed the tray from her hand, his glance dropping to her bandaged wrist. “No portfolio this morning?”
She looked past his shoulder. “I don’t usually eat with it.”
“That’s not what I recall.”
A stab of pain struck him
Similar Books
