over some new discovery. The next, she looked like a doe, startled by the dazzling lights around her.
And if she was unsettled by Boston and its inhabitants, there was no doubt that Bostonians were equally unsettled by her. If he hadn’t already been indoctrinated by the custom in some parts of Africa of placing a hand under one’s armpit when shaking hands, he would have been shocked as well.
But it went beyond mere differences in customs. People were intrigued by her, or rather, people watched her like passersby watch a terrible accident. They didn’t want to see but couldn’t look away. And in truth, Matthew understood. Her boldness had surprised him in Africa, but seeing her here, in Boston, made her seem even wilder—standing out so sharply in contrast to the restrained ways of this puritanical town.
“I’m intrigued, but that isn’t enough,” she said quietly. “I don’t fit in here, and I’m afraid I never will. I don’t know how to learn what is expected of me.”
She swayed from side to side and did some sort of dip that he could only guess was supposed to be a curtsy. Practicing. Trying to learn. Beneath her sheen of wildness there was a raw, stunned quality about her, as if she were trying hard to be strong but not quite succeeding.
He hated to see her like this, and before he knew what he was doing, he said, “That’s not true.” The words amazed him, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Of course you can fit in.”
She didn’t look convinced, and why should she, he thought grimly. Based on what little he had seen of her behavior, he stood a better chance of becoming a proper lady than she did.
But his tongue and his brain seemed to be out of touch. “If you want to be a lady,” he told her firmly, “you can.”
She bit her lower lip. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” He nearly choked on the lie, but then she smiled up at him with such innocence and purity and a desperate desire not to give up hope that he found himself adding, “You can learn everything you need to know.”
“Oh, Mr. Hawthorne,” she cried out with joy, “I take back every unkind thing I ever thought about you!”
His brow furrowed indignantly.
But she only laughed. “Thank you, thank you! And thank you for returning the bracelet. Now I must go. I have a million things to do.”
She flew out of the room much as she had entered, in a whirl of skirts. Matthew was left alone in the receiving room with a wry grin and a shake of his head.
He left the house, taking the three steps down to the walkway before he stopped beside his carriage, which waited at the curb. He turned his face into the winter sun as it broke through the pewter-gray sky. It was at moments like this that he felt almost normal again—the past pushed back.
A smile broke out on his face. She did that to him. Despite his determination to put her from his mind, Finnea Winslet had the uncanny ability to make him smile. And he couldn’t imagine why. She wasn’t a beauty by Boston standards. She was too vibrant for that, her hair too red, her manners too bold.
But somehow she made him forget about the ache in his shoulder and the stabbing pain in his head. All he could think about when he saw her was the sheer mesmerizing force of her eyes when she made—no, forced her way through every encounter like a wave crashing onto the sand.
He shook his head and chuckled, then started to turn. But he was caught off guard when a rock hit him in the head. Pain flashed white in his eyes, blinding him, and he staggered back. Through the fog in his mind he saw two young boys hiding behind a bush just beyond the walk.
“You touch him,” one hissed.
“No, you touch him!”
“Baby!”
“I am not a baby,” the second boy cried.
“Then touch him!” the other taunted.
“Not on your life! He’s a monster!”
Unsteady, Matthew stood like stone as a wave of icy humiliation raced through him. He forced himself to breathe, the
And if she was unsettled by Boston and its inhabitants, there was no doubt that Bostonians were equally unsettled by her. If he hadn’t already been indoctrinated by the custom in some parts of Africa of placing a hand under one’s armpit when shaking hands, he would have been shocked as well.
But it went beyond mere differences in customs. People were intrigued by her, or rather, people watched her like passersby watch a terrible accident. They didn’t want to see but couldn’t look away. And in truth, Matthew understood. Her boldness had surprised him in Africa, but seeing her here, in Boston, made her seem even wilder—standing out so sharply in contrast to the restrained ways of this puritanical town.
“I’m intrigued, but that isn’t enough,” she said quietly. “I don’t fit in here, and I’m afraid I never will. I don’t know how to learn what is expected of me.”
She swayed from side to side and did some sort of dip that he could only guess was supposed to be a curtsy. Practicing. Trying to learn. Beneath her sheen of wildness there was a raw, stunned quality about her, as if she were trying hard to be strong but not quite succeeding.
He hated to see her like this, and before he knew what he was doing, he said, “That’s not true.” The words amazed him, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Of course you can fit in.”
She didn’t look convinced, and why should she, he thought grimly. Based on what little he had seen of her behavior, he stood a better chance of becoming a proper lady than she did.
But his tongue and his brain seemed to be out of touch. “If you want to be a lady,” he told her firmly, “you can.”
She bit her lower lip. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” He nearly choked on the lie, but then she smiled up at him with such innocence and purity and a desperate desire not to give up hope that he found himself adding, “You can learn everything you need to know.”
“Oh, Mr. Hawthorne,” she cried out with joy, “I take back every unkind thing I ever thought about you!”
His brow furrowed indignantly.
But she only laughed. “Thank you, thank you! And thank you for returning the bracelet. Now I must go. I have a million things to do.”
She flew out of the room much as she had entered, in a whirl of skirts. Matthew was left alone in the receiving room with a wry grin and a shake of his head.
He left the house, taking the three steps down to the walkway before he stopped beside his carriage, which waited at the curb. He turned his face into the winter sun as it broke through the pewter-gray sky. It was at moments like this that he felt almost normal again—the past pushed back.
A smile broke out on his face. She did that to him. Despite his determination to put her from his mind, Finnea Winslet had the uncanny ability to make him smile. And he couldn’t imagine why. She wasn’t a beauty by Boston standards. She was too vibrant for that, her hair too red, her manners too bold.
But somehow she made him forget about the ache in his shoulder and the stabbing pain in his head. All he could think about when he saw her was the sheer mesmerizing force of her eyes when she made—no, forced her way through every encounter like a wave crashing onto the sand.
He shook his head and chuckled, then started to turn. But he was caught off guard when a rock hit him in the head. Pain flashed white in his eyes, blinding him, and he staggered back. Through the fog in his mind he saw two young boys hiding behind a bush just beyond the walk.
“You touch him,” one hissed.
“No, you touch him!”
“Baby!”
“I am not a baby,” the second boy cried.
“Then touch him!” the other taunted.
“Not on your life! He’s a monster!”
Unsteady, Matthew stood like stone as a wave of icy humiliation raced through him. He forced himself to breathe, the
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