fuss made over the elder Mr. Byrne’s
return that Cathleen had not been able to concentrate on her reading. She’d
found that the lamp in the parlor radiated the best light and with everyone
asleep, no one would mind if she ventured down to take in a chapter or maybe
three of The Homes of the New World by Swedish feminist Fredrika Bremer.
Clad in her nightrail and robe and with her hair loose about
her shoulders, Cathleen tucked her book under one arm. Clutching her reading
glasses firmly in her other hand, she tiptoed down the unending staircase,
before making her way through the shadowy expanse of the hall to the front
parlor. The grandfather clock’s sonorous ticking echoed through the quiet
house.
Accustomed to the dark, Cathleen put her book on the settee,
donned her glasses then removed the chimney from the lamp on the marble-topped
end table. She’d noticed earlier that the scissors to trim the wick were kept
in the table’s drawer, so she retrieved them and angled the wick into a point
so it would give off the brightest flame. She opened the tin matchsafe and
struck a match on the grate. It flared to life in a puff of sulfur. Cathleen
wrinkled her nose against the acrid stench as she held the match to the wick
until it lit.
The bright glow illuminated most of the massive parlor,
casting the corners in even deeper shadow. Cathleen returned the globe,
adjusted the height of the wick and then positioned the lamp as close to the
settee as she could. Normally, she read braille books at night, but she’d only
had space in her trunk for the teaching materials in braille she’d brought for
Jenny.
Opening her book, she leaned close to the light and, finding
the place where she’d left off the day before, she began to read. After several
minutes, her eyes began to ache and burn. She blinked and then went back to the
passage.
“You’re sitting so close to that light, you’ll catch the
whole place on fire.”
Cathleen gasped. Her head shot up, her ears recognizing
Ransom Byrne’s voice before her eyes brought him into focus. He formed out of
the shadows like a specter as he stepped into the light. Cathleen’s hand flew
to her pounding heart. “Mr. Byrne, you startled me.”
“Did I?” he asked in a voice far softer than she thought him
capable of possessing. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t sleep and came to retrieve
a book.” He gestured toward the bookcase. “And by the way,” he added. “I’m not
one for pretense. My father is Mr. Byrne. Please, call me Ransom.”
Clad in his snug-fitting dark trousers, boots and a white
shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he obviously hadn’t expected to find anyone
awake. But even in a state of amused surprise, the man oozed power. There was
something raw about him that made her mouth go dry. His features held just the
hint of a mischievous smile that caused something sinful to unfurl and spread
through Cathleen’s body. Her gaze followed the pull of his suspenders as they
delineated broad shoulders and the expanse of his flat chest.
Cathleen wet her parched lips with the tip of her tongue.
“That would hardly seem proper.”
“Proper,” he scoffed and waved his hand in dismissal. His
gaze fixed on her. Hard. “I’d prefer it.”
How was she to respond? She debated offering her nickname,
Catie, but it seemed presumptuous and scandalously intimate. Instead, she gave
him a slight nod. The idea of uttering his Christian name aloud made her
stomach flutter. In spite of what he requested, she would be mortified to do
so.
After laying her book on her lap, she removed her glasses
and rubbed her tired eyes. When she opened them, she discovered Mr. Byr— Ransom bending to take the book. She swallowed thickly. Her thin cotton gown and robe
proved no barrier against the heat from his hand as the backs of his fingers
moved across her legs. She froze, terrified to move, to even breathe as he
lifted the book and sat in the chair at the corner of the
return that Cathleen had not been able to concentrate on her reading. She’d
found that the lamp in the parlor radiated the best light and with everyone
asleep, no one would mind if she ventured down to take in a chapter or maybe
three of The Homes of the New World by Swedish feminist Fredrika Bremer.
Clad in her nightrail and robe and with her hair loose about
her shoulders, Cathleen tucked her book under one arm. Clutching her reading
glasses firmly in her other hand, she tiptoed down the unending staircase,
before making her way through the shadowy expanse of the hall to the front
parlor. The grandfather clock’s sonorous ticking echoed through the quiet
house.
Accustomed to the dark, Cathleen put her book on the settee,
donned her glasses then removed the chimney from the lamp on the marble-topped
end table. She’d noticed earlier that the scissors to trim the wick were kept
in the table’s drawer, so she retrieved them and angled the wick into a point
so it would give off the brightest flame. She opened the tin matchsafe and
struck a match on the grate. It flared to life in a puff of sulfur. Cathleen
wrinkled her nose against the acrid stench as she held the match to the wick
until it lit.
The bright glow illuminated most of the massive parlor,
casting the corners in even deeper shadow. Cathleen returned the globe,
adjusted the height of the wick and then positioned the lamp as close to the
settee as she could. Normally, she read braille books at night, but she’d only
had space in her trunk for the teaching materials in braille she’d brought for
Jenny.
Opening her book, she leaned close to the light and, finding
the place where she’d left off the day before, she began to read. After several
minutes, her eyes began to ache and burn. She blinked and then went back to the
passage.
“You’re sitting so close to that light, you’ll catch the
whole place on fire.”
Cathleen gasped. Her head shot up, her ears recognizing
Ransom Byrne’s voice before her eyes brought him into focus. He formed out of
the shadows like a specter as he stepped into the light. Cathleen’s hand flew
to her pounding heart. “Mr. Byrne, you startled me.”
“Did I?” he asked in a voice far softer than she thought him
capable of possessing. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t sleep and came to retrieve
a book.” He gestured toward the bookcase. “And by the way,” he added. “I’m not
one for pretense. My father is Mr. Byrne. Please, call me Ransom.”
Clad in his snug-fitting dark trousers, boots and a white
shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he obviously hadn’t expected to find anyone
awake. But even in a state of amused surprise, the man oozed power. There was
something raw about him that made her mouth go dry. His features held just the
hint of a mischievous smile that caused something sinful to unfurl and spread
through Cathleen’s body. Her gaze followed the pull of his suspenders as they
delineated broad shoulders and the expanse of his flat chest.
Cathleen wet her parched lips with the tip of her tongue.
“That would hardly seem proper.”
“Proper,” he scoffed and waved his hand in dismissal. His
gaze fixed on her. Hard. “I’d prefer it.”
How was she to respond? She debated offering her nickname,
Catie, but it seemed presumptuous and scandalously intimate. Instead, she gave
him a slight nod. The idea of uttering his Christian name aloud made her
stomach flutter. In spite of what he requested, she would be mortified to do
so.
After laying her book on her lap, she removed her glasses
and rubbed her tired eyes. When she opened them, she discovered Mr. Byr— Ransom bending to take the book. She swallowed thickly. Her thin cotton gown and robe
proved no barrier against the heat from his hand as the backs of his fingers
moved across her legs. She froze, terrified to move, to even breathe as he
lifted the book and sat in the chair at the corner of the
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