whiskey and took a long slow sip.
He had a sudden flash of Sam stamping her feet at the auction hall. Full of fire when she was roused; cool and competent on the job.
He had never met a woman like her.
At lunch, when he told her he wanted to spend more time with her, he was speaking the truth. She did not have the elegant beauty and perfect demeanor of the women he had had relationships with in the past, but not one of them had ever affected him the way this stubborn, warm, talented woman had. It occurred to him that perhaps the reason she could spot the genuine article was because she was the genuine article.
Maybe that was why she had made that disastrous detour to the auction. It was incredibly rare to see a piece by such a fine silversmith. In the past, of course, if one had come on the open market, the family would swoop in and buy it back often using a third party. But this one had appeared so unexpectedly, he’d been caught off-guard. Funny that Sam should be the one bidding against him. Was it professional interest, he wondered, or something closer to home?
Chas frowned.
Sam knew as well as he did that provenance was an important part of their business. Knowing who owned a piece and when, could ratchet up the price tremendously. But the auction house had been unable to trace the candlestick’s history.
Make that recent history, Chas reminded himself.
So where did Samantha Redfern fit in?
Stifling a yawn, Chas got to his feet. There was nothing more he could do tonight. Burton Park had stood unscathed for centuries; it was a glorious swath of land and wood and it would still be there when he woke up in the morning.
Pity it had to go.
His mother would rail against him selling his birthright. But that was no longer any of her concern. When he'd come of age, Chas had added to the divorce settlement Sylvia Porter, now Harker, had received from his father. He totally understood her decision to put as much distance as possible between herself and her first husband. Since then he had refused her continued financial requests.
But enough of that for now. In the morning, he would make amends for being less than forthright with Sam; he would show her around the estate, and maybe even take her for a ride.
And then they would have a chat.
About candlesticks.
And all things Samantha Redfern.
It was no use, thought Sam, she couldn't sleep. The cup of tea and two shortbread cookies Mrs. Weekes had brought up to her, had taken the edge off her hunger, but that was not enough to keep her going through the night. Plucking her cashmere shawl from the foot of the bed, Sam wrapped it around her shoulders. The thin nightgown she wore would be no match for the cool night air.
A soft breeze was ruffling the curtains. Sam padded over to the window and snugged the lock down on the casement.
The sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon but in its place, the moon cast its own particular brightness across the fields. So different from the hustle and bustle of the city, thought Sam. An owl hooted in the distance. For a girl who had grown up in a two-bedroom clapboard house, Porter Hall was the stuff of dreams.
Or was it nightmares?
As she turned, she caught sight of her own reflection in the dressing table mirror, soft and wide-eyed with the candlestick in the foreground. It looked at home on the dressing table, thought Sam, probably because when Porter Hall was first built, there would have been no electricity or gas.
She had originally set the candlestick atop the ornate fireplace on the far side of the room but that had made her feel sad. If her grandmother had remained in service instead of abruptly emigrating to Canada, it would have been someone like her who cleaned the hearth before the sun was up and tended the fire at night.
Sam frowned.
Romance for one meant hard work for someone else.
Like Mrs. Weekes.
Remembering the promise of a plate of sandwiches downstairs, Sam was suddenly quite ravenous.
She
He had a sudden flash of Sam stamping her feet at the auction hall. Full of fire when she was roused; cool and competent on the job.
He had never met a woman like her.
At lunch, when he told her he wanted to spend more time with her, he was speaking the truth. She did not have the elegant beauty and perfect demeanor of the women he had had relationships with in the past, but not one of them had ever affected him the way this stubborn, warm, talented woman had. It occurred to him that perhaps the reason she could spot the genuine article was because she was the genuine article.
Maybe that was why she had made that disastrous detour to the auction. It was incredibly rare to see a piece by such a fine silversmith. In the past, of course, if one had come on the open market, the family would swoop in and buy it back often using a third party. But this one had appeared so unexpectedly, he’d been caught off-guard. Funny that Sam should be the one bidding against him. Was it professional interest, he wondered, or something closer to home?
Chas frowned.
Sam knew as well as he did that provenance was an important part of their business. Knowing who owned a piece and when, could ratchet up the price tremendously. But the auction house had been unable to trace the candlestick’s history.
Make that recent history, Chas reminded himself.
So where did Samantha Redfern fit in?
Stifling a yawn, Chas got to his feet. There was nothing more he could do tonight. Burton Park had stood unscathed for centuries; it was a glorious swath of land and wood and it would still be there when he woke up in the morning.
Pity it had to go.
His mother would rail against him selling his birthright. But that was no longer any of her concern. When he'd come of age, Chas had added to the divorce settlement Sylvia Porter, now Harker, had received from his father. He totally understood her decision to put as much distance as possible between herself and her first husband. Since then he had refused her continued financial requests.
But enough of that for now. In the morning, he would make amends for being less than forthright with Sam; he would show her around the estate, and maybe even take her for a ride.
And then they would have a chat.
About candlesticks.
And all things Samantha Redfern.
It was no use, thought Sam, she couldn't sleep. The cup of tea and two shortbread cookies Mrs. Weekes had brought up to her, had taken the edge off her hunger, but that was not enough to keep her going through the night. Plucking her cashmere shawl from the foot of the bed, Sam wrapped it around her shoulders. The thin nightgown she wore would be no match for the cool night air.
A soft breeze was ruffling the curtains. Sam padded over to the window and snugged the lock down on the casement.
The sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon but in its place, the moon cast its own particular brightness across the fields. So different from the hustle and bustle of the city, thought Sam. An owl hooted in the distance. For a girl who had grown up in a two-bedroom clapboard house, Porter Hall was the stuff of dreams.
Or was it nightmares?
As she turned, she caught sight of her own reflection in the dressing table mirror, soft and wide-eyed with the candlestick in the foreground. It looked at home on the dressing table, thought Sam, probably because when Porter Hall was first built, there would have been no electricity or gas.
She had originally set the candlestick atop the ornate fireplace on the far side of the room but that had made her feel sad. If her grandmother had remained in service instead of abruptly emigrating to Canada, it would have been someone like her who cleaned the hearth before the sun was up and tended the fire at night.
Sam frowned.
Romance for one meant hard work for someone else.
Like Mrs. Weekes.
Remembering the promise of a plate of sandwiches downstairs, Sam was suddenly quite ravenous.
She
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