The Moon by Night by Gilbert Morris, Lynn Morris

she thought with a twinge of regret how nice it would have been to ride with Shiloh today. He had told her of all of his duties and errands for the day. First he was meeting Richard Duvall, Cheney’s father, at the Duvall Iron Foundry. Shiloh’s clipper, Locke’s Day Dream, was in New York, and Richard had decided to expand Duvall’s Tools and Implements—the finished goods part of his iron and steel business—to include some marine equipment. Locke’s Day Dream was going to be Duvall’s first customer. The company would be installing brand-new iron braces and something like…banging…barging…no, no. It was something about knees, wasn’t it?
    Cheney faltered as she tried to recall what Shiloh had told her the previous night. She had been so tired, and they had, after all, had the extreme distraction of dealing with Mr. Phinehas Jauncy. Her mouth twitched as she thought of the poor lost little puppy Shiloh had dragged in out of the snowstorm. Cheney had a feeling that Mr. Jauncy would be around for a while.
    Banging knees? Could that be right?
    A young gentleman, clad in a fine velvet riding coat, polished boots, and a beaver top hat, rode down the quiet street on a gorgeous Arabian that pranced and preened and skittered sideways. The gentleman’s eyes shone with admiration as he passed Cheney, and he doffed his hat, elegantly sweeping out an elaborate bow. Cheney gave him the slightest nod of acknowledgment, her face expressionless. But no woman was immune from such open admiration, and she smiled a little to herself as she walked, her head held high. Cheney’s features were much like her mother’s, but she had her father’s slender build and proud carriage. She didn’t have the soft loveliness of her mother, but the strong line of her jaw, the firmness of her mouth, and the determination of her gaze made her interesting-looking rather than conventionally pretty. She was tall and unfashionably healthy, strong, and athletic. But when Cheney saw the passing gentleman’s look of admiration, she was only conscious of how blessed she was to feel so good about her looks. She was twenty-eight now and felt that she had only come into full bloom in the last year or so. Most of the shrinking violets, at this advanced age, were fighting a losing battle to preserve the fragile beauty that was quickly fading.
    She was even more striking today with her new winter cloak. It was a deep plum-colored velvet, trimmed with sable. Of walking length, it fit over Cheney’s severe shirtwaists and skirts she wore while working. Victoria Buchanan, her best friend, had designed the cloak for her. It was a queenly garment, fitted tightly at Cheney’s small waist, with wide royal sleeves, and the rich black sable that was the rarest, costliest fur of all. Victoria had insisted that Cheney also have a muff and a daring small skullcap of velvet with a wide sable trim. Cheney wore it rakishly far forward on her head, with the crown of her auburn curls heightened at the back.
    Turning the corner, she saw with satisfaction that St. Luke the Physician Private Hospital and Dispensary, with its mellow golden bricks and its long low graceful sweep of the patient wings, looked dignified and gracious in its snow mantle. The old trees—elm, sycamore, oak, maple—made spare sculptures against the placid sky. As always, Cheney looked up at the inscription over the door—Siste Viator in stark Roman lettering—and wondered about it. I must remember to ask Dev about it. He may have learned the history of the house when he and Victoria were considering buying it. Then again, that is exactly the kind of thing that Dev would never wonder about. He would automatically translate it in his mind—Stop, traveler—and would never give it a second thought. Shiloh, on the other hand, is the kind of man who would find it intriguing and mysterious, as do I. How lucky I am; how