Whispers from the Shadows (34 page)

Chuckling, Gwyneth looked up at the sky to gauge the angle of the sun. The ideal morning light had shifted, and so she might as well pack up her oils and brushes and finish the painting tomorrow. Emmy would be happy to sit for her again, she knew. Not that Gwyneth really needed a model before her, but it had been pleasant, these past five mornings, to chat and get to know each other while she put color to canvas. An easy, beautiful time. No heavy-handed muse breathing down her neck and forcing oddities into her work, no burning to paint anything but the image before her.

To make a friend. To learn more about the Lanes, what it had been like to grow up in their house. To hear about how so many frowned upon Emmy because of her mixed blood, but how love had finally found her when Thad decided to take to the seas and so had met Henry, who had come home with him one night, seen Emmy, and fallen head over heels.

The paths of their lives could be so unpredictable, so seemingly random, but always the Lord led them where they needed to be. And He had led Gwyneth here. Right here, at this point in time. Chased away by horror, yet ending up surrounded by friends.

Philly stood slowly and came to Gwyneth's side to look at the canvas. “Nearly done and so very breathtaking. What will you do with this one?”

Gwyneth swished her brushes around in a jar of turpentine. “I am not certain. Give it either to Henry or Rosie, though I have not decided who should have it. Or perhaps I shall let them fight for it.”

Emmy laughed and gathered up the lacy shawl that had slid from her arms to the ground while she modeled. “That could be sporting.”

Reaching for a jar of paint and its lid, Philly sent Gwyneth an almost hesitant look, which was strange for her. “Gwyn…if you mind my teasing about you and Thad, you have only to say so.”

She could not resist the twitch of her lips. “And you will do what—stop? I find that very hard to believe, having seen this family interact for several months now.”

Philly grinned too. “Well, I wouldn't stop teasing
him
, but the last thing I want to do is scare
you
off with it.”

Scaring her off—a valid concern not all that long ago, but at this point? She wanted to be nowhere else. The thought of Uncle Gates finding her here still lit a fuse of panic, but she would give that, too, to God, and trust His leading.

Gwyneth screwed a lid back on another pot. “You needn't fear that, Philly. I have no intention of going anywhere, certainly not before that brother of yours returns and answers a few questions about why he didn't see fit to tell me about Peggy yet thought to kiss me senseless.”

Philly's eyes lit with mischief. “Senseless, you say?”

“Phillippa!” Emmy's tone was admonishing yet ended on a laugh. “Don't pry.”

“Why ever not? 'Tis a matter of scientific investigation.” Still grinning, she leaned close. “Have you not ever wondered why one man's kiss can leave us cold and another make us melt like wax?”

Emmy slapped at her friend with the end of the shawl. “And when have you conducted
that
experiment?”

“Not since I met Reggie, I assure you. Or, well—he was the final installment of said experiment. Which, granted, did not have enough data to be thorough.” She closed up another color of paint, that light still glinting in her eyes. “It is an intriguing phenomena, though. And one of chemistry, which we all know is my area of expertise.”

Gwyneth slid the paints into their box and angled a saucy grin at her friend. “Were your brother here, I imagine he would say that his library rug contests your claims of expertise.”

“That was entirely his fault, startling us like he did.” Philly added another jar to the lot and then sighed. “I think I shall go find Mama. And Gwyn?”

“Hmm?”

Philly leaned over and gathered her close. “I hope you keep him, so we might keep you.” With those whispered words, she turned and bustled her way into the house.

Gwyneth glanced at Emmy, who smiled and followed her friend inside at a more sedate pace. For her part, she finished storing her supplies, carried everything in, and headed toward the kitchen with a light step. As soon as she entered the warm room, she snagged her apron from its hook and clapped her hands together.

“What will you teach me today, Rosie?”

The housekeeper looked up from the sink with the same frown she'd given her every other day she had asked the question—as if that would deter her. “I'm baking bread today, and you will just be in the way. Get on out of here and go make a picture.”

Instead, Gwyneth laughed and moved over to the counter, where two bowls were already sitting. “What kind of bread?”

“Nothing special. Just regular ol' wheat. You don't need to be gumming up those smooth hands of yours with the dough, now.”

Gwyneth tied the apron strings over her white day dress. “Nonsense. Though perhaps I ought to wash the paint from them first, hmm?”

Rosie made a disapproving noise, but she stepped aside to give the younger woman access to the wash water. “Don't know why you got it into your head you had to learn how to cook. Ain't that why I'm here?”

“And what about when you go to visit Emmy for a few days after she has her baby? Who will cook then?”

“Mrs. Lane can manage—”

“And so should I be able to.” She sent a warm smile toward her companion. “Can you not see, Rosie, how important that is? When I was in England, had I sullied my hands in the kitchen, it would have meant my family was poor. It would have meant no chance of a good match.”

Rosie huffed. “Well-off girls don't cook here neither, Gwyneth.”

“But here, in this family, they
can
. I can learn how to help when help is needed. I can be
useful
.” More than just a pretty miss, taught more than how to play the pianoforte or embroider. She could do something that, in times of need, could lift a burden for someone.

As Gwyneth had known she would, Rosie sighed and handed her an old towel for her hands. “The most important lesson in bread making is knowing the dough—whether it's too dry or too wet, which ain't never the same day to day. The air has an awful lot to do with it, and the dough don't rise a hoot on a dry, cold day. You'll have to learn where to put it to rise in the wintertime so's it gets enough heat from the stove but not so much it starts crusting up too soon.”

Gwyneth dried her hands and prepared to absorb all she could. She mixed, she kneaded, she added flour, she punched, and she nodded when Rosie indicated it was elastic enough, noting the
consistency. Then she covered her beautiful ball of dough in its bowl and smiled at the victory.

A knock sounded on the front door, and both she and Rosie looked down at their messy hands.

“I got it, Mama,” Emmy called from out the hall. Her footsteps sounded, and a moment later they heard the squeak of the door opening.

“Good morning.” A male voice echoed their way, familiar enough to make Gwyneth want to run for the closet. Apparently Nathaniel Mercer was back from his trip to Virginia. “Is Mrs. Lane or Miss Hampton in?”

Another set of footsteps, this one the sure, measured step of Winter. “I am in, sir, but I regret that Miss Hampton is otherwise engaged this morning.”

And planned to be every morning, and any other time he might drop by.

There was a softer exchange that Gwyneth could not make out, and then the soft pad of Emmy's steps toward the kitchen. Gwyneth moved to meet her as she entered the room, curious about her new friend's reaction to the man.

His voice came her way again, too soft at first for her to catch over the other noises of the house, though as soon as she halted, she could make it out again. “…lovely young woman, and breeding too. If you feel the need to sell, she would fetch a high price, and I would be happy to—”

“You overstep yourself, Mr. Mercer.” Winter's voice was as frigid as her name. “Emmy is no slave, nor is her mother. We
have
no slaves in the Lane family, as it is an abominable institution. Now I will wish you good day.”

Emmy looked positively smug, even making a little kicking motion as if to boot the man out the door.

Mercer cleared his throat. “I do apologize. I only thought—”

“I know what you thought, and I wished you good day. Now
good day
. And I thank you not to darken these doors again.”

Oh, Gwyneth could kiss that woman, and she would have run out to the hall to do so the moment the door slammed shut had she not been aware of the flour and dough still caking her hands.

Emmy shook her head. “Never in my life have I more wanted to spit in the face of a man. And oh, but does it make me miss my
Henry. I hope they come home soon.”

“Soon.” Saying the word lit a lamp inside and warmed the oil of Gwyneth's being until it spread all through her, as Thad's kiss had done. “I think it
will
be soon, Emmy. I think they are close.”

“Do you?” Emmy's voice was hopeful and just relieved enough to indicate she trusted her word.

Odd, really. But no odder than the surety she felt as she nodded. “I am certain of it.”

Emmy grinned at her mother and nodded toward Gwyneth. “I think Thaddeus really has met his match.”

Gwyneth indulged in her own little smile as she cleaned the dough from her hands. He had indeed. In ways he had probably yet to realize.

Twenty-Six

T
had slipped through the shadows beside Henry, tamping down the urge to look over his shoulder. The British ship that had come so close while they were running the blockade had certainly not followed them into port, so he needn't worry. He need only praise the Lord for those beautiful clouds covering the moon, and for an able pilot who could steer them into the bay on the darkest of nights.

A pilot who now yawned long and gustily. “Think anyone will be up?”

“At two in the morning? Doubtful.” Which was fine. He wanted only to slip inside, change out of his salt-encrusted shirt, and sleep so that he could be up early enough to ride to Washington and share what he had learned with Tallmadge.

All right, so that wasn't all he wanted. But much as he longed to gather Gwyneth into his arms, he hoped she was sleeping soundly. If she had been wracked by insomnia again because of his twelve-day absence—his stomach clenched at the thought.

They cut through the alley, strode silently along the street, and went around the back of Thad's home. Henry angled toward the carriage house and the rooms above it with a lifted hand. Thad
nodded his goodnight and headed for the kitchen door. He'd slipped inside and shut it behind him before he realized a lamp was lit upon the table, though surely it had glowed through the windows. Thunder and turf, but he was tired.

“There you are.”

Her voice didn't exactly startle him, but it brought his pulse back up to the rate it had taken when that British vessel had drifted so close she would have spotted the
Masquerade
had her watchman not been asleep at his post. “What are you doing up, sweet?”

Gwyneth stepped into the lamplight. She smiled, and while there were shadows under her eyes, they were too faint to indicate anything but being up late tonight, not for nearly a fortnight. She was still dressed in a pale day gown, the only indication of the hour the fact that her hair was in a braid down her back.

“I was waiting for you.” Her voice was soft but clear as she spoke, and steadier than it had been in those first weeks of sleepless torment. And then she glided toward him, not stopping until her arms were about him. His closed around her with such relief that he wasn't sure he would ever be able to convince them to release her again. She pressed her cheek against his chest and let out a long breath. “I tried to retire at a reasonable hour, but I couldn't shake the feeling you would be home tonight.”

And she had greeted him with an embrace rather than a slap across his face. Good news indeed. He tightened his hold on her as he ran a hand up her back and under her braid. “I feared you hated me by now.”

She chuckled and tilted her head back when he so urged. “How could I ever hate you?” Yet when the weary yearning of his heart had his head dipping, she pulled away from his arms altogether, a light of mischief glinting in her eyes. “Though there will be no more of that for a while.”

He nearly groaned. May have, in fact. “Why in thunder not?”

Another light laugh spilled from her throat, so beautiful even if devastating. “Because you are going to court me properly before you kiss me again. Are you hungry?”

“No.” Then she moved past him, and he caught a whiff of bread. “Yes. And how am I to court you properly? Shall I call on you in the drawing room at a set hour?”

She indicated a chair at the table with the same brusque command
Rosie or Mother would have used. Which was terrifying enough that he sat without protest. “That sounds reasonable. But the most important thing is that you have the blessing of my guardians.”

He grunted and leaned on his hand while she did something over at the darkened counter. “I
am
your guardian.”

“I should think not, or your romantic intentions would be highly questionable.” She turned back to him with a plate in hand and slid it onto the table before him. “You are my host. Your parents are my guardians.”

Butter-slathered bread, cheese, a cluster of grapes. After ship fare, it looked like heaven and smelled even better. “I suppose I ought to be glad you will not insist upon the blessing of your father's brothers or some such.”

“Papa did not send me to them, did he?” She moved behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. “Having not heard his will, I cannot be sure who my legal guardian is now, but he entrusted me to your parents.”

He may have argued that he had entrusted her to
him
, just to tease, but her thumb slid up his neck and then down again, rubbing at the tension stored there. All he could do was swallow his first bite of bread and grasp vainly at coherent thought.