Lady in the Mist - Laurie Alice Eakes [27]
“I’d rather have a family alive than God’s invisible, silent presence,” had been her cold response.
And she’d never set foot inside the church again. It often isolated her. Women who might otherwise be friends with her stopped inviting her to their gatherings. She was unmarried, worked to support herself, and chose solitude in a town where activities centered on the church.
She wanted a life centered on a husband and children, not a church, not a God who had ignored her prayers for her father and mother, for her fiancé and her grandmother. Possibly for herself most of all, burdened as she was with the knowledge that she could surely have prevented her parents’ deaths.
She hadn’t realized that at the time. She hadn’t known her father, never strong, would go seeking birds’ eggs for his students. She could have gone to the patient’s lying-in in her mother’s place.
But she had stayed home with her own occupations both times, and now her house felt too big and quiet with Patience off visiting friends, and Japheth, the man of all outdoor work, presumably doing such, or crabbing. It was a house her great-grandfather Eckles had built for a family, with a kitchen big enough for everyone to gather around the table, two parlors, and four bedrooms above. Her mother and grandmother, though midwives too, had been married and were mothers by Tabitha’s age. She had lost one prospect after another to the sea until Raleigh had vanished altogether.
Now that he had returned, she didn’t know if she wanted to see him. She didn’t trust him not to leave, and seeing him felt too dangerous, too likely to lead to the wish to renew their relationship, their plans.
Being alone was safer. Being alone gave her the freedom to come and go as she needed or pleased. But sometimes the silence grew intense. She spent a great deal of time reading—the heavy tomes her father had loved, the herbals from her mother and grandmother. She practically had them memorized.
How she’d wanted that novel she’d seen in the market. How thoughts of the novel made her think of Dominick Cherrett. He gave her the impression he liked to read too. Mayor Kendall’s study contained books only on politics and money, Adam Smith and Edmund Burke. Dull stuff.
The temptation to lend him her father’s volumes of Shakespeare’s works grew within her. She had thought about getting to know him better, to discover if he was up to no good. She needed to look at his hand to ensure it was healing well.
On Friday, she packed a volume of Shakespeare into her satchel and walked into town. Dominick was just emerging from the laundry with a pile of linens. He glanced up at the creak of the back gate, and his face reddened.
“You find me in the ignominious work of laundress,” he greeted her. “I, apparently, am the only one unoccupied enough to take on the chore.”
“It’s not good for your hand.” She hastened forward and took the wet sheets from his arms. “What was Letty thinking? Sit down. Let me look.”
“If it brings you to fuss over me, I’ll do this more often.” He grinned at her.
She reminded herself he was English to minimize his effect on her. She reminded herself he was a patient. “I’ll help you hang these. Where is everyone?”
“At a farm purchasing the finest of produce and meats for Kendall’s guests.” Dominick held one end of a sheet. “These, apparently, were put away less than dry and smelled too musty for company.”
“But—never you mind that. How is the hand?”
“It started aching the instant I saw you. Surely it needs your tender ministrations.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m pleased it’s healing well.”
And the banter continued, nonsensical, ridiculous, and making the task of hanging the heavy sheets fly by.
When they finished, she examined his hand, pronounced it healing well, then, cheeks warm and eyes downcast, she drew out the Shakespeare volume. “I thought you might enjoy this.”
“Oh, I would.