I nod, so distracted by the streaks of amber in his brown eyes that I don’t even manage a protest when he places a tied-up cloth in my hand. He gives me one last long look before returning my nod. Then he’s gone, disappearing out the front doors and into the night as quietly as he had appeared.
Later, when I have returned to the hayloft, I open the smallparcel to find another apple along with several soft biscuits and strips of deer jerky, and I’m unable to keep myself from groaning at the taste when I bite into the fruit. Undeniably my first bit of charity, but that night as I fall asleep still thinking about his eyes instead of my empty stomach, the last thing it feels like is a sin.
I arrive at the back stoop of the boarding house before Mrs. Jensen’s rooster even has a chance to crow. My hair braided and my skin scrubbed as clean as I could manage without catching my death in the cold water of the nearby stream. My teeth are still chattering, the last bits of the biscuits and jerky rattling around in my stomach like my body no longer knows what to do with such a feast.
Still, I do my best to look the part when Mrs. Jensen opens the door, which is why her immediate scowl makes me touch the few small flowers I placed in my hair before inspecting my dress for my mistake. The hem did indeed turn out a little high, but the dress hangs so loosely on me that I had convinced myself no one would really notice.
“Change of plans,” she tells me, seeming put out by having to communicate this to me. “Don’t need you anymore.”
She goes to shut the door, but I quickly jam my foot in the way, wincing at the pain that reverberates through my thin shoes.“Wait, I—”
“I told you, I don’t need you,” she says crossly, purposefully eyeing my intruding foot. “Turned out to only be one guest. I had assumed that he wouldn’t be traveling alone when he requested the whole place, but I suppose if he wants to be a fool with his money I certainly won’t complain.” She shakes her head as if she still might like to. “I’ll have no trouble handling him on my own.”
“Yes, but neither would I,” I offer hastily through the still-stalled door. “If it’s only one guest, I could take care of everything for you. Then you could spend the whole day with your daughter and the new baby. Not just a few hours.”
This makes her pause, but she quickly shrugs off the notion. “You don’t know how things are done. I can’t leave you on your own.”
“I’m a quick learner. And I promise I won’t mess anything up. If I do, you don’t even have to pay me.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s a terrible thing to offer, but desperation tends to have that effect on people. And if she sees that I can be trusted… “I’m only asking for a chance.”
She stares me down, waiting for me to whither under her gaze. When I don’t, she begrudgingly eases the door back open, blessedly allowing the feeling to rush back into my foot. “All right, butonething out of place, and you’re out.”
Once I make it inside, the early morning passes quickly, and though it has been a few months since I spent time in a real home, my mother taught me things in a way that is hard to forget. Even Mrs. Jensen seems begrudgingly impressed with how neatly the linens are pressed, with how the dishes shine, with how efficiently I fry up the salted pork and potatoes for breakfast. Soon enough, she goes from hovering over my shoulder to aimlessly drifting about the house, straightening knickknacks and dusting shelves.
More than once I offer for her to go ahead and leave for herdaughter’s house, but she refuses each time, determined to make her guest feel welcome when he finally emerges from his room. “Wouldn’t be suitable,” she keeps muttering, eyes switching between the parlor clock and the stairs. “Wealthy man like that will want to be greeted by the owner.”
When we finally hear the first steps from upstairs, it is nearly mid-morning, and Mrs. Jensen hurriedly directs me back to the kitchen to warm up breakfast with a frantic wave of her hand before she goes to stand by the dining room table. Observing how she pinches her cheeks for color and smooths down her hair, I automatically do the same after tucking myself out of sight.
Back at the stove, I wonder for a brief moment if this man could be the same one I encountered last night. After all, he’d made a point to tell me to steer clear of his horse. Maybe he takes the same approach for his lodgings. If itishim, what would I say to him? What wouldhesay? I should thank him for the food, but what if he tells Mrs. Jensen about me staying at the stable?
I am about to risk an anxious peek into the room when I hear her guest speak, his voice low and smooth and more…polished than the one I’d heard last night.
“I can assure you everything has been satisfactory. One of the nicest beds I’ve ever had the fortune to fall into, which is why you must forgive me for the late hour.”
No, not the man from the night before, although perhaps equally as unexpected. The longer I eavesdrop on their small talk, the more I can’t help but notice that there is something unusual about the way he speaks.Polishedisn’t the right word for it. His cadence is almost melodic, his accent unlike anything else I have heard this far west. Although I wouldn’t necessarily place him with the gentlemen back east either.
“Well, if you’re sure there is nothing more I can do for you,” I finally hear Mrs. Jensen say as I am making up his plate, hervoice now higher and friendlier than the one she used with me all morning. “I’ll be heading out for a while to see my daughter and new grandson, but my girl is here. You let her know if there’s anything you need.”
I am so busy tamping down my excitement over the fact she referred to me ashergirl I nearly miss his insistence that she is surely not old enough to have a grandson, along with the resultinggigglefrom Mrs. Jensen. I roll my eyes.God, he is laying it on thick, and I wonder why he bothers when I am certain his finances are already plenty charming on his behalf.
“I’ll have your breakfast brought out straight away, sir.” Mrs. Jensen’s voice grows closer. “Enjoy your stay. I’ll be back to check on you this evening.”
Mrs. Jensen rounds the corner into the kitchen, her warm and cheerful façade immediately fading as she speaks to me without bothering to lower her voice. “Remember our bargain.Onething out of place.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reassure her, carefully placing the breakfast plate on a clean tray along with a mug of coffee and a side of fresh bread. “I’ll take care of everything. I do hope you enjoy your visit.” She nods, but she also casts one last critical eye over the food before she leaves through the front door, and it makes me give everything a second look myself before I set off toward the dining room.
When I walk in, I expect to find her guest seated, but instead he’s up and pacing, his left handtap, tap, tappingagainst his leg. I clear my throat gently to get his attention, wondering if I have already misstepped by making him impatient. He turns abruptly at the sound, but the creases in his forehead ease as he takes me in with quick, clever eyes that hold no apparent ill intent. On the contrary, he grins, humming the beginning of a song to himself before murmuring, “She appears.”
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” I smile back, hoping thatit will help convince him to pass compliments of me on to Mrs. Jensen rather than any complaints on my tardiness. “I have your breakfast.”
Since he is looking at me, I take the opportunity to do the same, able to determine at a glance that he is in his late thirties. Similar in age to the man I met last night, but that is where the similarities end.
Everything about this one seemsprecise, from his long tailored suit coat to his short coal-black hair to his neatly trimmed mustache and close shave. All of it makes me think again of the high society men back in Boston, although, as I step closer, the shifting daylight from the windows reveals several thin, pale scars on his face and neck. Rather than diminish his handsomeness, the evidence of an existence that has been lived outside the comfortable confines of dining rooms and parlors only makes him look more striking.
Maybe not so different from the other man after all, then…
I set the plate at the head of the table, but he makes no immediate move to try his food or even to sit. Instead, he keeps his crystalline blue eyes focused on me in a way that feels like he’s expecting something.
“Will there be anything else?” I ask, starting to fidget. “I could see if Mrs. Jensen has a copy of the latest newspaper.”