The Widow Of Pale Harbour. Hester Fox
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and went as he pleased, beholden to no one and nothing. An acute pang of envy ran through her.
The breeze was picking up, the sky darkening, and she began to wish she had brought a cloak after all. To change the subject, she asked, “And what brings you here? Gathering inspiration for a sermon?”
He reached into his pocket and held up a notebook, the pages blank. “Something like that.” Although he didn’t smile, there was just a hint of chagrin in his hazel eyes. “I thought a walk might get the words flowing.”
Should she warn him that he might write the most illuminating sermon and it would only fall on indifferent ears? The people of Pale Harbor were not exactly keen for outsiders to come to try to enlighten them. When Mrs. Whittier had come from Rochester and tried to start an abolitionist society, there had been such an uproar that she had been forced to abandon her plans and had eventually left town. The townspeople might fill the pews and listen with upturned faces, but their hearts and minds would not bend from the prejudices that shaped them. Sophronia hadn’t the heart to dash the minister’s naive hopes, though, and so she bit her tongue.
Pocketing the notebook, he gave a shrug, as if the sermon and the inspiration for it were suddenly unimportant. “And what brings you out here?”
“I was craving some fresh air,” she said, omitting the reason for it.
It would be so easy to let her guard down with a man like this. A man who looked at her with eyes as warm as cinnamon, a man who did not judge her or ask anything of her. But neither did he want to offer her anything, as it was becoming clear. He did not wish to engage with her about his church, and he certainly did not seem interested in sharing his thoughts.
“Well, I don’t want to frighten away any inspiration,” she finally said, turning to leave. She would go and calm her racing mind, seek her solitude elsewhere, and leave him to the privacy he so clearly craved.
“Wait.” His hand shot out and he caught her by the elbow. She froze.
“Please,” he said without removing his hand, “don’t leave on my account. I trespassed on your property. I should be the one to go.”
His hand was big and his grip strong, his fingers encircling her arm like a manacle. Panic sluiced through her, and suddenly it was Nathaniel clamping his hand around her in his bruising grip, berating her as if she were a contrary child. She let out an involuntary gasp, wrenching her arm away from him as hard as she could.
At her cry, he released her, dropping her arm like a hot coal. He took a hasty step back. Through her receding panic, she saw the alarm on his face.
Safe. Safe. You are Safe. Just breathe.
She hadn’t bothered with a corset today, and she was glad of it as she gulped down the cool, salty air like a tonic. “I...you’ll have to excuse me,” she said with a shaky laugh. But when she nervously looked up at him, there was no sign of humor or understanding in his expression, only intense scrutiny.
“No excuse necessary,” he said, his graveled voice dropping to a soft murmur. “I shouldn’t have taken the liberty.”
She bit her lip, burning under his level gaze.
“Would...would it be possible, do you think, for us to start over?” She didn’t want to be the woman whom he’d heard rumors about, nor the woman who had flown into a panic at an innocent gesture of goodwill. Most of all, she didn’t want to be pitied.
For a moment, it seemed like he would not answer. He dipped his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. When he looked up again and met her gaze, his face broke into a dazzling grin. It was glorious, lighting up his whole face and flooding her stomach with warmth. “God, yes.”
A weight lifted from her shoulders. His smile was infectious, and she found herself grinning back at him.
He stuck out his hand. “Gabriel Stone,” he said. “And you must be Mrs. Carver.”
With only a second of hesitation, she put her hand in his and shook it. This time, she did not shrink back from his touch, instead letting the warm strength of his grip envelope her. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Stone.”
It seemed silly to cling to such formal conventions when they were surrounded only by grass and open skies, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to call her by her given name. But oh, Lord, what would it look like spoken on those sensual lips of his?
“When I come up here I like to sit.” She pointed to a little depression in the ground that acted as a natural windbreak. “Will you join me?”
He followed her as she lowered herself to the grass, arranging her skirt and petticoats around her. In a surprisingly fluid motion, he sat down beside her, stretching out his long legs in front of him. How much more at home he seemed out here, what an easy grace he possessed when not confined by parlor walls and social orders. She envied him his ease. Where tea and polite conversation might be confining to him, to her they provided a scaffold of safety, a framework where expectations were clearly delineated. She knew where she stood, and she was Safe. But out here there were no rules, no expectations. It was both intoxicating and terrifying.
Reclining, they rested their heads on the natural pillow the earth provided and stared out over the choppy harbor. Gulls wheeled and cried, sending up the alarm for the coming rain. The familiar tableau was reassuring, but the vastness of it made room in her mind for all the bad thoughts to bubble up again.
“Someone left candles burning on my front path,” she blurted without taking her gaze from the diving gulls.
She heard his head turn on the brittle grass and felt his gaze on her. “Oh?”
Her cheeks flushed hot. Why was she telling him this? How did she know she could trust him? She had trouble reconciling this man as the minister he claimed to be, not when he seemed so unwilling to discuss his church or his philosophies. Sophronia did not trust easily, and there was something about the minister, no matter how ruggedly attractive he was, that didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t ministers be in the business of proselytizing? Shouldn’t he at the very least wish to discuss his views and ideas? He was proving a pleasant companion, but that did not make him her friend, her confidant.
She feigned casualness. “I suppose it was some mischief by local children.” She didn’t tell him about the accompanying note.
He took in a breath, as if he were about to say something else. But nothing came, and they lapsed back into silence.
She was just about to try asking him about the church again when he spoke.
“I’ve hired your friend, Fanny Gibbs.”
Sophronia pushed herself upright and looked at him, unable to keep from smiling. “You did! Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.”
He squinted one eye open and looked up at her. “You aren’t worried I’ve stolen her away from you?”
“Worried? Goodness, no. The girl is a treasure and I know she needs the work, though she won’t let me give her a dime of charity. Has she made you one of her sweet cheese buns yet?”
His lips curved up in the hint of a smile as he reached into his pocket. “Fresh from the oven this morning. Shall we?”
She’d left in such a fluster, she’d forgotten that she hadn’t eaten a bite of the meal Helen had prepared, and her stomach grumbled an unhappy reminder.
Breaking off a piece, he handed it to her and she inhaled the warm aroma of yeast and sweet cheese. It melted in her mouth, and she closed her eyes, savoring it.
When she opened her eyes again, he was regarding her with naked curiosity. “Yes?”
He hesitated. “It’s nothing.”
She expected that he wanted to ask her something about Fanny, something innocuous about where she had found such a treasure of a girl. “Oh, go on,” she said with good humor. “I can see the question practically tripping off your lips.”