The Widow Of Pale Harbour. Hester Fox
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and carefree. “Oh?” Instead, it cracked.
“Mmm. You live in a castle on a hill with an old maid for company. You’re rarely, if ever, seen. And it seems you pay no mind to all the stories about you.”
Here she had thought they were sharing a pleasant view and a lighthearted conversation, and all he could think of was the petty gossip of the town. He had said he wanted to start over, yet he still seemed to be fixated on first impressions. Was her judgment with men still really so poor? When he had sat in her parlor with her, she had found it so easy to laugh about the rumors because he had seemed so different from what she had been expecting.
His graveled voice held a note of amusement, but there was nothing amusing about the suffocating life she led. Why had she thought she could share this special place with a stranger? Why had she thought he was different?
Abruptly, she sat up and brushed the dead grass from her skirts. “Indeed,” she said, her words clipped. “I do hope I’ve provided you with more fuel for the gossip mill. If you will excuse me, I promised to help Helen in the garden this afternoon and it looks like rain. Good day, Mr. Stone.”
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