A Lady in Attendance Page 10

  She waved a hand in the air. “Nonsense. Your mother would like knowing I was keeping things proper.”

  He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Stay if you must.”

  Clara set down the rag and walked over to him. Patting his cheek, she said, “I haven’t seen you this happy in years.”

  A rapping sounded at the door. She was here! Hazel was here at his home.

  “Go get the door, dear,” Clara said when he didn’t move toward the sound. “Don’t leave her waiting. I’ll finish up.”

  Glancing into the hall mirror, he made sure his hair was smooth, then looked once more at his home. It was dated, all of it, but there was nothing he could do about that now. His house had not had a woman’s touch in a long time, not since before his mother’s death. Aside from Clara, a female had not set foot inside in years. Now Hazel was here. Perhaps this moment was not monumental, but it felt pivotal to him.

  She knocked again. He stopped dallying and reached for the doorknob.

  “Let me help you,” he said when he opened the door. She was standing on his porch with a basket of apples in one arm and a little box in the other.

  “Take the apples. The box is for you for later.” Hazel grinned as she stepped over the threshold. He watched her eyes roam across the front room.

  “The box is for me?”

  “It’s a present of sorts.”

  “Hello there.” Clara stepped into the front room, brushing her hands on her apron. “I’m about done in the kitchen, and then it’s all yours for your pie. I took the liberty of starting your piecrust.” She turned her attention to Gilbert. “The food will just have to be taken out and served.”

  “I think I can manage,” Gilbert said. “Thank you for helping.”

  Clara sucked in her bottom lip. “I’ve been wanting to see you with a lovely girl for so long, and she’s just beautiful. Your father and your dear mother, bless their souls, must be smiling down on you.”

  Hazel shot Gilbert a questioning look. He shrugged, well aware that he’d have to explain it to her later.

  When Clara finally snuck off to the back of the house, Gilbert had Hazel all to himself—at least until Ina and Duncan arrived.

  He set the dining room table as he spoke. “Clara has all sorts of ideas in her head, but not because I said anything.”

  “And what does she think?” Hazel asked, already setting to work on the apples.

  He stopped setting the table and looked at her. She was in his kitchen with an apron around her waist. It took very little imagination for him to pretend that this was her kitchen and that they shared this home. If only the image could linger and she did not have to go. “Clara often tells me she worries I’ll live a life of loneliness. She believes you are my remedy. And I suppose in a way you are. This table has not had anyone sitting at it for far too long.”

  “It’s a lovely table.” She smiled. “It’s kind of her to worry over you. And good of her to cook for us. I had worried I would not have time to cut the apples and make the dough. She’s thought of everything.”

  He grinned sheepishly, remembering his promise to cook the meal. “I’d planned to cook myself, but I decided my cooking skills were not suited for the occasion. I wanted Ina and Duncan to have a special night.”

  “It smells like you made a wise decision.” She set the apples aside and rolled the piecrust out. “I only learned to cook a couple years ago and that wasn’t by choice, though I do love it now. This dough looks better than anything I’ve made.”

  “I am guessing you won’t tell me why you were forced into the kitchen, but I’m hoping you will tell me what’s in the box.”

  She pressed the piecrust into the tin. “Open the lid if you’d like.”

  Gilbert didn’t have to be told twice. He picked up the wooden box, unsure what he’d find inside. The box was wooden with three latches along the front holding it tightly closed. He opened each, only to discover a velvet-lined box with an instrument resting on the soft fabric. A flute? He looked at Hazel, hoping to understand.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to play it. I brought it because you shared your painting secret with me. You paint your heart in your brushstrokes, and I play my heart into my music. Or, rather, I did. I haven’t played in a very long time.” She set the crust aside and went back to the apples. “I thought I’d play it tonight.”

  “Will you play it now?” Gilbert asked, holding the delicate instrument in his hand. “Let me hear what your heart sounds like.”

  “I will once this pie is in the oven.” She tossed him an apple. “Come slice with me. If I don’t hurry, I won’t have it in before the others arrive.”

  He had wondered what it would be like to have her in his home. And now here he stood beside her. He felt perfectly at ease, comfortable. More than that, he sensed a growing desire to always have her near. They made quick work of the apples, and not much later the pie was in the oven.

  Brushing her hands on her apron, she sighed. “Thank you for letting me use your stove. I’ve missed baking.”

  “I believe my mother would be pleased. She loved it when this house was filled with the scent of good food.” He rinsed his hands and stepped away. “Now we only have to wait, and then we can eat it. I can hardly wait.”

  “I will play for you. Otherwise, I think you will just sit there with a watering mouth as you wait for your slice of pie.” She took the flute from the box and pieced it together before bringing it to her perfect pink lips.

  Closing his eyes, he listened as the soft music filled the room. His own heart responded to the sound, hurting as she played. It was a sad song, a melody that sounded like weeping. On she played, and he knew she was giving him a precious glimpse into her soul.

  When at last her lips moved away from the flute, the room was silent except for the beating of their two hearts.

  He took a cautious step toward her, and then another, unsure what he would do when he got to her but unable to remain so far away. She took a small step toward him. Was she uncertain too? How they closed the gap, he did not know, but somehow she made her way into his arms. No sensation had ever felt more right than the feel of this tender woman leaning against him. If only he could hold her always. Could they not remain as one, leaning on and supporting each other? He yearned to hold her so long and so gently that never again would she play a sad song.

  The room filled with the fresh scent of warm apple pie as they stood embracing. He dared to lean his cheek against the top of her head, her red hair brushing against his face, tickling his skin, and sending heat racing through his body. Everything about having her near felt good.

  A knock on the door pulled them apart. Reluctantly, they separated to greet the other half of their party.

  Before opening the door, Gilbert took her hand in his own and pressed his lips to her fingertips. “Thank you,” he said, hoping she knew it was for more than the pie. “All of it was a gift like none I’ve ever received. Your music, your heart”—he cleared his throat—“it was beautiful.”

  The hour was late when the party finally ended.

  It had been a night of both laughter and joy, and above all else it had been an escape from the weight of their worries. Hazel had nearly been beside herself with happiness when she saw Ina and Duncan holding hands while she played her flute after dinner. Gilbert complimented her pie and ate nearly a quarter of it himself. When she insisted he’d helped, he gave her all the credit.

  All too soon the evening ended. The group stood and moved toward the door. Oh, how she wished the night could go on forever. That time would stand still and she could sit beside Gilbert and relish the companionship and comfort she felt with him nearby. Duncan offered Ina his arm as they readied to depart.

  “Walk with us?” Ina said to Hazel. “I hate to think of you walking alone in the night.”

  “I’ve already asked if I could escort her home,” Gilbert said before Hazel could speak. When their eyes met, he winked at her, sending a flurry of
excitement through her. The night was not over. Soon she’d be on his arm, which was exactly where she wanted to be.

  “We won’t be far behind you. I insisted I help clean up, and then we’ll set out,” she said, willingly joining the conspiracy.

  “Very well. Thank you for a lovely evening,” Ina said from beside Duncan. They stepped over the threshold and onto the street, leaving Gilbert and Hazel.

  “I thought they could use some more time together,” Gilbert offered as an explanation once they closed the door. He went to the table and gathered an armful of dishes. “I think we did well tonight. It wouldn’t surprise me if they get their happily ever after before long.”

  “I wasn’t sure I believed in fairy tales, but I think you may be right.” While Hazel helped clear the table, they talked amiably about the night. She started washing, but he came up behind her and put his hand over hers. “I insist you leave these. Let me walk you home before it gets any later.”

  “I hate leaving them for you.”

  “I don’t mind.” He kept his hand over hers. “I promised Clara I’d let her know when we were done. I’m sure she’s asleep in her favorite rocker. Let me wake her, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Moments later they were arm in arm, walking the streets toward the boardinghouse and talking about everything and nothing as they went. She wondered if her prattling bothered him, but he seemed engrossed in their meandering conversation. The warm night allowed them to go slowly and enjoy the end of a perfect evening.

  “What is your favorite book? The one you love more than any other?” she asked.

  “I’ve never ranked things in order like you do. Let me think.”

  “You don’t have one you just know you love?”

  “Do you?” he asked.

  “Of course. Whenever I’m feeling any pity for myself, I read Jane Eyre. Her life is full of trials, yet she’s persistently moral and relentlessly determined. She may be an odd hero, but I long to be like her. Now tell me yours.”

  “When I was small, my mother read to us every night. I remember sitting beside her as she read, wishing I could step into the images. That is my favorite.”

  “I like your memory,” she said. “I think Clara was right.”

  “About what?”

  “That your father and mother are proud of you.” She stopped and pointed. “That’s the tree the apples are from. Do you have a favorite type of pie?”

  He laughed aloud. “Another favorite. After this evening, I’d have to say that apple is my favorite. Let me ask you one.”

  “Very well.” She waited.

  “What is your favorite time of day?”

  “That’s easy. I love the morning when the sun is just coming up, but I do also love the afternoon when the sun is warm. But I think I’ll still pick morning. You?”

  “Strolling in the evening with you.” His voice was soft, almost lost in the night air. This talk of moonlit walks crossed a line, and she knew it. She should run from it all, but she could not. “And the mornings when you come through the office door with a smile on your face,” he whispered as they rounded the corner near the boardinghouse. “And the afternoons when you come in from your walk.”

  “I see.” She swallowed and fought to keep her voice steady. “You love the morning, the afternoon, and the evening.”

  “It’s hard to choose a favorite.”

  “This evening was one of the finest ones I’ve ever spent.” What a beautiful reprieve it had been. The boardinghouse loomed, reminding her that it was coming to an end. “Thank you for it, and for walking me home.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. “It was a night I will always remember.”

  “I’m glad I got to make my apple pie,” Hazel said, trying to keep the conversation from ending. If only she could slow down this night, stretch it out, and make it big enough that she could climb inside it and never leave. For one magical night, the world made sense. When she stepped away from Gilbert, she feared it would all become chaos and worries again.

  He looked at the luminous moon in the sky and said, “I suppose I better get you home.”

  Mrs. Northly was at the door when the pair stepped onto the porch.

  “Say goodbye to her at the door. We don’t allow callers inside, except in the parlor if they’ve made arrangements ahead of time and there is a proper chaperone.”

  Hazel released Gilbert’s arm. “Mrs. Northly, I’d like you to meet Doctor Gilbert Watts. Gilbert, this is Mrs. Northly. She owns the boardinghouse.”

  “You the man who kept Hazel out all night a while back?” Mrs. Northly interrogated.

  “No, I wasn’t out with her,” Gilbert answered, giving Hazel a sideways glance.

  Heat ran up her neck and into her cheeks. With Mrs. Northly watching, she turned to Gilbert and said, “Thank you for seeing me safely home.”

  “I’ll be by in the morning for you so we can paint.” Gilbert’s voice had lost its easy tone and once again seemed slow to come.

  “Two outings in a row,” Mrs. Northly said, interjecting herself into the conversation. “And you work together. Remember what I said about only housing wholesome women.”

  Hazel let out a gasp. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Mrs. Northly, I am a grown woman who is well aware of the ways of men. Doctor Watts is honorable. You needn’t worry.”

  “Perhaps it’s not the doctor I’m worried about.” Mrs. Northly’s voice was terse. “Go inside.”

  Hazel obeyed. At first, anger was the only sentiment she felt, but then guilt joined it, reminding her that there was truth, at least some, in Mrs. Northly’s appraisal of her character. Soon her heart ached and her head throbbed. All this was a lie, and an innocent man was involved—a good man who deserved to live a life free of lies. How did one escape the bonds of dishonesty? She wrestled for an answer, searching for one that would not put a wedge between her and the man she was coming to care so deeply for. In the end, the only way to counter lies was with the truth. For Gilbert, she would confess it all.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Tired eyes greeted Hazel when she looked in the mirror the next morning. Sighing, she pulled her hair up and neatly pinned it in place.

  “Why the long face?” Ina asked from the doorway.

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “I didn’t either. I was dreaming of Duncan. When we walked home last night, he held my hand and told me about his daughter. Her name is Amy. Don’t you think it’s a perfectly charming name?”

  Hazel pressed her palm to her pounding head, attempting to find relief but getting none. “I do think it’s a charming name. Are you going to see him again?”

  “He asked to take me to church on Sunday and invited me to meet his daughter afterward. I’m going to go out today and find a gift to take her. I’d ask you to join me, but I know you will be with Gilbert.”

  During her sleepless night, Hazel had resolved to confess her past to Gilbert, knowing it was only fair to let the man judge her character for himself. Since she’d reached her conclusion, a nauseous feeling had settled in the pit of her stomach. It was right to tell, she knew it was, yet she wished it were not so.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I might be back before you’ve found the perfect gift.” Hazel stood to leave, only to stop and put a hand on Ina’s arm. “Be glad you have no past, that there was no one before. All the lonely years will be worth it. You can have your Duncan.”

  “He is not my Duncan.”

  “I saw the way he looked at you. I am no predictor of the future, but I believe you will get more than a small taste of romance.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “Gil says Duncan is the best sort of man.”

  “I believe he is,” Ina said. “And it’s all so much sweeter knowing you have someone too.”

  “I have no one. Not really. I’ll be back later.”

  Hazel and Gilbert walked up the small hill in relative silence. He whistled in a carefree way, and she grew
increasingly more ill at ease with each note of his cheery song. On the crest of the hill, he pulled out his painting supplies and set up his easel, then he laid a blanket on the ground. “Sit by me?”

  She settled herself beside him despite her restlessness. Stalling, she asked, “Was this your mother’s quilt?”

  “I don’t know. My mother died before I ever thought to ask.” He turned toward her and reached for her hand. His hand, large and strong, felt warm and comforting. She should pull away, refuse his touch, but she bit her lip instead and allowed one more moment of closeness. “I can’t say for certain, but I believe it was the loss of my mother and later my father that caused me to fear getting close to people.” He ran his thumb along the ridge of her knuckles, a gesture that, on a different day, would have had her heart swooning. But on this day, it made a lump of sadness swell inside her. “I grew accustomed to the quiet and then you came, and suddenly everything changed. You’ve given me reason to hope for something more for my future.”

  “Oh, Gil.” She pulled her hand away. “Don’t say those things to me.”

  “Have I read you wrong?” he asked, but she would not look at him. He straightened his back and reverted to his businesslike manner. “I’m sorry. I thought you felt something.”

  In a small voice, she said, “It’s not that. If I had a different past, I’d tell you my heart was warming to the idea of a future with you, but as it is . . .”

  Her voice failed her. Instead, she focused on breathing, in and out, in and out.

  “Tell me what it is that holds you back. Help me understand, please.” He scooted closer, urgency written across his face. “And after today, I’ll never speak of it again. If that’s what you want.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder, such a gentle touch—one that begged her to melt into it.

  “Please.”

  She raised her head and watched as a brilliant red leaf dropped from the nearest tree and sailed slowly through the air to the ground. Its path was not its own. It soared at the mercy of the wind until it settled on the ground to wait for the rain and hail to beat upon it.