glad you came, Clara. I can’t think of anyone better.”
How sweet. “Except for the fact that you don’t know me at all. I could be a laze-about.”
“Beauty and wit, too. I think you and I are going to get along just fine.” His hand brushed her cheek. “I will be good to you, I swear it. I’ll build us a place of our own.”
“What?” A place? As in, a house? Had she heard him correctly? And why was the floor spinning? The cabin seemed to tilt at an odd angle. “A place of our own?”
“Yes, I know it’s soon to talk of such things, but we both know why you’re here, Clara.” His gloved finger folded a lock of hair behind her ear, the gentlest of all touches, and he towered over her, pure gentleman and dazzlingly tender. “I’m already sweet on you. I know it in my gut. I just know. We are going to be the happiest married couple in these parts.”
“M-married?” she stuttered. No, surely there was something wrong with her hearing. Perhaps it was the aftereffect of train travel or from choosing to skip the noon meal to save the cost of the food. Any moment now her mind was going to stop sloshing around and settle down to working correctly, and Joseph was going to start making sense to her. “Why would you think that?”
“You’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s a fault of mine.” He took her coat from her; bits of melting snow shook loose and fell to the floor. “I promise to give you all the time you need. If I’m not mistaken, here’s Ma now. I’ll let you two get acquainted while I stable my horse. He shouldn’t be left standing in this weather.”
“No, of course not, but—” The long last look he threw at her felt like stardust’s gentle glaze. She felt a magical warmth surround her, something she could not touch or see but felt all the same. Places in her heart came alive, places she never knew were there before.
Transfixed, she watched the wide-shouldered man hang her coat on a peg by the door and open it to a pleasant, apple-faced woman with her hair piled loose and tall on her head. The two exchanged words; Joseph strode out into the dark. Clara stood as still as an end table in the parlor, her pulse thumping bizarrely. His bold comments rang in her mind. I just might have to marry you. I’ll build us a place of our own. We both know why you’re here, Clara.
“Miss Pennington? Hello, there. I’m Mary Brooks.” The pleasant woman tapped closer, wrapped in a fine cashmere shawl and wearing a tasteful brown velveteen dress. Nothing but kindness and happiness marked her round, pretty face. “I saw Joseph walk past the kitchen window with you in tow. I’m delighted you decided to come a bit early. How lovely to meet you.”
Miss Pennington? Suddenly it all made sense. They were expecting someone else. Someone else had already been hired for the position and, by the sound of things, had some relationship with Joseph. He’d simply mistaken her for Miss Pennington. That was why he behaved far too familiarly. Her ears began to buzz, disappointment settling like a weight in her chest. “Mrs. Brooks, I’m so pleased to meet you, but my name is—”
“That Joseph, putting you in the maid’s quarters. What was he thinking?” Mary Brooks threw out both arms and wrapped Clara in the sweetest, tightest hug she’d ever imagined. A mother’s embrace, welcoming and comforting. “You must come to the main house with us immediately. I’ve had the cook set an extra plate at the table. Your room should be ready in a bit, as we are currently without a second maid. How were your travels? My, you are such a dear thing. As pretty as a picture.”
Overwhelmed, Clara could only search in vain for words. A terrible falling began somewhere in her midsection, and it felt as if it took all her hopes with it. Mary Brooks was not expecting a maid. No, not at all.
“What did you think of my Joseph? Isn’t he a dear?” Mary squeezed Clara’s hands gently, telegraphing both need and joy. The mother’s love sparkling within her was impossible to miss. “I think you two would be perfect together.”
“I’m sorry, but you were expecting a bride for him?” She couldn’t say why she felt desolate, but at least some of the pieces were starting to fit.
“Yes, dear. Of course. Isn’t that what those months of corresponding between the two of us were about?” Mary’s face drew into a perfect visage of concern. “Don’t tell me we are not what you expected, that you’re disappointed in us? I know you are used to many conveniences, Boston is surely a fine city, but I assure you, a remote location like this has much to offer. And there is no finer man anywhere than my son.”
“I’m sure that is all true.” Her voice sounded wooden. All Joseph’s kindness toward her and this woman’s motherly concern would vanish as soon as she said the words. But they must be said. “I am not Miss Pennington. My name is Clara, and I’ve come for the maid’s job, if it’s still open.”
“The maid’s job? I don’t understand, child.”
Her knees wobbled, and beneath her mittens her palms went damp. She refused to let herself wonder what Joseph would think. She refused to acknowledge any feelings toward him at all. This was the moment of truth. The reason she had sold everything she owned to travel far from everything she knew. “Nan Woodrow is my mother. You had been corresponding with her about a position in your home.”
“Yes, of course. Where is she? Did something happen to her?”
“You could say that. My ma isn’t the most reliable of people. I’m afraid she ran off.”
“Ran off? You’ve come all this way, and alone?”
She nodded miserably. What Mrs. Brooks must be thinking! Shame crawled through her, but she firmed her chin. “I assure you I am nothing like my mother. I work hard and I need this job. Please, would you consider hiring me?”
Chapter Three
Joseph swiped the towel one last time across Don Quixote’s withers. “What do you think of Clara?”
The stallion stomped his right hoof and tossed his head.
“That’s what I think, too. Woo-wee.” He patted his horse’s neck. “Looks like there are going to be a few changes around here.”
Don Quixote whinnied low in his throat as if in complete understanding.
“I wonder how things are going up at the house.” He closed the stall gate and pried open the grain barrel. He grabbed the scoop and filled it, pleasantly recalling just how good it had felt to cradle his betrothed against his chest. Mighty fine, indeed. “I bet Ma has Clara warming by the fire and talkin’ her ears off.”
Don Quixote didn’t comment as he dove into his trough and gobbled up his tasty grain. After all, first things first.
“Yep, I bet that’s how it’s going. Clara and Ma are probably fast friends by now.” He hardly remembered tossing the scoop back into the grain barrel and getting the lid down tight. Because every thought in his head centered on Clara—his wife-to-be. Emotion filled his chest, a feeling that was too embarrassing to say out loud. Recalling how she looked with the firelight caressing her skirts and the melted snow in her hair glistening like diamonds made the emotion in his chest double. Was he already in love with the girl?
“See you later, buddy.” He couldn’t remember ever being so eager to get back to the house and it wasn’t because his stomach was grumbling, either. He buttoned
