to the purity of the individual. With transcendentalism, there was no need for society, and that suited her just fine.
She waited for him to elaborate, but nothing more came. She gave him an encouraging smile. “Well, I think it’s splendid. You must know Emerson, of course. I absolutely loved his first series of essays, and am anxious to get my hands on his second series. I devour everything I can from the leading minds on transcendentalism.”
“Emerson? Oh, yes.” He knotted his fingers together, not meeting her eye. “He’s very good.”
Sophronia frowned. He had not looked like she was expecting him to, and now it seemed that he would not converse easily on the subjects to which she had so looked forward. She tried again.
“I’d be curious to know what you think of his concept of the oversoul.” The essay explored the fascinating idea of the human soul and its relationship to other souls and how every person, alive and gone before, was connected. It was unlike anything Sophronia had ever read. “I found the theories intriguing and very much wanted to believe that Emerson’s beautiful prose held the truth, but it was difficult to do so when he gives us only anecdotes and stories. Perhaps, as a spiritual man, you need no such proof, but surely the purpose of an essay is to persuade?”
The minister looked like a fish out of water; he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Just as Sophronia was about to repeat herself, Helen appeared with the tea, and whatever he had been about to say was forgotten.
“Thank you, Helen,” Sophronia said as she set the tray down. “You’re a treasure.”
“It’s nothing,” Helen said brusquely, but there was a faint glow of pride in her eyes. “Will there be anything else?”
“That will be all, thank you.”
The minister didn’t say anything as she poured out two cups of tea, just absently rolled some of the linen that Helen had brought around the cut on his palm. She hazarded a glance at him, and wondered what she looked like to him, with her scar, silver and smooth from time, tracing a path from her temple down to her jaw. Did he see a poised, well-spoken woman of means? Or was he able to see beneath her mask, to the scared, haunted ghost of a woman underneath?
When she looked up, she realized she had not been the only one studying the other. He had been staring at her hands as she prepared the tea. He cleared his throat, as if aware he had been caught, and took the china cup from her. He nodded to the paintings on the wall behind her. “You’re a collector,” he said.
She craned her head around and followed his gaze. Turning back, she gave him a shy smile. “Oh, yes. Are you an admirer of art?”
He nodded. Standing, he moved carefully to the wall. Sophronia knew her collection was exquisite, rivaling some of the best in places like the Athenaeum in Boston. But whereas the walls there were covered in somber portraits and classical allegories, her collection skewed toward the wild, with lots of rugged landscapes and people who were no more than tiny smudges against the grandeur of nature.
He must have been so lost in a world of turbulent waterfalls and sun-soaked valleys that he hadn’t turned when she stood to join him. Her sleeve brushed against his wrist as she pointed to a large watercolor in an elaborate gilt frame. “That’s a Turner,” she said, unable to keep the pride from her voice.
“It’s...beautiful,” he murmured.
It really was. A tempest of black waves swirled about an achingly fragile ship, shafts of light fighting to break through the cocoon of dark clouds. The painting was alive, full of movement, yet somehow peaceful; the ship was just one element of the storm, one little drama among the greater backdrop of nature. It was her favorite piece.
They moved along the wall as she pointed out some of her finer pieces, transfixed by the animation in his eyes as she discussed the merits of each.
He stopped in front of a small-framed article, illustrated with a lithograph, and nodded toward it. “Was your husband a writer?”
Pressing her lips together, she paused before answering. Why were men always so quick to attribute accomplishments to other men? “He owned a magazine,” she said. “That was Nathaniel’s one great kindness—he left me his magazine when he died. This was the front page from the first printing I oversaw as owner and submissions editor.”
He peered closer at the yellowed paper under glass and looked up at her in surprise. “What, you own Carver’s Monthly?”
“The one and only.”
He gave a long, low whistle and rocked back on his heels. “Damn.”
She raised a brow at the unexpected profanity, and he immediately colored. “Sorry. Only that I used to read it every week.”
“Then you have exceedingly good taste,” she said with a broad smile, finding herself unable to take offense. “It’s funny how for all their distrust of me, as soon as the townspeople think I can help them with something, they’re more than happy to put aside their prejudice and knock on my door. Just last month, Jasper Gibbs came to me with a volume of stories he had written, asking me to publish them in the magazine.”
“And did you?”
“Goodness, no. They were awful.”
Sun was coming through the windows in a low, hazy slant. They sat back down as the clock in the corner struck three. He’d been in her parlor for almost an hour, and though he was quiet, he was a good listener and she found herself wishing he would stay for hours more.
But before she knew it, he was rising to his feet and setting aside the tea, which he had hardly touched. “I’m afraid I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough.”
“You did no such thing,” she said, trying not to let her disappointment show. “As you can imagine, visitors are few and far between, and I always welcome good conversation.”
Her hand paused on the doorknob before she released him out into the chill evening. “Do come again, Reverend. I believe we have much more to discuss.”
Gabriel emerged from the house in a haze. Nothing was as it seemed. Dark, abandoned churches in the middle of a roof-shaking thunderstorm didn’t scare him, but the erudite widow thinking him simple horrified him. Damn, but he had made a fool of himself when he had sat in her dead husband’s chair. Of course she wouldn’t want a hulking man like him breaking a beloved relic. She had seen right through him, he was sure of it, saw his charade, his roughness, his deficiencies. It was as if she could read every piece of ugly gossip in the town printed on his face.
There had been something comforting and cozy about the room, not to mention the enigmatic woman who had sat across from him, her silver eyes trained on him as if he were the most interesting person in the world, her smile as warm and honey-mellow as the late-afternoon light. And those hands, those lovely hands. He could no more imagine them taking the life of a man than he could them snapping the necks of birds and building a macabre altar in an abandoned church. He felt a sudden rush of guilt for even entertaining the idea that she could have been responsible for such a thing.
The sun was sinking fast, and the cold air roused him from his reveries. He looked up to find the
