She picked up one of the quilts on the bed. Lovely, it was, with a mermaid and a sapphire sea. Now that she felt better, she wanted to explore. She wanted to make certain she and her baby were really and truly safe at last. But she couldn’t very well go about in a flannel nightgown. Perhaps there was a dress or robe somewhere.
In the tall cupboard, she found a few bits of linen and gingham and cotton muslin. Some pieces had been cut but not stitched, as if the dressmaker had gotten interrupted long ago. Beneath the dry goods, she found a pile of inexpressibles—as Mum would call them—creased sharply along folds that clearly had been undisturbed for years. She selected a pair of sheer bloomers. Swiss dimity, they were, more dear than a season’s catch of herring.
She burrowed deeper into the cupboard, and way at the back, she found a dress hanging on a hook. She let out a long, heartfelt sigh. How fine it was, a sprigged muslin of rich green and gold, with leg-of-mutton sleeves puffed at the shoulder and tapered down the arms. A beautiful, wide sash was looped around the waist. Behind the dress hung a long white shift. More Swiss dimity.
Was he married? Whose clothes were these?
The garments weren’t new, and judging by what she’d seen in San Francisco, the gown was quite out of fashion, too full in the skirts for current style. But the fabric smelled of lavender sachets, and she felt better having real clothing on. It hurt her shoulder to reach for the buttons in the back, so she simply tied the sash. She didn’t have much in the way of a waistline these days, but the dress, cut to accommodate an outmoded crinoline, fit reasonably around her middle.
Putting a hand to her hair, she scowled at the feel of the tangled mess and went in search of a brush. This she found in another part of the house, the gentleman’s tiny dressing room adjacent to his chamber on the upper story. The smell of shaving soap spiced the air. She peeked into the bedroom at the massive bedstead. Though the headboard was intricately carved, only a single meager-looking pillow was visible. A blanket of rough olive-colored wool, frayed at the edges, draped the mattress. There was no coverlet.
A little thrill of apprehension chased down her back as she pictured the man with the wintry eyes who had taken her photograph. This was where he lived. Where he slept. Where he dreamed his dreams.
She knew nothing about him except that he had saved her life. That was enough for her to believe she was safe with him.
Except for the photograph.
Her brush strokes became agitated. She must remember to tell him that circulating a photograph was absolutely forbidden. Fear, which had been her constant companion since she’d made her escape, crept like a spider along her spine. She had to decide how much to tell her host, but she would make up her mind about that later. It would probably be wise to lie.
By standing on tiptoe, she could see herself in a small, round shaving mirror affixed to the wall above the washstand. She looked like death eating a soda biscuit, as Mum would say. But she was alive, sweet Jesus, she was alive, and the baby was alive, and she wanted to crow with the sheer wonder of the miracle.
The ecstasy of feeling safe, safe at last.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” demanded a gruff voice.
She whirled too quickly, and for a moment, she saw stars. They swirled like a halo around the head of her dark angel. He stood at the top of the stairway, one huge hand resting on the newel.
When she saw the menace in his face, the fear came roaring back at her, and a thousand times she called herself a fool for thinking she could ever be safe.
“Well?” he said.
Ah, that voice. Like the bellow of a windstorm, it was.
But she had weathered a greater tempest and lived to tell the tale, so she squared her shoulders and blinked until the stars flickered and died. This was the man who had saved her. Why would he harm her now, after giving back her life?
“I was brushing my hair,” she said.
Carefully, deliberately, she set the brush on the shelf where she had found it and stepped out of the cramped dressing room. She walked past him and descended the stairs.
He followed her and stood in the middle of the keeping room, right where an oval rug would have added a perfect touch of warmth. But there was no warmth here.
The man seemed to fill the entire space, so tall and broad was he. He glared at her, his eyes blue flames behind a layer of ice. “Where the hell did you get that dress?”
She touched the gown, lifting the skirt a few inches and admiring the fine print on the green and gold fabric. “Why, you left it in my room, so I supposed it was meant—”
“I didn’t leave it,” he said. “No one left it.”
Though he hadn’t raised his voice, she could feel his rage crackling like a brush of heat lightning in the air. What had sparked his fury? Wasn’t he pleased with her recovery?
In the past weeks, she had grown adept at hiding her fear. She faced him squarely. “I helped myself to a few things from the tall cupboard.”
A red curl fell across her face, and she tucked it out of the way. “You wouldn’t be needing the gown for anything, would you?” Her hand went to her throat as an unsettling thought struck her. “Blessed saints. Would these be belonging to your wife, then?”
The icebound flames in his eyes seemed to burn colder. Every inch of this man radiated a threatening strength. The sheer contempt in his face should have alarmed her, but instead, she looked at him and felt curiosity edging out her fear.
“I don’t have a wife,” he said.
A simple enough statement, but she sensed turbulence beneath the rocklike surface. What would she find deep inside this man, if she dared to peel back the layers?
“Then who do these clothes belong to?” she asked.
“No one,” he replied. “Not anymore.”
The tone of his voice made her wary of pursuing the issue. She simply stood there, showing no response save polite expectancy.
He put both hands to his head and combed them through his long hair. “You’d better sit down.” Ungraciously, he added, “I don’t want you having another fainting spell on me.”
She lowered herself to a wooden settle that faced the small fireplace. The fieldstone hearth had been swept clean. Not a speck of ash touched her bare feet as she swung them against the planks of the floor. “Faith, I don’t plan to swoon again. It was the hunger, I suspect. I helped myself to something to eat.”
“I noticed.”
Guiltily, she glanced through the open doorway to the kitchen. The apple jar was gone. The milk pitcher had been washed and put up, the biscuit crumbs cleared from the table. Hoping to improve his mood, she smiled. “Those were the most delicious apples I ever tasted.”
He sat on a stool across from her. His face might have been carved in marble, so expressionless did he hold himself. “It’s from last year’s harvest. There’re a few apple trees at the station.”
What a strange man he was, calling his home “the station.”
She took a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell—”
“—something I need to ask—” He broke off.
They stared at each other for an awkward moment. She laughed. “We both spoke at once.”
“I need to know your name,” he said, not only unamused but looking baffled by her laughter. “So we can set about contacting your family.”
Mirth