“You’ve stepped out of the room.” His voice was high and bright, as if her doing so was worthy of the newspaper’s front page.
Though perhaps he was simply excited about what that meant about Scott.
“Yes, I have. Scott seems to have come through the worst, and Mr. Hargrove is in there with a book. He said he left me breakfast.”
Mr. Kingsman stood staring at her with that big grin of his widening across his face.
Did he find something amusing? She forced her hands to stay still despite wanting to feel if there was some lock of hair out of place or something sticking to her face. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course.” He scooted to the side of the hallway to let her pass. “I’ll just go in and see if Scott needs anything, then I can come back and dish you up a plate.”
“I can manage . . .” But he’d already disappeared into the room.
She went to the kitchen sink and washed up as well as she could without casting aside her clothing for something fresh and then quickly used the shiny teakettle to take a peek at her hair. She looked unkempt but not awful. Now if only she could find an actual mirror to be certain.
Mr. Hargrove’s thumping cane and dragging feet grew louder, right before he showed up in the doorway. “Forgot my coffee.”
“Here, let me get it.” She snatched up the mug he seemed to favor. “Thank you so much for opening your home to us. Hopefully it won’t be much longer before we can leave. He seems on the mend, thankfully.”
“No rush. I’m glad my home is of more use than usual.” He thumped forward a few more steps, grabbed hold of a kitchen chair’s back, and leaned heavily upon it. “I suppose the boy’s going to the orphanage with you once the doctor clears him?”
“Yes.”
“How many children live there now?”
“He’ll make ten.” She topped off his mug.
“That’ll be a lot for you to handle once your parents retire.”
“Yes, but their retirement is quite a ways away. And who knows how many we’ll have then.”
“Perhaps several months feels like a long way off to a youngster like yourself, but it’ll be here before you know it.”
Carefully, so as not to scald herself, she stopped pouring her coffee but still managed to spill some on the counter. She looked around for a dishrag. “They told you they’re retiring?” Maybe he was only assuming.
“Last time your father came over for chess, he mentioned they’d be leaving next summer. It’s been a while since he visited. His leg keeping him down?”
“It bothers him more every day, it seems.” Evidently more than he’d let on.
“He still refusing to get himself a cane?”
She nodded and finished pouring her coffee, careful not to spill any more.
“Maybe I should get him one for his birthday.”
“I’m not sure he’ll ever use one, no matter how ridiculous he might look hobbling about.” She brought over his mug and sank into the nearest chair, staring at the little bubbles atop her coffee.
He didn’t pick up his mug and walk away, and she couldn’t think of anything to say to fill up the silence. Hopefully he’d leave before he noticed how difficult it was to keep her jaw from quivering.
“Did they not tell you?”
She managed to give him a quick shake of her head but didn’t dare look up at him.
He sighed and shifted his weight. “I’m sorry. I assumed they discussed their plans with you.”
Why hadn’t they? Did they have some plan to help her stay there? Were they working with Nicholas to find replacements before mentioning it to her? “They know how much I want to stay at the orphanage, and . . . if they’re not there to help . . .” She swallowed in hopes of continuing to talk without letting too much emotion bubble out. “Perhaps I won’t be staying much longer.”
She wrapped her hands around her mug, absorbing the heat, to focus on something besides the way her insides jittered. “Did Daddy tell you who they expected would run the orphanage after they left?” Her voice warbled, so she took a sip of coffee. Too strong. She took another drink anyway.
After a minute of silence, she stopped pretending she liked the coffee and looked up into Mr. Hargrove’s pale green eyes.
“I’m sorry you heard it from me.” He stroked his beard. “I assumed Walter was excited about getting to retire because you’d finally found a man you might be interested in. I expected to hear of an engagement before the year was up. I suppose that’s not the case?”
“No,” she whispered. She went back to staring at her coffee. Just yesterday she’d felt sorry David’s relationship with his father wasn’t as good as hers was with her own. She’d thought her relationship with her parents was good, but if they’d kept something like this from her, maybe she’d been completely wrong.
“Perhaps they thought you were ready to move on to something else?”
“No, this is all I want to do. They know that. They also know I can’t do it alone.”
Mr. Hargrove stood still for several ticks of the clock, switching his weight from his bad leg to his good. He clearly needed to get off his feet, so why didn’t he leave her to sniffle in peace? He clomped a step closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “There are several good men around here, you know. Some who might even help you in the very trenches you’ve dedicated yourself to.”
Ah, so he was going to try to fix her life by matchmaking. She’d rather enjoyed his company over the years because he’d never once attempted it. “No, I’m certain no man is willing to live with me. I mean, not with what I’ve chosen to do with my life.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
She shrugged and kept her focus on the mug in her hands. If she stayed quiet, maybe he’d return to Scott before any tears splashed into her coffee.
Mr. Kingsman’s confident footsteps thumped through the kitchen as he headed for the sink to wash up after attending Scott. “I see you found the coffee.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She needed cream to make it tolerable, but she didn’t trust her voice to ask for any.
Mr. Hargrove picked up his mug but didn’t walk away.
She nearly squirmed in her seat as she resisted looking at him again. But she finally gave in.
His eyes were so soft—it was as if he were looking at one of his own daughters. “They love you. Don’t fret too much.”
She nodded, more to let him know he could leave and return to Scott than to promise not to worry.
David brought the coffeepot over and refilled her mug to the brim, leaving no room for cream. Probably for the best. If she drank any more, she might not be able to take a nap while Mr. Hargrove read to Scott. And right now, sleeping might be the only way to settle the panic swirling inside her.
David crossed over to the stove and lit the gas burners, then clanked through the pans piled on the counter. “Seems Scott’s over the worst of it. So you’ll get some rest now,” he said, more as a command than a question.
Usually such a tone would make her want to do the opposite, but not today. “I hope so.” Though what chance was there of turning off her brain enough to sleep?
“Good—you deserve a break. Scott’s mother couldn’t have been more devoted to his well-being than you’ve been. He told me he’s going to live with you at the mansion. Once the feverish fog leaves him and the reality that he lost his mother kicks in . . . Well, I’m glad he’s got you to see him through.”
Scott.
She wouldn’t be at the mansion for very long now. Within the year, she’d likely have to abandon Scott to whoever took over the orphanage.
For some reason, she didn’t think he’d be comforted by the thought that she’d visit when she could.
She folded her arms on the tabletop and buried her head in the crook of her elbow to keep David from seeing her hold back tears.
14
Evelyn pressed her head farther into her arms on the table, trying to breathe slowly and evenly. Thankfully
the clanging of pots while David cooked drowned out the sound of her failed attempts to keep her sniffling at bay.
Realizing her parents had kept a secret that could possibly destroy her future was devastating, of course, but losing a day of sleep was surely the reason she was having difficulty keeping a grip on herself.
The smell of sizzling bacon made her stomach growl. She should head to the spare room and sleep off the emotions, but her stomach might start a civil war if she did. She peeked above her arm just enough to make sure David’s back was turned before she fished out her handkerchief and patted her eyes.
Mr. Hargrove had told her she shouldn’t worry, and maybe she shouldn’t. Surely her parents knew how much working at the orphanage meant to her and wouldn’t leave before formulating a plan to help her stay. Surely they weren’t going to try to push her toward a man, hoping she’d get engaged, as Mr. Hargrove had assumed.
Oh, her stomach just wasn’t going to be able to digest food along with the worry churning in there. Since it would be days before she could see her parents, she should just stop thinking about it. Find a distraction, something to read.
She looked around the kitchen, but there was only a leather-bound notepad in the middle of the table that she couldn’t imagine belonging to Mr. Hargrove. A page near the top was poking out a bit, and on it was what looked like . . . a curtain? “Do you draw?”
“A little.” David quickly crossed the room and tapped the page back inside. His hand then pressed down on the notepad as if it might run away.
“I suppose you won’t let me see?”
For a few moments, he just stood staring at her, as if weighing whether or not she was worthy, making her want to see it all the more.
He sat, pulled the notebook closer, then carefully flipped through the page edges as if he might accidentally show her top-secret information. He finally slid out the drawing she’d glimpsed.
Without comment, he pushed it toward her, then left his seat as if it had suddenly gotten hot. He went to the stove and flipped bacon.
She turned the drawing around. “Why, it’s Mr. Hargrove.” The background was barely sketched in behind him—a few lines for the window casing, the wisp of the curtain she’d seen—but the focus of the simple pencil drawing was on Mr. Hargrove’s eyes. There was something slightly off with his bearded jawline and the forehead, but only people who knew Mr. Hargrove well would likely notice. But the emotion David had captured, the wistfulness that oozed from the portrait, was nearly palpable. “This is really well done.”
“Just don’t say that about my steaks.” He turned around to shake his spatula at her. “Medium well is as done as they should get.”
She rolled her eyes at his silly joke, but that only made him smile wider.
David’s eyes. Now that sparkle would be something to capture in a portrait.
Of course, the color of his irises was gorgeous—she’d seen that the first day. The deep blue that masqueraded as purple when the light hit them just right—that certainly couldn’t be shown in a pencil sketch. And the light that always seemed to twinkle in them would be hard to capture as well—a sparkle she doubted danced in her eyes much at all. How many times had Daddy chucked her under the chin and told her to stop being so serious?
And the look in David’s eyes right now . . . She couldn’t imagine how she’d describe it, let alone draw it.
Oh goodness, she was staring. And why had she stopped breathing? She quickly pulled in a draught of air and looked back at the picture, hoping he hadn’t noticed the stopped-breathing part.
That smile of his was going to get her in trouble.
The expectancy of his gaze bored into her. Tracing her finger along the smudged graphite shadows, she tried to think of something to say. “Well . . . this sketch is remarkable. Did he actually look like he was longing for something when you drew him, or did it just turn out that way?”
He turned back to his cooking. “He was definitely in another time or place. That’s probably my best drawing in regard to a true likeness. Of course, that was because I took my time. Mr. Hargrove was willing to sit for a while.”
“You ought to do these to sell.”
“I’ve got talent, but no genius. Father proved that to me when I was about sixteen. As I said, that’s one of my best. The others aren’t nearly as good. But I still like to capture faces, and I’ve had plenty of time to try over the past few days.”
“You did more of Mr. Hargrove?”
He stiffened, then put down his spatula and grabbed a hand towel. “Another one, yes.”
“May I see? It might be just as good and you don’t know it.” She grabbed his notepad and flipped it open.
He strode across the room, slid the notepad away from her, and flipped it shut, but not before she saw a drawing that clearly wasn’t of Mr. Hargrove—unless he’d drawn him in a long-haired wig.
“Was that me?”
David’s lips wriggled and his hands tensed, but then he nudged the notepad back toward her. “Yes.”
Since he simply stood there, she took that as an invitation to look again. Odd that he seemed so worried about it. But then, when had he drawn her?
She pulled the notepad closer and flipped it open. There was a page filled with numbers, another drawing of Mr. Hargrove—definitely not as good. And then, the next page.
Her sleeping head lay on Scott’s bed, her hair spilling out over her shoulders and onto a simplified version of a quilt. Behind her, Scott’s face was in shadow, perhaps to keep from recording the sickly way he looked.
With how everything else was only roughed in, the drawing’s focus was completely centered on her.
The detail was extraordinary. Fanned out eyelashes, relaxed mouth, her upper lip without that little dip in it she’d always wished God had given her, and candlelight deepening the contours of her cheekbones.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission first, but it was the first time I’d seen you so peaceful. Besides, I needed something to do to keep from falling asleep.”
She almost wanted to ask him for the drawing to give to her mother, but the setting was far too intimate. Though maybe she should insist he give it to her so he no longer had it in his possession. She fingered a strand of hair lying against her shoulder. Had he embellished the amount of hair that had fallen down last night, or was her hair really that undone? Before leaving Scott’s room, she should have found a mirror . . . but even if she had, her reflection would be far less pretty than what was on this paper.
She gently closed the leather binder. “Seems I was caught. I’d hoped neither you nor Mr. Hargrove had noticed after I was so adamant I could care for him.”
David went back to the stove. “But you did care for him. I’m sure if he needed you—even after you’d fallen asleep—you would have sensed it and awoken.” He came back with a plate and slid it in front of her. “You’ll be happy to know he slept quite comfortably. I only stayed there in case he woke up needing you.”
His words sent a rush of heat to her eyes, and she blinked. If only she could be sure Scott wouldn’t need her in the future—for she’d likely not be there.
And now she was back to frowning. After his joke about well-done steaks, she’d at least started to . . . not frown. David sat but kept himself from reaching over and tapping her chin up. “Why so glum?”
“I’m just worried.” She pushed a piece of bacon across her plate but didn’t take a bite.
How could one have bacon in front of them and not eat it?
Or leave extra on the stove to grow cold? He got up to get the rest for himself. Seemed unlikely she’d want seconds if she was just going to push hers around, though he’d hoped she’d finally eat this morning. “God knows what’ll happen to every one of us. No need to worry.”
“I’m more worried for Scott than myself.”
He scooped up the last of the bacon and found himself a napkin. “Won’t he go to the orphanage with you?”
“Yes.”
>
Then why was she troubled? He was tempted to push her to open up, but he wouldn’t. She might accuse him of being nice again.
“What is this?” She pointed at the yellow mound on her plate as if baked pudding was what was worrying her most.
“Canary pudding with a simple hard sauce.” It had come out quite tasty, if he did think so himself.
She pulled the mint leaf out of the curls of lemon rind on top of the pudding.
“Oh, that? Mint. Not really meant to be eaten with the pudding, but you can chew on it afterward, if you’d like.”
She looked over at the pots and cups and utensils piled around the stove, then stared at his shirt.
He looked down. He hadn’t brushed off the flour, so he did so.
“Who made dinner last night?”
“Me.”
“What was in the potatoes?”
“Those? They were only buttermilk mashed potatoes with chives, garlic, whipped butter, and sour cream. Oh, and a pinch of smoked salt.”
“Only mashed potatoes, huh?”
Sweet mercy, he’d done it! He slapped the table so hard she jumped in her seat.
She looked at his hand on the table with wide eyes, then back up at him, her eyebrows cocked funny. “Why’d you slap the table?”
“I got you to smile.” He threw out his arms. “I don’t know what you found so amusing about my potatoes, but I finally got to see a smile on your face.”
Her smile drooped.
Well, that was short-lived. But at least her eyes still appeared amused.
She picked up her fork and pointed it at him. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but I have smiled once or twice before.”
“Not since I’ve met you.”
Unfortunately, the gleam in her eyes now died off.
“Surely that isn’t true. I’m not that . . . dour.” She took a deep breath and looked blankly past him. “It has been a rough few months, and . . . next year doesn’t look too promising either.” She shrugged a shoulder and took a bite of bacon.
If what disfigured her lips right now was another attempt at a smile, she utterly failed.
A Love So True Page 11