Chapter 2 #3
Jane saw two fingertips appear at the bottom of her glass.
There was a nudge, gentle but firm. Her lips parted and she drank, tipping her head back to get the last bitter dregs of the medicine.
Wrinkling her nose and pressing her lips tightly together, she blindly held out the glass for Morgan to take.
He did, setting it aside before he sat on the edge of the bed. “Is it all right for me to sit here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then let me help you lie down.”
“All right.” Distress had made her unnaturally compliant. “This is not who I am,” she said.
“The photograph can wait.”
“No, I meant…” She did not finish. Morgan was tugging at the bedclothes, making a nest for her under the covers instead of on top of them.
She pushed at the hem of her gown when it was trapped by the blankets and began to climb up her legs.
He withdrew immediately, for which she was grateful, and let her finish arranging the covers herself.
When she was done, he only held them up so she could ease under them.
She patted the mattress, searching for the pillow she’d put aside earlier.
Morgan reached it first. He plumped it once, slipped an arm under her shoulders, and lifted her just enough to put the pillow in place.
When she lay back again, the world righted itself.
She smiled faintly as she closed her eyes. “Thank you.”
Morgan reached for the lamp and turned back the wick until the light was no brighter than it had been when he entered the room.
“You did not answer my question,” she said.
“You’ll have to remind me.”
“Do you dance?”
“No.”
Jane waited for him to offer more, but he remained silent. She said, “It occurred to me that you might be a better than tolerable partner.”
“You’re still talking about dancing, aren’t you?”
Jane’s lips twitched. “Yes, Mr. Longstreet. I’m still talking about dancing.”
“What put that notion in your head?”
“That you’d be better than tolerable? The way you walk, I suppose.”
“The way I walk.”
She opened her eyes a fraction and regarded him behind the shading of her lashes. “I thought I noticed a rhythm in your stride.”
“More likely the pounding in your head.”
“That might well be true.” She laid the back of one hand across her forehead. “I apologize that I am unwell. I had hoped to sleep it away and join you at dinner. Instead I just slept. Did you think I was avoiding you?”
“It crossed my mind.” He rose from the bed. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go for Dr. Wanamaker? The town has a doctor also. Kent. I could ask him to come.”
“No. I will be fine. Really.” The light from the lamp was endurable now. She opened her eyes the rest of the way. “Are you leaving?”
“Just moving to the chair,” he said. “Unless you want me to go?” This last was said with enough inflection to make it a question.
Jane said, “No. Stay. By my reckoning, we have less than twenty hours remaining on your twenty-four-hour clock. Unless you have changed your mind about that, we should take advantage of the time we have.”
Morgan sat. He did not tip the chair on its hindquarters but leaned forward instead and rested his forearms on his knees. He folded his hands and made a steeple with his thumbs. “Are you unwell often?” he asked.
The question was startling for its blunt delivery, but Jane understood the necessity of it. “Not often.”
“You carry powders. I counted a dozen packets. To my way of thinking, that’s about nine more than ‘some’.”
“I did not know if I would be able to purchase them along the way or find them after I arrived. In my experience, it is better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them. The last time I used one of the packets was three months ago. To my way of thinking, Mr. Longstreet, that is the very definition of ‘not often.’” She observed the narrow twisting of Morgan’s mouth.
He had a wry grin, accented by a faint, crescent-shaped scar at the right corner of his lips.
The scar made a fleeting impression as a dimple but an enduring one as a wound. She wondered at it but did not ask.
“Your sass is back, Miss Middlebourne. I didn’t imagine the powder could work so fast.”
It was not working. Not yet. “You riled me,” she said, and did not know what to make of it when he nodded as though her answer satisfied him.
Morgan tapped his thumbs together. “You wrote that you knew how to cook. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“I saw the cookbook.”
“It’s for reference. And for trying new things. There is a section of helpful hints for the young housekeeper. I thought I should learn as much as I could.”
“You grew up in a home with servants.”
“They preferred to be called the help. Cousin Franny called them servants.”
“There is no house help at Morning Star.”
“Your letters made that clear.”
“I want to make it clearer. I have four men who work the ranch with me. The three Davis brothers and Max Salter. You’ll be cooking for them sometimes.”
“Who cooks for them now?”
“We take turns.”
“But mostly I’ll be cooking just for you.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. What do they think about that?”
“I don’t know. They work for me. I didn’t ask them.”
“Securing a cook and housekeeper for Morning Star does not necessitate a proposal of marriage.”
“I’m aware.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Her head was still foggy; she needed to think. His silence was welcome. Jane pinched the bridge of her nose and stared at the ceiling. “Whatever happens, Mr. Longstreet, I will not be returning to New York. What you decide does not determine my future. I do.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? I do not require coddling.”
“All appearances to the contrary,” he said dryly.
“Yes,” she said. “All appearances to the contrary.” Jane turned her head to look at him. “What did you do with the photograph? I think we should discuss it now. May I see it again?”
Morgan took the photograph from the table and handed it to her without glancing at it. “You were a very different person two years ago.”
Jane ignored his sarcasm. Nodding, she turned the picture around so he could see it and pointed to the face. “I am still a very different person. This is my cousin Rebecca. I wrote about her. She is Cousin Franny’s daughter.”
“The one expected to marry well. The beauty, you said.”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” He held out his hand. “May I?”
Jane gave him the photograph. “She sat for that picture six months ago in preparation for a charity gala that she was hosting with her mother. You can see that she’s younger than I am.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You wanted a younger wife.”
“I thought this photograph was two years old, remember? That’s what you wrote. She’s what? Twenty-one?”
“Twenty-two.”
“So I thought you would be twenty-three or twenty-four.”
A small vertical crease appeared between Jane’s dark eyebrows. “Did I never reveal my age?”
“No. The photograph should have been sufficient.”
Jane’s cheeks puffed as she blew out a short breath. “How surprised you must have been to see me wearing the hat with red poppies.”
“You were…unexpected.”
“I was twenty-seven in June. Rebecca is five years my junior.”
“And I am two years your senior. If I wanted a younger wife, you would still suit.”
“I don’t understand.”
“How old you are doesn’t much matter, Miss Middlebourne. I wanted a stronger wife.”
Jane stared at him. “And you saw that in Rebecca?”
He looked at it again. “She has bold features and large bones. She is broad across the chest and shoulders. She’s sitting down, but you described yourself as tall—and you are—but now that I know you’re you and she’s someone else, I figure she’s probably got a few inches on you.
She’s maybe as tall as I am. Am I right? ”
She nodded. “Almost six feet.” That elicited a soft whistle from Morgan. Jane bristled slightly. “Do you need your wife to pull a plow? Don’t you have animals for that?”
Morgan ducked his head and stared at the floor for a moment. He cleared his throat before he answered. “No, Miss Middlebourne, I don’t need my wife to pull a plow.”
She sniffed. “You were laughing at me.”
He shrugged and looked at her again. “A little.”
“Rebecca is widely acknowledged to be a beauty.”
“So you wrote.”
“I wrote it so you would understand that I know I am not. I wrote it so your expectations would not be unreasonable. Rebecca closely resembles her mother, and Cousin Frances has always been accounted to be a handsome woman.”
“She’s very fair.”
“Yes. She is. Waves of golden hair. Eyes the color of a cerulean sky. Alabaster skin. The photograph hardly does her justice.”
“Your complexion is fair.”
Jane shook her head. “An illusion. I have not been allowed to show my face to the sun in years. Not since Cousin Frances observed that I brown like a pie crust.”
“I see. What did Cousin Frances have to say about your hair?”
“An unremarkable, unflattering shade of brown. She is straightforward in her assessments.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “She is. And your eyes?”
“You can see for yourself that they are green. Like yours.”
“Not like mine,” he said.
“No,” she said. “Not like yours. You have flecks of blue and gray. Pine green. Spruce green. Evergreen, I would say.”
“And yours are just green.”
Jane did not flinch in the face of his plain speaking. “Yes.”
Morgan finally leaned back in his chair.
He did not tilt it backward, but he did slide down a few inches and stretch his long legs.
His dusty boots disappeared under the bed.
He removed his hat, tossed it over his shoulder.
It landed squarely on the seat of the wing chair. He folded his arms across his chest.
“How do you suppose your cousin’s photograph came to be in the letter you wrote?”
That was still a question in Jane’s mind. What she said was, “I can only guess.”
“Guess.”
“I’m imagining that Rebecca put it there. She removed mine and inserted hers.”
“Why? And I realize this will be another guess.”
“Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose because she wanted to make mischief.”