“Friends.” He sat back in his seat, ignoring her warning. “Is that what I really am to you? A friend?”
She blinked. She hadn’t expected the question. “Yes, why not?”
He shrugged, eyeing her moodily. “Why not indeed. Friend is such a very… benign… word. Do you kiss all your friends the way you kissed me last night?”
Her eyes had narrowed—she had been waiting for the shot. But still she couldn’t quite control a small shudder. His mouth had been hot. “I’ve told you I do not wish to discuss last night. It’s in the past.”
“And forgotten?”
“Yes.”
“Funny.” He stroked his chin. “I find it rather hard to forget it myself. Your lips were so very soft, so very sweet when they parted beneath mine.”
Her body heated at his words. She couldn’t help it, and she felt that same spark of desire. He could light it within her so damned easily.
“Stop it,” she said low. “What do you think you’re doing?”
It was his turn to look away. “I don’t honestly know.”
“I’m marrying Thomas,” she said. “In only five weeks now. If we are to have any sort of brother-sister relationship, you must forget it.”
His mouth twisted as if her words were obscene. “Can you?”
She lifted her chin, saying nothing.
“I thought not,” he murmured. “That’s ducky. Just ducky.”
He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a book. He tossed it wordlessly onto her lap and went back to staring moodily out the window.
Hero looked down. It was a volume of Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War. She traced the embossing on the leather cover, her eyes suddenly welling with tears.
* * *
“OH, MRS. HOLLINGBROOK, you have a letter, ma’am!” Nell Jones came into the home’s kitchen, waving a bit of paper in the air.
Silence looked up from the sad little lump of biscuit dough she was attempting to roll out. Really, it hadn’t been one of her better culinary efforts.
Nell caught sight of the dough and wrinkled her nose. “Here, let me finish that while you have a seat and read your letter.”
Silence gladly relinquished the rolling pin. She brushed off her hands and washed them in a basin before drawing up a chair to the kitchen table. Mary Darling had been playing with a pot and a big spoon on the floor, but when she saw Silence sit down, she crawled over and demanded to be held.
Silence picked her up and kissed the top of her head. In the last seven months, Mary Darling’s hair had grown in thick and inky black, a mass of corkscrew curls.
She set the baby on her lap and showed her the letter. “Now who do you suppose it’s from?” she asked as she carefully lifted the seal.
“Is it Captain Hollingbrook?” Nell asked. Overhead came a thump and then what sounded like a stampede of oxen across the floor. The children were supposed to be doing their afternoon reading under the supervision of the maids, but somehow the daily event often turned into a melee.
Silence sighed and turned her gaze to the letter. “Yes, it’s from William.”
“You’ll be glad of that, I’m sure, ma’am.”
“Oh, yes,” Silence murmured absently.
She deftly kept the paper from Mary Darling’s interested fingers as she read. William wrote about the Finch and its cargo, a storm they’d weathered, and a fight among the ensigns.
“Have a bit of patty-cake,” Nell said to Mary Darling, and handed her some of the biscuit dough.
A seabird the men had shot and the sighting of a French ship… Silence skimmed down the page, following the neat handwriting of her husband, coming finally to his signature—William H. Hollingbrook. She stared blankly at the page, before she began over again, reading more slowly, searching. But she knew already—there were no jokes they shared between just the two of them, no endearments, no expressions of wanting to come home or missing her. In fact, the letter could’ve been written to anyone.
“Is he well?” Nell asked.
“Well enough.” Silence glanced up and noticed that Mary Darling was carefully breaking off bits of the biscuit dough and placing them in her mouth to chew with a thoughtful expression. “No, sweetheart. ’Tisn’t good not cooked.”
Nell smiled at the baby. “She thinks it is.”
“Won’t it make her sick?” Silence asked worriedly.
Nell shrugged. “It’s mostly flour and water.”
“Still…”
Silence began to unwrap the baby’s fingers from the sticky dough. Mary Darling naturally didn’t think this a good idea and voiced her protests loudly.
Someone knocked on the front door.
“Shall I see who it is?” Nell asked over the baby’s cries.
“I’ll get it,” Silence said. She scooped up the baby and swung her around. “Who do you suppose it is? The king or queen? Or perhaps just the baker’s boy?”
Mary Darling giggled, distracted from the loss of her dough. Silence set the baby on her hip and went to the door. She pulled it open and looked out. On the step was a handkerchief knotted neatly. Silence glanced at it and then quickly searched the street. A woman was washing her step across the way, two men walked side by side trundling wheelbarrows, and several lads argued over a small terrier dog. No one seemed to be paying her any mind.
Silence bent and picked up the handkerchief. The knot was loose and came easily undone, even using only one hand. Inside the handkerchief was a handful of raspberries, perfectly ripe, perfectly unblemished.
“Gah!” Mary Darling cried, and grabbed two, stuffing them into her mouth.
A small scrap of paper was revealed now, and Silence plucked it out from under the berries. One word was written on it.