“You have the entire sermon memorized?”
Memorized—laughable. That would imply some effort had been put into the remembrance. Marietta smiled and wound another strip. “Of course not, Mr. Osborne. I just have very good eyesight.”
Devereaux put the spoon down on the tray and reached for the fine linen napkin. When his mother took it from his hand and dabbed at her own lip, he smiled. Still, it felt tight around the edges. “You gave us such a fright last night.”
Lucille Fortier Hughes could look scolding even with the lines in her face telling the tale of illness. “I will recover. I have said from the start I would.”
A sigh worked its way up, but he halted it. There had been a day not so long ago when that word would have been enough. For even the Almighty Himself, it seemed, obeyed the dictates of his mother. But lately? Nothing had gone right. Nothing. All their plans, all their goals, all their careful work…stymied again and again.
He summoned another smile. “Of course you will, and I am glad to see the proof of that.”
Reprimand still gleaming in her eyes, Mother smoothed down the blanket over her lap and then fussed with the lace of her collar. “Mari said you have a guest tonight.”
Surprised she hadn’t asked the moment Devereaux stepped foot in her chamber, he nodded and leaned back against his chair. “Slade Osborne.”
“The Pinkerton agent.” Thought raced through her summer-sky eyes. “What were your impressions? Do you trust him?”
The very question made his blood hum. Did he dare to trust? Did he dare not to? “He is a hard man to read. Very cold, very closed off. Which is what we need, but…” He shrugged. “I will induct him tonight, but he will have to earn full trust.”
“He’d better do so quickly.” Though she obviously tried to keep her features schooled, weakness asserted itself in the lines of sorrow around her mouth and eyes. “From what Mari read to me from the papers…”
“I know.” He took her hand and gently rubbed it. “But we haven’t been defeated yet. That’s what matters. And you well know the Union has an iron grip on the papers. They cannot always report the truth.”
He read the worry in her gaze but felt the determination in the fingers that gripped his. “Well, let us pray this Mr. Osborne can give you the aid you need. And in the meantime, we must tend our own house.” She shot him a stern look. “I trust you noticed that Marietta has entered half mourning.”
At that, Devereaux couldn’t hold back a smile. It felt as though he had waited forever to see her out of black. When she had come down the stairs that morning in lavender, he had thought his heart would stop. And now, just three more months until he could claim her as his own. “Yes, I noticed.”
“Shameful.” Mother tugged her hand free and turned her face toward the window. Darkness had fallen, but she set her gaze upon the glow from the street light. “And so unfair to Lucien.”
Unfair to Lucien? He bit back a retort. His brother had had it all. All. The house, the business—and Marietta too. He had lorded it over him in life, but heaven help him if he would grant any rights to his brother’s ghost. “You are the one who encouraged her to transition early, Mother.”
“Because we haven’t the luxury of time.” She snapped it out, snapped her frustrated gaze back to him. “A man should always be mourned properly, but your brother lost his right to that when he left this house to her.”
“Watch your tone.” He stood, his own frustration surging.
She held his gaze with pursed lips. One moment, two, and then she shook her head, sending her blond curls bouncing. “What is it about that girl that so enthralled you both?”
He folded his arms over his chest.
She sniffed. “Well. The important thing is that you marry her as quickly as you can, before she decides to sell or wed another. Though I would like to say again that I am sorry Lucien has forced you to this. You ought to have had the freedom to choose your own wife, one from an upstanding Southern family, rather than being relegated to his widow.”
He saw no need to tell his mother that he would be happy to wed Marietta even if she were the daughter of Lincoln himself. There was no point—she always did exactly what she had now, going from questioning her allure to denying it in virtually the same breath. And then, of course, acting as though Marietta were the daughter of which she had always dreamed when they were in the same room.
Rather than argue, he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin still felt papery and thin. “Rest, Mother. You have a long road of recovery ahead of you.”
She waved that away, but weariness lined her face.