Oz? They were all of a sudden on such friendly terms that he got a nickname?
The missus apparently thought nothing of it. She stood with that same serene smile and came forward with her hands extended, leaving him little choice but to take them. “So good to meet you, Mr. Osborne. You may call me Grandmama.”
He heard England in her voice. A strange thing, given her husband’s talk of fighting off the British in the War of 1812. But he wasn’t about to say anything about that, not when her silk-soft fingers slid into his and gripped his hands tight. Welcome and acceptance shone from her eyes.
“Grandmama.” Yet the word sounded cynical on his lips. His mother would slap him upside the head for such a tone. He made an effort to soften it. “Good to meet you. You can call me Slade.”
The mister held out a mug of steaming coffee from the percolator. The missus let go of his hands so he could reach for it.
“Have a seat, son.”
Seeing no other worthwhile alternative, he sidled to the chaise and sat, taking in every detail he could find in the hopes that it would help him discover, later, where and with whom he was. The fabric of the chaise was worn soft, its pattern decidedly Turkish.
Overtop the fireplace a painting caught his eye, one of a ship with Masquerade on the hull tossing upon the waves. A storm was coming up behind it, but the captain who stood with spyglass in hand showed no signs of concern. And he looked more than a little like the gent before him. Imagination or truth that he had sailed?
The missus turned back to her desk and what looked to be drawing rather than writing. She adjusted her hoop as she sat, the three pearls of her necklace swaying with the motion and then coming to a rest against her collar.
Slade took a sip of his coffee and focused on the man. The silence spun out. The old man folded himself into a chair and just stared at him. After a snapping two minutes, Slade cleared his throat and set his cup on the table beside the chaise. “Well? You said you wanted to talk with me.”
The old man gave him half a smile. “I did talk with you.”
“We exchanged three sentences.”
From the desk, the woman laughed. “Rest easy, Slade dear. If you hadn’t measured up, he wouldn’t have brought you here.”
This night just kept getting stranger. “So…”
The mister chuckled and pushed out of his chair again. “Would you hand me the prayer book, sweet?”
Grandmama bent down with a happy bounce, as if she had been waiting for just that request, and pulled open a drawer. After withdrawing a crude leather book that looked old as Methuselah, she closed it again.
Her husband took it from her and rested a hand on her shoulder. Just for a moment, no longer than their eyes met. But Slade saw the communication in that quick exchange. A touch of sorrow, a shade of hope.
For what?
Slade stood when the man turned toward him and saw little recourse but to take the book he held out. He turned the cover carefully, the pages brittle under his fingers. Within, the faded words were handwritten. “What is this?”
“Puritan prayers. My grandfather transcribed them well before the Revolution. Take it. Read them.”
“No.” He let the cover fall shut and held it back out. A book like this was too precious. “I can’t take a family treasure.”
But the old man leaned against his wife’s desk and folded his hands. “We’ve made other copies at this point, and everyone has theirs.”
“Even so.” He held it out still, though curiosity nipped at him. Puritan prayers. His father would love that.
“Take it.” The man’s voice had shifted. It was soft now, and sure, and reminded him of his father’s when he stood in the pulpit. Filled with that something that had once grated and then comforted. Authority. “I’ve been waiting a lot of years to hear the Spirit’s whisper telling me to whom to give it.”
Well. Slade lowered his hand, the aged leather still clasped within it. He had learned the hard way not to argue with the Spirit. “Then…thanks.”
The old man nodded and straightened again. “I’ll see you out. Henry will take you home. And when you figure out who I am, feel free to come back for another visit.”
Slade couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that. So he buttoned his lips and followed the man back into the night while the woman bent over her paper.
Ten
Marietta pushed away from the table, never so happy to hear the chime of noon. Her gaze flew to the tall case clock in the corner, the one she recognized from her childhood. It had been Granddad and Grandmama’s before they found a new one and passed this one along, apparently, to Walker and Cora.