Prosperity nodded, unable to speak over the knot in her throat. Two years had passed since David offered for her. Each morning and night she recalled his handsome visage. The cornflower-blue eyes and curly hair the color of sand brought a smile to her lips. How stiff he’d seemed when she first met him. She had laughed at his formal bow, and he had acted affronted, but in time she’d grown to appreciate his careful ways. Nothing was out of place. No possibility had gone unconsidered.
He was a product of his demanding father and austere upbringing, so serious of temperament that she’d made silly faces at him to induce a laugh. Oh, how he resisted. First, the corner of his mouth would tick up a fraction. Then he would force a frown. Will would battle emotion until, in the end, a deep guffaw would burst out. Only then would the corners of his eyes crinkle and pleasure fill his gaze.
If only she could see that again. If only she could hear his voice and feel how the very air shimmered when he walked into a room. Then she would know all was well. She could endure any hardship. Alas, her David was beyond reach, and she had only memories to lean upon.
Over time his features had grown dim. Was that tiny mole above the right corner of his mouth or the left? Did his brows sweep high in an arc or duck low? Did the spectacles he used for reading leave the same red marks on the bridge of his nose? Had he succeeded in taming the tuft of frizz at the peak of his brow?
She closed her eyes and tried to recall.
The shifting shapes of memory faded like a dream in morning’s light.
“He will return. You must believe it.” Mrs. Franklin’s voice dragged Prosperity back to the painful present.
Until he returned . . . Her breath caught at the daunting prospect. Alone. Impoverished. Without a home.
“He will.” Mrs. Franklin patted her hand for emphasis. “He is a gentleman.”
A man of honor. Yes, David was that. He never failed to write each Sunday. The letters might arrive late or all in one batch, as was the case right now. She had not received a letter in nearly a month, but tomorrow might be the day. Until then she treasured each written word, reading the letters over and over until his sentences wove into the fabric of her days. He was saving all he could. He would marry once he had saved enough. If that came sooner rather than later, he might send for her. No woman on Nantucket or Key West could compare to her in beauty and intellect. He kept her portrait on the desk in his quarters.
He was an ever-true, unshakable mark. To this she could cling.
At her side, Mrs. Franklin rose, pulling Prosperity from her thoughts.
Aunt Florence approached with a swish of her flounced skirts. “I’d like to speak to my niece.”
Mrs. Franklin offered her condolences to Aunt Florence and trundled to the kitchen.
Prosperity rose, aware that her future might depend on good relations with her last living blood relative, who had made the voyage to Nantucket Island from Boston with her husband. “Please have a seat, Aunt Florence.”
How different Aunt was from her sister! While sunlight and love had creased Ma’s face into a starburst, Aunt’s face was pinched, her lips pressed into a white line. Thin and bony, Aunt wore a silk mourning gown that rustled as she moved. Its fine black-on-black striping took Prosperity’s breath away. Never would she touch, least of all wear, such a gown.
Aunt Florence looked down her nose at the chair. “Given the option, I prefer to stand. After the grueling journey, I cannot endure another hard bench.”
Prosperity swallowed. “I hope your accommodations were comfortable. Dumfrey Hotel is the finest on the island.”
“It was barely habitable, but better than this,” Aunt sniffed with a caustic glance at Prosperity’s home. “My sister chose unwisely. I trust you have done better. Livvy wrote that you are engaged to marry an Army engineer.” She never once looked directly at Prosperity. “It’s certainly better than a whaler, though a true gentleman would have married and brought you with him.”
“He is a true gentleman.”
Aunt didn’t seem to notice that she had spoken. “I fear that your uncle and I must return to Boston at once. Harold can’t be away from the bank for long.” She opened the clasp on her elegant silk bag and pulled out a small ivory envelope that must have cost dearly at a stationer. “We want you to have this.”
With trembling hand, Prosperity took the fat envelope. What on earth could it be? She’d met Florence just once before, on her aunt’s brief visit to the island when Prosperity was a child. Perhaps it was a note of condolence or one of Ma’s letters to her sister.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat dry.
“Do understand that we can’t take you in.” Aunt Florence’s cold smile revealed perfectly white teeth. “Harry and his family visit often, and of course Amelia is still at home. Between friends and family, there isn’t a week that we don’t use every bed in the house.”
Prosperity averted her gaze. “I understand.” Her last living relative was deserting her.