“They will get through it, as they always do. Have you heard from Emmy?”
Her face lit up at the mention of her daughter. “Henry said she can’t leave his sister alone yet, but Emmy is well.” Rosie set the spoon upon the rest and held up a hand. “I just remembered. A letter came from Uncle Freeman yesterday, and it had a page for you.”
He waited while Rosie disappeared into her room off the kitchen, wondering what Free might have to share from the Canadian front. He took a sip of his coffee and let his gaze go to the window. Yes, storm clouds knuckled on the horizon, purplish gray where the crimson had seeped out.
“Here you are.” Rosie bustled back again with a folded piece of paper outstretched and worry in her eyes. “About that Miss Fairchild…”
He waited a moment as he tucked the page into his breast pocket, but she didn’t continue. “What about her?”
She sighed. “She be sore troubled, Thaddeus. Far as I can tell, the girl stayed in the drawing room all night. She was still up when I came out this morning, hunched over the desk.”
“Hmm. I will look in on her.” He nodded his thanks and strode from the kitchen, coffee in hand.
Comfortable dimness cloaked the hallway, no lamps lit nor daylight finding foothold. Thad traversed the space with sure, silent steps and ducked into the drawing room. He spotted the young lady exactly where Rosie had said she would be, hunched over the writing desk with papers scattered all about. An oil lamp burned next to her, and the sound of a pencil’s steady stroke filled the air.
“Miss Fairchild?” He spoke softly, wary of startling her. But needlessly, since yet again she seemed not to hear him. Thad edged closer, trying to make a bit of noise as he went, though still she didn’t look up or give any indication of sensing his presence.
He ended up beside her, torn at which picture to look at—the one beneath her fingers or the one upon her face. Both begged for attention, but for now he ignored the detailed drawing and focused on her.
The lamplight caught her hair and spun it a fiery gold. Though she had worn it up when she came downstairs last night, the pins had loosed their hold, and curls tumbled all about her shoulders and down her back. Chaos—of the most alluring variety.
Dark circles still stained the fair skin beneath her eyes, but still it was the shadows within them that struck up an ache in his chest. Shadows that looked all the deeper because of the feverish light in them as she drew. “Gwyneth?”
She blinked, once, twice, thrice. Her pencil slowed.
Was she ill? He reached out cautiously to touch a hand to her forehead, expecting her to jump or scream. Expecting to find heat radiating. But her skin was cool to the touch, and she merely drew in a long breath and finally focused her gaze upon him with a small smile.
“Thad. I thought you were going out.”
What was he to do with this girl? He removed his fingers from her forehead, though he couldn’t stop them from then brushing a tangled curl away from her cheek. “I did.”
“Oh.” She jerked her head toward the window. “Oh. I am sorry. I…I always get lost in my art. Mama used to say my muse was a cruel taskmaster.”
“I would have thought you too exhausted to succumb to your muse last night.” He took a step back so as not to crowd her and leaned onto the edge of the secretaire. So that, he admitted, he could better study her face.
Such an interesting face it was, with its broken beauty and emotion flitting on and off it like sunlight through the clouds. What did those troubled eyes seek? What could he do to ease the torment within her?
She touched a hand to her tousled hair, alarm sparking in her gaze. Resignation followed a second later, and her hand dropped back to the desk. “I had a snack at some point to sustain me. Your servant brought it—what is her name?”
“Rosie.”
“That is right.” Her brow knit. “I confess I found it startling to see so many Negroes along the streets. My family has never owned slaves.”
“Nor has mine.” At her wide eyes he aimed a smile. “Rosie’s uncle is my grandfather’s closest friend. She had been a house slave in Virginia, but he purchased her and her daughter’s freedom when I was a child, and my parents gave her employment so she might support herself and Emmy. When I offered her the position of housekeeper if she moved to Baltimore with me, she agreed. Emmy is married to another free black, a ship’s pilot. Henry has been serving as a handyman for me now that there is little piloting to be done.”
“Is Maryland not a slave state, then? I know there is some division.”