“Perhaps if the air cools this evening, we will all go for a promenade. A bit of exercise would no doubt help.” Mrs. Lane turned Gwyneth around with her.
Philly was already halfway down the hall. “The apples, Thad?”
“It depends on how many Jack pilfered while he was here.” Amusement wove through the words. “That little imp will devour them by the half dozen if he isn’t checked.”
Mrs. Lane chuckled. “I tried to limit him. Go look, Philly. There ought to be plenty left.”
His gaze was still upon Gwyneth. She felt it like a hand upon her cheek, but she couldn’t be sure whether it meant to slap or caress.
She darted a glance up at him. No hatred spewed from his eyes, no suspicion. But then, even when he had narrowed his eyes at her last night—was it just last night?—it had been only intensity in his gaze. Contemplation perhaps, or calculation. But no dislike.
Thankfully Mrs. Lane kept a hand upon her arm as she guided her toward the kitchen, for her vision blurred again. She kept moving, but with each step the floor wobbled more.
Fire balled in her stomach. When would this stop, this infuriating weakness? They would all think her a burden, an invalid, a spoiled child incapable of standing on her own feet.
Mrs. Lane’s voice echoed in her ears, but she could make out no particular words. A chaotic din filled her mind.
Or, no, it was just that the entire household had converged upon the kitchen. The fog lifted from her eyes enough as they stepped into the room that she could see the Wesleys had both appeared, along with Mr. Lane, his arms laden with baskets from which Rosie unloaded vegetables and fruits. A Negro man leaned against the wall—he must be Henry, Rosie’s son-in-law. Philly was telling her father about something that required sweeping gestures of her hands, and little Jack had even returned. He bounced about like a marble in a ring, chanting, “Apples? Apples? I want apples!” until Mr. Lane stopped his ricocheting with a hand atop his head. The chant dissolved into giggles.
Mrs. Lane headed for her husband—or perhaps the boy—and Gwyneth feared her knees would buckle, traitorous things.
But then new hands braced her, cradling her elbows from behind. Thad. Obviously, as everyone else was in front of her. A glance down merely confirmed it. His long fingers, yes, curling around her arm. With that jagged nail on his left pointer finger, and the scar upon his opposite knuckle. Rough enough to declare he was a man of trade, yet smooth enough to prove he had done well at it and paid others, now, to take on the heavy burdens.
And strong. Strong enough to all but lift her from her feet and set her gently upon a chair at the wide, thick table. When he then pressed a cool tin mug into her hands, she lifted it to her lips.
Lemonade. Sweet and tart and blessedly cold. Gwyneth let her eyes slide shut and sipped again.
“The market was all abuzz.” The elder Mr. Lane? It must be. “I trust you heard the same news I did, Thad.”
“About the action along the Patuxent?” His voice flowed steady and smooth over her.
“Aye.”
“Battles? That close to us?” Who was that? A female, but who would be talking of war? Aunt Gates perhaps. “Who won?”
“There was no tactical advantage to it, but Barney’s men won the day.”
Barney. She had heard that name. One of the American leaders. Gwyneth sighed and leaned onto the arm she propped on the table. “That is a shame.”
The silence pounded, scattering the lovely haze that had overtaken her. Her eyes flew open, and her pulse raced when she saw that every single person in the room stared at her, even little Jack.
Oh, heavens. What had she said? Had she…? No, surely she had not replied to their news as she would have had Papa been the one sharing it. She was not so stupid, nor so insensitive.
The fire seemed to leap from the stove directly onto her face. “Forgive me. I am so sorry. I was not thinking—Of course, you would…it is just that my father and his friends…forgive me. Please.”
They all moved again, their gazes shifted, but she felt no relief. Not until Mrs. Lane knelt at her side and pressed a cool hand to her hot cheek. Gwyneth blinked burning tears away and focused on the warm green eyes of her hostess.
“We understand, Gwyneth,” she said. Softly, calmly. “You are accustomed to giving the opposite reactions of ours to such news. We do not hold that against you. And never, never feel you must feign anything in our company. You may disagree all you like with us, with our positions, with our loyalties. Do you understand?”
How could she, when she had just shouted with that careless murmur that she was their enemy? Gwyneth shook her head.