I took another bite, stared down at the crumbs in my lap.
Straining the tea into cups, he handed one to me, then took the other and sat down in the armchair. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me in between sips of tea. I picked up another biscuit and munched it nervously while glancing around the room, looking anywhere but at him. Most of the walls were bare, except for one that housed an impressive display of weaponry—spears, swords and knives held in place by long iron nails. A bookcase stood within easy reach of the armchair, its shelves filled to capacity, and another pile of books stacked haphazardly near his feet. Drawing from his immediate environment, I began to construct the most improbable character sketch. Mr. Tom Faber, smithy, scholar, warrior...
“Tell me,” he said, the suddenness of his words making me jump. “What was it like living in the Colonies?”
A lump of biscuit stuck in my throat. Washing it down with a mouthful of tea, I related the first thing that popped into my head. “Less crowded and a lot less smelly.”
He laughed and nodded his head in agreement. “So I’ve heard. What about the native people? Were you familiar with any of the tribes?”
“My family has always been close to the Lanape. They are the predominant tribe in Pennsylvania.”
“Are they a warring people?”
This seemed a natural question coming from a man who decorated with spears and swords. “They prefer peace and generally fight only when provoked. Some of the tribes farther north are rumored to be more war-like.”
Mr. Faber nodded again. I awaited another question when silence settled between us instead. The same sadness and longing returned to his eyes, which gleamed brighter from a moment ago as though coated with unshed tears.
Oh, dear. I shifted nervously on the sofa. “Are you unwell, Mr Faber? Shall I fetch some water?”
I started to rise, but he waved me back down. “You remind me of someone is all, Miss Kilbrid.” He blinked several times and his eyes cleared, though a general melancholy lingered in the air around him.
Someone deceased, I assumed. Most likely a sister or a sweetheart based on his reaction. Mr. Faber offered nothing further about the young lady, and I took a long sip of tea, all too aware that our situation had just moved from awkward to downright absurd. When the silence became too much, I set the empty cup aside and met his gaze the best I could under the circumstances.
“Have you and Lady Dinley been acquainted long?” I asked.
“Most of my life. We both came to London at around the same time.”
My relief was immediate and more evident than intended.
Mr. Faber arched an eyebrow. “Did you think she left you here without knowing my character?”
“The thought may have crossed my mind.”
He grinned at me. “Lady Dinley may not be perfect, but she is by no means careless when it comes to those in her charge.”
The shop door opened and a man’s voice carried into the back room. “Hey, Tom, ye in here? I’ve a broken axle on Beekon Street.”
Mr. Fabre stood and set his cup on the table. “Help yourself to more tea and biscuits. This may take a while.”
I listened as the two men conversed briefly about the axle, followed by the sound of the door closing when they left the shop. The fire crackled, offering the only noise in the otherwise quiet room. I looked around, a bit disgruntled to have been abandoned for a second time in one day. After wishing so adamantly to be away from Mr. Faber, it was somewhat strange to now feel a genuine loss of his company. My gaze came to the bookshelf and the stack of books on the floor. The one metal smith in Hopewell had been illiterate, and I found myself quite curious as to what Mr. Faber was reading.
The top book had a Gaelic title, Lebor Gabála érenn. I translated the words with difficulty—The Book of the Taking of Ireland. Though my parents had taught me to speak passable Gaelic, reading was a challenge I had yet to master. I traded this book for the next one in the pile and read, De Natura Deorum. Good gracious! My Latin was even worse and I barely managed to decipher the words—On the Nature of the Gods. The writer was Cicero, a Greek philosopher I recognized from my father’s library at Brighmor. This too, I put back, returning to the sofa empty-handed and more than a little befuddled by the ever growing picture of Mr. Faber. To be sure, the man was proving quite an oddity. His appearance verged on wild, yet he owned books in both Gaelic and Latin.