“She’d make you a good wife. Hardworking, clever with sums. She’s grown up well, too.” Fosbury rapped the countertop with his knuckles, then drifted away. “Think about it.”
Under the guise of stretching his neck, Aaron had another look at the girl.
He thought about it.
Fosbury was right. Pauline Simms was the sort of woman he ought to set his sights on. She was one of his kind. Working class, the daughter of a farmer. As Fosbury said, she was quick with her hands and her wits. She’d be a help to any man with a trade. Admittedly, she had a few rough edges, but nothing some care and time wouldn’t smooth.
As he watched, she tipped over a decorative plate, muttering, “Bollocks.”
He smiled. But even though they were only four years apart in age, and even though she’d long grown into a woman—a pretty one, at that—Aaron couldn’t look at Pauline Simms without seeing the gap-toothed, freckled girl who’d grown up a year behind his own sister.
That was the problem with a village this small. Every available woman felt like a sister to him. Or maybe it was his own circumstances that had permanently cast him in the big-brother role.
When his father had died ten years ago, slumped over the anvil from a heart attack, it didn’t matter that Aaron was barely seventeen. He’d needed to become the man of the family, and quick. He’d taken over the forge, working hard to support his mother and sisters.
When Spindle Cove became a retreat for well-bred young ladies, some of the other men had groused about the village being overrun . . . but it suited Aaron fine. By then, both his sisters had married, and they and his mother had moved away. So he liked having the visiting young ladies around. He mended their locks and buckles; they purchased the silver and copper trinkets he made in his spare time. It was like having a flock of little sisters to replace the ones he so sorely missed.
Except for Diana Highwood.
He’d never felt brotherly toward her.
He drained his ale. It wasn’t strong enough. “Pauline?”
She looked up from mopping a table clean. “Yes, Mr. Dawes? Anythin’ else you need?”
“Bring me a whiskey, will you?”
CHAPTER 2
As was their habit, all the ladies residing in the Queen’s Ruby rooming house gathered in the parlor after dinner. A roaring fire kept the chill at bay.
Even now, hours after leaving the forge, Diana was still out-of-sorts. The bit of needlework she’d been working on wouldn’t come out right, and she’d lost patience with it.
She’d lost patience with herself.
She’d spent the better part of two years girlishly infatuated with Aaron Dawes, all the while trusting nothing could come of it. He’d mended every scrap of metal she possessed—sometimes two or three times—showing her nothing but neighborly patience.
Until today. Today, he’d shown her something much more.
And she’d panicked and fled. Not even politely, but as if he were an ogre. She was certain he’d been wounded by her hasty retreat.
Now she’d have to avoid him for as long as she remained in the village. How unbearably awkward.
She gave up on stitching and cast a glance out the window. Through the dark and wet, she saw a familiar black mare grazing on the village green.
He must be at the tavern tonight.
“This dratted rain,” her sister Charlotte moaned. “It’s setting us all on edge. Two weeks now with no country walks, no gardening, no romps through the castle ruins. No amusement at all.”
“I don’t mind rain.” This came from Miss Bertram, a young lady new in Spindle Cove this spring. “I always loved spending rainy days with Mr. Evermoore.”
Charlotte stifled a giggle.
Diana gave her sister a pleading look. Don’t. Don’t make fun.
Spindle Cove was a haven for odd, unconventional, and misunderstood young ladies. But even among misfits, Miss Bertram didn’t quite mix. She was hard to know—mostly because she had nothing to say that didn’t involve her relationship with this mysterious rogue, Mr. Evermoore.
“My parents didn’t approve of Mr. Evermoore,” Miss Bertram went on. Her dark eyebrows stood out like bold punctuation on an otherwise unremarkable face. “They don’t understand our attachment. That’s why I’m here, you know.”
Charlotte giggled again.
Miss Bertram’s dark eyebrows gathered in a wounded line. “No one understands. No one.” She lifted her book before her face and turned a page with a snap.
Charlotte buried her face in her hands and convulsed with silent laughter.
“Stop,” Diana whispered. “You shouldn’t poke fun.”
“Who needs to poke it? She offers it up so readily.” Charlotte mimicked in a high whisper, “Oh, Mr. Evermoore. No one understands our love.”
“She’s hardly the first young woman to lose her head over an unsuitable man.”
“What about an imaginary one? I’d wager anything that Mr. Evermoore is Mr. Never-Was. She just wants to impress us.”
“All the more reason to show her kindness.”