disapproval as she unstacked the boxes from his arms.
Another fifteen minutes of fussing and arranging by M§g, and then Callie watched the door close on mother and son. For a moment she stood where she was, alone and silent, listening to the strange sounds the wind made on the roof. To her city ears the sounds of the country house were odd and enticing.
Meg had told her to be downstairs in the parlor in an hour. She hurried with her unpacking, giving in to
temptation to look out her window to see if there really were cows and sheep right outside. There werel Who ever heard of an evil person who worried to keep their cows and sheep warm? Or perhaps it was the sign of a man who cared naught for people and only for animals. Or maybe it was normal for a farm. She pushed away these thoughts and held to the first. The aching hope surged through her chest, burning her throat and eyes.
Was Stephen truly as good as he appeared? Would she be a part of this family as Meg promised? A sister to Natalie? And Peter—? She closed the thought off. She'd avoid Peter somehow. She'd wish him away. Stephen would protect her. Stephen would. . . . Callie tinned from the window. There was nothing she could expect from Stephen. And there was nothing she could expect to come of Meg's promises. Her father had been right when he told her never to dream "If onlies." Hope was balm for the soul, but unfortunately Callie had learned these past months that hope seldom coincided with the reality of her life. Her mind turned to Mrs. Pettibone's warnings: never trust too easily or too completely. Life might appear as an Eden, but it was a bitter Eden. Reinforced, Callie now knew that her life with the Bereans would only be a sufferance. She'd do what she could to please, but guardedly, protective of herself. It left her feeling empty, as though again she had been abandoned. She went back to her unpacking. Slowly, methodically, she took from her boxes Ian's books, his quill pen, his smoking jacket, fondling each, drawing herself back to a lost happiness by their feel and scent. She lost track of time, never thinking of the time Meg told her the Bereans would have dinner.
Meg's family was gathered long before Callie was ready to join them. There was much curiosity about
this young girl who had 1 come to them so suddenly and then arrived unconscious. Albert Foxe, on the strength of his engagement to Natalie, shared in the curiosity and had invited himself to dinner.
Albert, in his late twenties, was handsome in a refined, highly bred fashion. His features were small and regular. He was vain both of his looks and of his reputation for shrewdness. Not above a bit of posturing, Albert carried himself with the ramrod rigidity of a military man. The pride of his life was the moderate, well-waxed mustache he sported, which he fingered with annoying regularity. Leaning back in studied relaxation, Albert twirled the ends of his mustache and stated, "She seems frail, but frailty is often accompanied by an amiable disposition." He was pleased with the sound of his words. It was almost a direct quote of something his mother had said about Natalie, and his mother was always eloquent.
"You make her sound dreadfully dull," Rosalind sighed. "But what could we expect, bringing a street waif into the house? Really, Mother Berean, I think you have taken on far more than you know. It may be a dreadful mistake. We know nothing of the girl. She . . . she could be anything ... a pickpocket ... a thief. Peter said he caught her stealing a package. And now here she is, a virtual invalid. I quite frankly think she is a superior actress."
"The package turned out to be her own property/' Peter said.
"Then why was she sneaking around? The landlady probably just said it was hers to make sure you took her. I'm sure that woman didn't want to be stuck with the girl. Anyone else would have seen through that ruse."
Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then rose and stirred
Another fifteen minutes of fussing and arranging by M§g, and then Callie watched the door close on mother and son. For a moment she stood where she was, alone and silent, listening to the strange sounds the wind made on the roof. To her city ears the sounds of the country house were odd and enticing.
Meg had told her to be downstairs in the parlor in an hour. She hurried with her unpacking, giving in to
temptation to look out her window to see if there really were cows and sheep right outside. There werel Who ever heard of an evil person who worried to keep their cows and sheep warm? Or perhaps it was the sign of a man who cared naught for people and only for animals. Or maybe it was normal for a farm. She pushed away these thoughts and held to the first. The aching hope surged through her chest, burning her throat and eyes.
Was Stephen truly as good as he appeared? Would she be a part of this family as Meg promised? A sister to Natalie? And Peter—? She closed the thought off. She'd avoid Peter somehow. She'd wish him away. Stephen would protect her. Stephen would. . . . Callie tinned from the window. There was nothing she could expect from Stephen. And there was nothing she could expect to come of Meg's promises. Her father had been right when he told her never to dream "If onlies." Hope was balm for the soul, but unfortunately Callie had learned these past months that hope seldom coincided with the reality of her life. Her mind turned to Mrs. Pettibone's warnings: never trust too easily or too completely. Life might appear as an Eden, but it was a bitter Eden. Reinforced, Callie now knew that her life with the Bereans would only be a sufferance. She'd do what she could to please, but guardedly, protective of herself. It left her feeling empty, as though again she had been abandoned. She went back to her unpacking. Slowly, methodically, she took from her boxes Ian's books, his quill pen, his smoking jacket, fondling each, drawing herself back to a lost happiness by their feel and scent. She lost track of time, never thinking of the time Meg told her the Bereans would have dinner.
Meg's family was gathered long before Callie was ready to join them. There was much curiosity about
this young girl who had 1 come to them so suddenly and then arrived unconscious. Albert Foxe, on the strength of his engagement to Natalie, shared in the curiosity and had invited himself to dinner.
Albert, in his late twenties, was handsome in a refined, highly bred fashion. His features were small and regular. He was vain both of his looks and of his reputation for shrewdness. Not above a bit of posturing, Albert carried himself with the ramrod rigidity of a military man. The pride of his life was the moderate, well-waxed mustache he sported, which he fingered with annoying regularity. Leaning back in studied relaxation, Albert twirled the ends of his mustache and stated, "She seems frail, but frailty is often accompanied by an amiable disposition." He was pleased with the sound of his words. It was almost a direct quote of something his mother had said about Natalie, and his mother was always eloquent.
"You make her sound dreadfully dull," Rosalind sighed. "But what could we expect, bringing a street waif into the house? Really, Mother Berean, I think you have taken on far more than you know. It may be a dreadful mistake. We know nothing of the girl. She . . . she could be anything ... a pickpocket ... a thief. Peter said he caught her stealing a package. And now here she is, a virtual invalid. I quite frankly think she is a superior actress."
"The package turned out to be her own property/' Peter said.
"Then why was she sneaking around? The landlady probably just said it was hers to make sure you took her. I'm sure that woman didn't want to be stuck with the girl. Anyone else would have seen through that ruse."
Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then rose and stirred
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