grew intense. "But surely you have a cook."
"Well, yes, and Maeve is wonderful. But still, I'd love to be able to cook something like this. Or at the very least, be able to recognize turnips and chervil and such." Belle went on with her soup as everyone at the table stared at her.
"Stephen, you never told me that you met our neighbor!" Adam ignored the soup as he looked back and forth between his brother and Belle.
Stephen reached over and picked up the rounded spoon to the right of the long row of knives. "At the time I was unaware of who she was."
Belle eyed him, her lips quirked up in a smile. "Would it have mattered if you had?"
Stephen's spoon halted midway to his mouth. After a frozen second he cleared his throat and consumed the soup.
"Ah," the Widow Hathaway interjected smoothly, "the next course."
The soup bowls had barely been taken away before thick cuts of roast beef with onion dressing, Duchess potatoes, and red cabbage were set before them. But with the fare came an almost palpable tension.
Belle felt it. She would have sworn Josephine Fiel-
92Linda Francis Lee
ding cleared her throat nervously. Even Adam seemed uncertain.
Belle watched as Stephen stared at the meat on his plate—the meat that would undoubtedly take a knife, fork and two hands to cut.
How would he do it? she wondered. And she wondered as well why it mattered to him. She nearly said as much. But just then, she glanced back at his face and words caught in her throat when she saw it again, that look in his eye she recognized. Pain and frustration, all mixed up with pride—hating the inability to do for oneself, hating the weakness.
Her world began to buzz and spin. But unlike that night at the Bulfinch House, this time she wouldn't flee, indeed, couldn't flee short of staggering out of Mrs. Elden Abbot's dining room with some vague apology about having to leave. No, she wouldn't do that. Instead, she concentrated on cutting up her own meat into orderly, square, bite-sized little pieces, the precision of the action easing her. The others began to talk nervously all around her as if embarrased, clearly uncertain as to how to handle such an awkward situation with such a notoriously forbidding man.
Conversation grew more strained as Stephen sat silently, the tension from his body radiating in all directions. Belle was sure that Stephen sensed their unease. She felt his rage grow as if it were her own.
"So, Mrs. Braxton," Reverend Fielding said, clearly uncomfortable. "How do you like our Public Gardens? I'm sure you had nothing like it in Wrenville."
The voice came at her as if tumbling down a long hollow tunnel, echoing in her head. For a moment her hands stilled in their labor and she did nothing more than stare at him blankly.
Blue Waltz 93
"Mrs. Braxton?"
Her eyes focused and her mind cleared. Conversation had ceased and all but Stephen looked at her expectantly, hopefully, as if somehow she could save them from this awkward moment.
"A little too big for my tastes, Mr. Fielding," she said with surprising ease. "In fact, look at that painting over there. It reminds me of the Public Gardens." She nodded toward the opposite end of the room. Everyone turned, and with a sleight-of-hands that would have done a magician proud, Belle switched her plate with Stephen's.
A heartbeat passed, before she felt his tension increase, rolling over her like a wave of frigid cold water. Her world grew silent. Time held no meaning. She had insulted him, she thought with heart-wrenching certainty, when she had only been trying to help.
She told herself she didn't care, but she knew it wasn't true. She cared very much. And she hated that she cared.
Her body tensed much as Stephen's had. She wanted to go, flee out into the cold night. Why was it that she couldn't do anything right?
The question was painfully familiar. She had asked it of herself so many times she wondered why it wasn't emblazoned on her chest. She- took a deep breath, then very
"Well, yes, and Maeve is wonderful. But still, I'd love to be able to cook something like this. Or at the very least, be able to recognize turnips and chervil and such." Belle went on with her soup as everyone at the table stared at her.
"Stephen, you never told me that you met our neighbor!" Adam ignored the soup as he looked back and forth between his brother and Belle.
Stephen reached over and picked up the rounded spoon to the right of the long row of knives. "At the time I was unaware of who she was."
Belle eyed him, her lips quirked up in a smile. "Would it have mattered if you had?"
Stephen's spoon halted midway to his mouth. After a frozen second he cleared his throat and consumed the soup.
"Ah," the Widow Hathaway interjected smoothly, "the next course."
The soup bowls had barely been taken away before thick cuts of roast beef with onion dressing, Duchess potatoes, and red cabbage were set before them. But with the fare came an almost palpable tension.
Belle felt it. She would have sworn Josephine Fiel-
92Linda Francis Lee
ding cleared her throat nervously. Even Adam seemed uncertain.
Belle watched as Stephen stared at the meat on his plate—the meat that would undoubtedly take a knife, fork and two hands to cut.
How would he do it? she wondered. And she wondered as well why it mattered to him. She nearly said as much. But just then, she glanced back at his face and words caught in her throat when she saw it again, that look in his eye she recognized. Pain and frustration, all mixed up with pride—hating the inability to do for oneself, hating the weakness.
Her world began to buzz and spin. But unlike that night at the Bulfinch House, this time she wouldn't flee, indeed, couldn't flee short of staggering out of Mrs. Elden Abbot's dining room with some vague apology about having to leave. No, she wouldn't do that. Instead, she concentrated on cutting up her own meat into orderly, square, bite-sized little pieces, the precision of the action easing her. The others began to talk nervously all around her as if embarrased, clearly uncertain as to how to handle such an awkward situation with such a notoriously forbidding man.
Conversation grew more strained as Stephen sat silently, the tension from his body radiating in all directions. Belle was sure that Stephen sensed their unease. She felt his rage grow as if it were her own.
"So, Mrs. Braxton," Reverend Fielding said, clearly uncomfortable. "How do you like our Public Gardens? I'm sure you had nothing like it in Wrenville."
The voice came at her as if tumbling down a long hollow tunnel, echoing in her head. For a moment her hands stilled in their labor and she did nothing more than stare at him blankly.
Blue Waltz 93
"Mrs. Braxton?"
Her eyes focused and her mind cleared. Conversation had ceased and all but Stephen looked at her expectantly, hopefully, as if somehow she could save them from this awkward moment.
"A little too big for my tastes, Mr. Fielding," she said with surprising ease. "In fact, look at that painting over there. It reminds me of the Public Gardens." She nodded toward the opposite end of the room. Everyone turned, and with a sleight-of-hands that would have done a magician proud, Belle switched her plate with Stephen's.
A heartbeat passed, before she felt his tension increase, rolling over her like a wave of frigid cold water. Her world grew silent. Time held no meaning. She had insulted him, she thought with heart-wrenching certainty, when she had only been trying to help.
She told herself she didn't care, but she knew it wasn't true. She cared very much. And she hated that she cared.
Her body tensed much as Stephen's had. She wanted to go, flee out into the cold night. Why was it that she couldn't do anything right?
The question was painfully familiar. She had asked it of herself so many times she wondered why it wasn't emblazoned on her chest. She- took a deep breath, then very
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