“Good evening, Mrs. Thomas.” The voice was quiet, almost chaste. We turned to greet Bart Hunnowell, who bowed over Mama’s hand and then raised his eyes to me. “Good evening, Miss Thomas.”

I smiled at him shyly. “Good evening, Mr. Hunnowell.”

“Madame”—he turned back to Mama—“I have thought often of you throughout the winter and hoped you were well”—his voice faltered—“after Mr. Thomas’s fall.”

Mama smiled at him, her eyes suddenly bright. “Thank you, Mr. Hunnowell. You are kind.” And she looked away from him, toward his bags. “What lovely valises you have,” she said softly.

“How was your journey?” I asked a trifle loudly, and made a move toward the sitting room, forcing Bart Hunnowell to keep step beside me while Mama composed herself, and in that moment he gave me a smile so unexpectedly kind, it cut me to the core. I stared at him an instant. Where was the raillery? But then he dropped back again into his old, easy habits of address.

“It is one of the distinct and several wonders of this world, Miss Thomas, that after nearly a year apart, you still remain so raptly interested in my welfare.”

Here was safe ground reached. Here was the sitting room with its marked terrain—there the chair for us to sit in, there the divan for Mama to lie back in—here the room for conversations signifying nought but companionable time. My chin cocked, I smiled back at him, affecting the coquette.

“The House has awaited your arrival, sir, with anxious and repeated forays to the window to sight your first approach.”

“Ah, and were you among these nervous sentries?” He had thrown his head back against the antimacassar, striking the pose of a weary saint, his dark hair framed by Mrs. French’s pearly white laces. It could not be helped. He was lovely.

“Certainly not, sir.” I was suddenly discomfited, and I walked without thinking toward the window facing the harbor.

“No, Miss Thomas?” The laughter lurked around his drawl. “You certainly seem to take up the part of the watcher at the window quite naturally.”

Oh! He had pressed too close upon me. And I had wished to think of him kindly. I whirled to stab him with a home truth.

“I do not watch for you, Mr. Hunnowell. I am nearly en—” But I could not finish the thought out loud.

“Enraptured? Endangered?” He had stood up as well and stepped toward me at the window. “Enfeebled by your—”

“This conversation, if one might call it that, has gone far enough, I think.” Mama broke in quickly here, and thankfully so, for I was at a loss. This drawing room banter had sudden teeth.

“Yes,” Bart agreed, his eyes upon me. “We were caught unwitting upon the very shoals of a confession.”

“Mr. Hunnowell”—Mama’s tone was a little dangerous—“what tales have you of your travels this past winter?”