The oars flashed as they dipped, shivering the bright curtain of reflected stars that lay upon the sea. A second light appeared the closer we drew, casting its glow into the night. Miss Grange’s window stared out upon us, a quiet beacon for our return. And to my exhausted, exhilarated senses, it seemed to shine out for me alone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ruth and Cynthia possessed themselves of the verandah the following morning and, carefully as any pickers, were examining all possible hard shells for the rich meat of Romance inside.

“What do you think of Maisie Thomas and Mr. Lanman?”

“Well, what are his prospects?”

“Eldest son of a father who’d gone off—a bit loopy, Mama says.” Cynthia’s voice slowed.

“Loopy!” Ruth remarked with not a little glee. “What does she mean? Is there madness in the family?”

(At this—I could not help it—I nearly stood upon the bench where I had been reading, the better to hear her reply.)

“Well …” Cynthia paused. “Mama says the father studied rocks out in the Arizona desert and, so the story goes, was overtaken by Apache warriors who squatted round him in a circle for one whole day watching as he dug, and polished what he dug. I imagine that’s unnerving for anyone, but he had some idea about the rights of savages and he offered them what he’d found—whereupon they spat on the ground before him and faded as silently away as they had come.”

“Mercy!”

Cynthia laughed a little shrilly, unaccustomed as she was to being the one with the tale to tell. “Mama met him once, I think. At the Cabot Cotillion.”

“Last year?”

“No, no. Years ago. He was very tall, she said, and with long white curls left free. Most attractive, but utterly—” Her voice broke off abruptly and then started up again in a tone of delighted surprise. “Oh! Good morning, Mr. Hunnowell!”

I looked up to see him upon the verandah.

“Ladies,” he drawled as he passed by, then went down the stairs, where he stood upon the lawn for a moment, considering. I fully expected him to continue toward the water, but instead he wheeled round, and so caught sight of me. I ducked my head down into the book.

“Good morning, Miss Thomas.” He now stood before me.

“It is,” I replied, glancing briefly up from my page, then casting my eyes quickly back down. How to conduct an ordinary conversation when he had seen me laugh so? But he turned back toward the water and, without another word to me, stood near, his arms crossed. And glancing up again, I saw there was harbor all round in this silence. Nothing moved. Nothing sounded. The lobster buoys upon the water held the view in scattered dots.