“It’s half day,” he said, sitting up, “and my employees are well compensated for tolerating my eccentricities regarding mealtimes. I also look in on the kitchen unannounced.”

“Eccentric, indeed.”

And so dear. Stephen was the most attentive lady’s maid Abigail had ever encountered, using his pocket comb to tidy her hair and making short work of her ribbons, hooks, and laces. He required no assistance dressing, having developed methods of donning his clothing that let him either sit or use one hand while balancing on sturdy furniture.

All too soon, he was again the natty gent, and Abigail was a lady attired for an outing to the shops. When she would have left the study for the kitchen, Stephen stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“A hug for courage,” he said, drawing her close. “And for gratitude. Thank you, Abigail. I will dream of this interlude when I’m a curmudgeonly old relic, and the memory will make my heart that of a young and happy man.”

She hugged him back, hard, and blinked away foolish tears. All too many of her encounters with Champlain had ended with a quick kiss and him telling her to “tidy up and take care.” He’d disappear for days or weeks, then show up again, all smiles, ready for another quick trip to the nearest hayloft.

And she, being young, stupid, and desperate for a man’s notice, had gone with him willingly.

“Food for the soul having been attended to,” Stephen said, stepping back and taking her hand, “let’s find some food for the body. One doesn’t attempt a mercantile sortie on an empty belly.”

He knew his way around the kitchen, and waved off the single scullery maid on duty. He directed her to take her work into the garden, and she seemed happy enough to gather up her bowl of peas and go.

“That one,” he said, “was plying the horizontal trade until six months ago. You never saw a woman happier to peel potatoes. Ham or beef on your sandwich?”

“Neither. Cheese and butter will do. Do you prefer cider or ale, or should we make a pot of tea?”

“Cider this time of year is a good choice. Were your people the sort to boycott sugar?”

“Absolutely, and I still buy sugar sparingly and only from Indian sources.”

Stephen was at home in this kitchen, knew where the knives and bread loaves were, handled the cheese parer competently, and managed to move about with a cane in one hand and plate in the other.

He brought a tray stacked high with sandwiches to the plank table in the center of the kitchen. “I suspect,” he said, “that reducing English consumption of sugar just allowed more enslaved labor to be devoted to tobacco, rum, and coffee, all of which lend themselves to habitual consumption, and were more impervious to boycotts.”