Page 27

Granny lingered another hour, her breathing increasingly slow and labored. Sara listened for each inhalation, her heart in her throat, wondering if it would be the last. When the end came, it was peaceful. Granny didn’t open her eyes, didn’t speak, but the lines of pain disappeared from her face.

Sara buried her face in the blankets, letting the tears fall as she rested her head against Granny’s side. She didn’t want to let go. James stood back, a silent presence that was strangely comforting. He reminded her she wasn’t completely alone. Evie needed her.

James’s hand touched her shoulder, tentative and warm.

Sara turned, drying her face and avoiding his eyes, afraid to see sympathy that would crack her composure again.

“Would you... would you like me to make arrangements for the funeral?” he asked.

Sara tensed. The funeral. She’d hadn’t even thought that far. Her eyes flew to his face. “I’m not sure. I haven’t thought—” The thought of arrangements and plots made her head spin. Not to mention fees she had no way of paying.

“You pack Granny’s things. Say a final goodbye. I’ll take care of it.” He squeezed her shoulder, calm and steady. A rock when she was adrift.

“Thank you.”

In the hall, he spoke with Molly in a low murmur.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him press a coin into Molly’s hand, saw the woman nod with alacrity.

She ought to refuse his help. Granny wasn’t his responsibility.

Yet she was so weary, so heartsore, she couldn’t rouse herself to protest. He could deduct it from her wage.

It was past midnight by the time she’d packed Granny’s meager belongings into a crate to be delivered to the widow next door, keeping only a quilt and the family Bible for herself.

James led her to the carriage, putting a steadying hand under her elbow.

He seemed to understand her state of mind, for he didn’t pester her with questions.

She needed the quiet of the drive home to examine her sorrow.

Alone. She was alone again. The control she’d kept over her emotions loosened and the tears began.

Soon her shoulders shuddered with suppressed sobs.

He didn’t utter any calming platitudes but let her linger in her grief.

The only sign he heard her was the clean handkerchief he pressed into her hand with a gentle squeeze.

The house was abed when they returned. Sara lit a taper from the table in the front hall, illuminating a letter addressed to James.

He scanned the note, his lips tightening.

Sara turned to head to the kitchen. She felt raw, her heart aching with loss.

She wanted to curl up in her attic and block out the world, yet she dreaded being alone.

To her surprise, James dropped the letter on the hall table and followed her. “Are you hungry? I’m sure there’s something in the larder.” His voice was gentle, coaxing. He lifted his candle to better illuminate their faces.

“Won’t we wake Mrs. Hobbes?”

He shook his head. “She sleeps with Evie when I’m from home. Come, a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, I’m guessing.”

Tenderness lit his features, so unlike the formal expression she was used to that it took her a moment to comprehend his words.

And by then, she was following him down the hall to the kitchen, his hand grasping her elbow.

It felt easy and natural. Too natural. When he looked at her like that, as though her well-being were paramount, it was hard to remember that he was her employer.

In the kitchen, he surprised her again, setting the kettle on to boil and slicing bread for toast. She watched him, her brows raised in question, and he shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

“I wasn’t always a useless lawyer, you know.

When I first arrived in Upper Canada, I had rooms with some other bachelors.

We had a maid come in, but I had to learn my way about the kitchen.

” He buttered the toast and set a slice on a plate in front of her, then rummaged in the pantry for the jam.

“I’m afraid tea and toast are about the extent of my capabilities though.

” He sat down across from her, his smile lighting up his features and drawing her in, making her want to smile back.

“I had to learn the hard way, too,” she found herself saying. “Granny taught me a bit, but it was mostly a trial by fire.” James took a sip of his tea, his eyes roaming over her face, all his attention focused on her. It was delightful and terrifying all at once.

“What was your worst disaster in the kitchen?” he asked. “I’ll tell you mine, but you go first.”

To her surprise, she did just that, recalling that first failed loaf of bread she’d made in the bake kettle, black on the bottom and mushy on top.

“You’d never made bread before?” James stared at her, his chin tilted in question.

“Ah, no, never.” She hurried on before he could ask another question about her past. “My bread was unrecognizable. Like a blob of paste in a bowl made of charcoal. Colin ate it anyway, though he couldn’t manage to look like he enjoyed it.”

The smile faded from James’s face. “You miss him still.”

Sara nodded, looking away. What was it about this man that brought down all her defenses? “He was ever patient with me.”

“I’m sorry,” James said, clearing his throat. “I shouldn’t bring up the past. No sense remembering old wounds.”

His words brought her eyes back to his face.

“Don’t apologize. I... I want to talk about him.

When I remember him, it’s like I still have some connection with the love we once shared.

” His eyes widened, and she bit her lip, wishing the words unsaid.

It usually made others uncomfortable when she shared her grief.

She turned the topic. “Now tell me your cooking story. Let me guess... burnt toast?”

“How did you know?”

Sara found her eyes glued to James’s face as he recounted a mishap with flaming toast. She’d never seen his expression so open and animated.

“I just forgot about it, there’s no excuse.

But by the time I’d doused the flames, the street was full of neighbors about to organize a fire brigade.

” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “You should have seen the looks on their faces when I came out and had to explain how I’d managed to set the kitchen curtains on fire. ”

She laughed and he joined her and neither of them could seem to stop. She couldn’t remember when last she’d laughed this hard. Maybe during those first few heady days of her courtship with Colin. Maybe never.

Colin. What a strange joy it was to simply remember the happy times. She drained the last of her tea and put her cup down to find James watching her intently.

The kitchen shrank until it was only the two of them, close together in the gentle glow of the candle. His gaze slid lower to rest on her mouth and her heart lurched. The room was unaccountably warm. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

“Sara, I—”

She jumped up, breaking the spell between them. “It’s late.”

“Wait. I just want to ask you something.” She paused in the act of picking up her dishes. “I’m going away.”

Sara fixated on one word. “Away?”

His eyes slid away from hers, down to a crumb on the table. He pinched it between his fingers, depositing it on his plate. “Yes. That letter... I’ll need to go north by Friday. There’s a meeting in Holland Landing I must attend.”

Holland Landing. The tiny town was a hotbed for radicals from all she’d heard. “You’re a rebel?” The words left her in a rush of surprise. James struck her as serious and law-abiding. Far from a rabble-rouser.

If she closed her eyes, she could picture her father, pacing around the parlor, denouncing the rebel leader, Mackenzie. The way he sees it, any common lout who can answer yay or nay ought to decide the future of this colony. Can you imagine what would befall us if those men had their way?

James flushed. “Not a rebel exactly. But things need to change.” His lips firmed.

“We’re strangling in a morass of regulations that only benefit a few families.

” His hand slid across the table, coming to rest on top of hers.

“You’ve seen how the poor spend their savings to come here and then are trapped in the same poverty they thought to leave behind. It’s not right.”

“I know,” Sara whispered. Colin worked fourteen hours a day, she’d taken in laundry, yet they’d been trapped in a dingy lodging with no hope of anything more. Poverty drove him to the lumber camps. And ultimately killed him.

James fought against the control of old money and old-world hierarchies. The thought warmed her. She’d grown up in that world and fought against it, too, in her own way.

“But it’s dangerous. I mean, rebellion... it’s treason.”

He gave his head an impatient shake. “I’m not talking about an armed rebellion. I’m talking about change. The Whigs did it in England. There’s no reason we can’t have those same reforms. I feel better knowing you’re here.”

She wondered if he was aware of his thumb, slowly brushing across the back of her hand. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than the warmth of that movement, each sweep sending a shower of sparks up her arm.

Granny told her she wasn’t alone and maybe she’d been right. Here were two people she’d come to care about who needed her.

She gave a short, jerky nod. “Don’t worry about Evie. I’ll take good care of her. We’ll be right here waiting when you get back.”

James closed his eyes for a moment. We’ll be right here waiting.

Sara had included herself in the promise.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to hear that, even as he recognized the danger it presented.

He was attracted to her. He wanted to be with her, talk to her.

.. touch her. But she was his governess.

Whatever this was between them was impossible. Wasn’t it?

As though she heard his question, she tugged her hand out from under his, looking pensive.

He couldn’t bear to see the worry on her face.

He reached out to grasp her hand again as she would have tucked it under her skirt.

“Sara, remember my promise to Granny. You have a home here for as long as you need it.”

Instead of comforting her, his words seemed to distress her further. Her lips trembled. Tears wet her lashes and trickled down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry,” he said, brushing away a tear with his thumb.

“I hate to see you upset.” He knew how sorrow built, how each new loss brought old wounds sweeping back, stronger than ever.

Something at once sweet and painful shifted inside him.

He’d walk through burning coals if it would take this pain away from her.

“Don’t cry?” Her lips twisted in a brief, humorless smile. “After Colin died, I didn’t shed a tear. It was like I was afraid if I started crying, I would never stop.”

James closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to feel the grief he’d bottled up for so long. Amelia’s death was fraught with guilt and horror and... powerlessness. He tried never to think of it.

“I needed to cry,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Granny knew that. She wore me down, talking about Colin, mourning him with her Scriptures and songs until I finally cracked and sobbed in her arms for hours. After that, well, I wasn’t happy, but I could finally sleep through the night again.”

He hadn’t slept well for five years after Amelia died. He still often woke in the night, though lately, since Sara O’Connor had come, it was better. He’d thought it was because his worry for Evie had eased. But perhaps—

“I-I beg your pardon,” she said, rising suddenly. “I’ve been rambling on when you must wish me long gone to bed.”

James straightened, realizing she’d read his continued silence as disinterest. “No. Please stay. I just—” It was intoxicating, being with her like this.

Feeling things he’d bottled up for years while he soaked in the play of emotions across her face.

She turned away, her hand slipping from his grasp.

He didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.

“I was the same,” he said, rising. She froze, turning back to him. “I never cried. Thought I had to be strong for Evie. Now I’m wondering if that wasn’t... good for me.” The words spilled out, each one releasing some of the tight control he clung to.

Her lips curved in a tremulous smile. “Well, that’s why I’m crying now, you know. Because it’s good for me.”

James cupped her face in his hands. “And you, Sara O’Connor, are good for me .”

For a long moment their eyes met, her gaze soft and luminous. If he lowered his head just a few more inches, he could touch his lips to hers. Find out if they were as soft as they looked.

The taper on the table sputtered. Sara blinked and stiffened, and he dropped his hands as though he’d been stung. He hadn’t kissed a woman in years. What was it about Sara O’Connor that had him thinking about kisses and romance and... loving again?

He tried to read her reaction, but she kept her face averted, pulling down the ladder that led to her room, her movements jerky and rushed.

“Sara, wait...”

She turned, her foot on the bottom rung, her brows raised in question.

He struggled for words, his emotions in a tangled knot of hope and fear.

He wanted to tell her how he admired her.

How he’d never let anything hurt her again.

But how could he promise such a thing? There were too many reasons why drawing closer to her would be a mistake.

“I . . . Good night,” he finally said, his hands clenching at his sides.

She was still for a long moment before giving a jerky nod and turning her back to him.

“Good night, Mr. Kinney.”