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Dulcie's Gift. Ruth Langan
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“There’s a bunny and a turtle and a deer and…” Her voice faded for a moment, then she announced, “But the bunny is my favorite, even though I can’t ever touch it.”
“And why is that?” Barc asked.
“Mr. Robert said they belong to Aunt Bessie, and I must never, ever touch them.”
“Quite right,” Aunt Bessie said in her regal tones. She crossed the room and took a seat beside the table.
After everyone else was seated, Robert moved among them, offering coffee for the adults, glasses of milk for the children and cookies for everyone.
When Aunt Bessie saw Nathaniel reaching for a second cookie before he’d eaten his first, she admonished, “Nathaniel, it is polite to take only what you can eat.”
“Yes’m. But I know I can eat two.”
He glanced at Dulcie for permission. She gently shook her head. With reluctance he replaced the second cookie.
Beside him, Barc helped himself to two cookies and slipped one into the boy’s hand. The look on Nathaniel’s face spoke volumes.
Across the room, Cal stood alone, a cup in his hand, his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. When Dulcie glanced at him, she found him staring at her. A shiver passed through her and she looked away. But against her will she shot another glance in his direction. Cal bowed his head ever so slightly and lifted his cup in a salute. Her cheeks reddened, and she stiffened her back defiantly before turning away from him.
Across the room, Aunt Bessie watched, intrigued by what she saw. Her flinty nephew and that mysterious young woman struck sparks off each other every time they came close. They had best beware, she thought with a tightly clenched jaw. Sometimes, a single spark was all it took to ignite a forest fire.
“I will say good-night now.” Aunt Bessie handed her cup to Robert and made her way to the door. “Calhoun, will you see me to my room?”
“Of course.” Her nephew put down his coffee and offered his arm.
As the two swept from the room and up the wide, curved staircase, Dulcie stifled a yawn. “Come, children,” she said. “It’s time for bed.”
Lulled by the food, exhausted by their day’s work, Starlight and the children offered no protest as they followed Dulcie out of the room and up the stairs. Dulcie tucked the two little girls in bed, kissed them, then proceeded to Nathaniel’s room.
“Barc is nice, isn’t he?” the child murmured as Dulcie smoothed the covers over him.
“Yes.”
“He gave me one of his cookies.”
“That was kind of him.”
“You don’t mind?”
Dulcie laughed. “No, Nathaniel, I don’t mind. I just want you to remember your manners. These people are kind enough to offer us shelter, and in return we owe them some courtesy.”
“I’ll work hard, Dulcie.”
She tousled his hair and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I know you will. I’m very proud of you, Nathaniel. Good night.”
“Good night, Dulcie.”
She closed his door and made her way to the room where Clara lay sleeping. A touch to the child’s forehead assured her that there was no fever. For long moments she stood beside the bed, listening to the slow, easy breathing, relieved that her young charge seemed to be mending.
Next she checked on Fiona. The room was in darkness except for a pale sliver of light, and she clasped her friend’s hand as she stood by the bed. “Oh, Fiona, I’m frightened for you.”
“Don’t be.” Cal’s deep voice, directly behind her, made her gasp and spin around.
At her reaction he said, “Forgive me, Miss Trenton. I thought you’d seen me when you came in. I just thought I’d look in on your friend.”
Cal studied Dulcie in the spill of moonlight. Though she resembled so many of the other refugees he’d seen clogging the roads in the South, there was a stubborn strength in her, a fierceness that said she would survive at any cost.
He had a wild impulse to plunge his hand into the silken waves of her dark hair, to feel its smooth texture against his skin. His gaze skimmed her mouth, and he felt his throat go dry at the thought of the kiss he had stolen earlier.
An awkward silence settled between them.
Dulcie studied the man who stood scant inches from her, half his face moonlit, half in shadow. That was how she saw him. A part of him solid and steady, another part dark and dangerous. What was most alarming was that she couldn’t decide which side was most attractive to her.
“I’ll say good-night now, Miss Trenton.” He made no move to leave.
“Good night, Mr. Jermain.” She stood very still, watching him.
The figure in the bed moaned, and they both turned, their shoulders brushing as they leaned close.
“Fiona,” Dulcie whispered, “can you hear me?”
The young woman moaned again, then drifted back to sleep.
Dulcie gave a shaky sigh. “I suppose I must stop hoping for miracles.”
Cal gave a harsh sound that might have been a laugh had it not been so filled with pain. “I gave up on miracles a long time ago.”
Without thinking she glanced down at his sleeve. Seeing the direction of her gaze, he stiffened, then turned away.
She thought briefly about holding him back with a touch, a word. But what could she possibly do or say that would ease the awkwardness between them? She allowed the moment to pass.
Without a word he left.
For long minutes she remained, listening to her friend’s breathing. The only other sound in the room was the pounding of her own heart.
Cal awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of feminine voices down the hall. Opening one eye, he peered through the gloom, then rolled over, determined to steal a little more rest.
There was a trill of laughter, then more talking.
So much for sleep, he thought as he crawled out of bed and snatched up a pair of trousers. He pulled on his boots, then made his way down the hall, pulling on a shirt as he did. Without bothering to button it, he paused outside a closed door, listening to the high-pitched voices. Though it was not yet dawn, they were chattering like magpies.
He twisted open the door and thundered, “Doesn’t anyone care that there are people asleep in this house?”
The sight that greeted him was like a bucket of cold water to his heated temper. The young Irishwoman was propped up in her bed, with mounds of pillows supporting her. Beside her sat the little girl with the injured arm, Clara. Though both of them still looked pale, their eyes were crinkled with laughter. But it was the figure in the middle of the bed that caught and held his attention.
Dulcie sat, surrounded by all her charges, dressed in her chemise and petticoat and draped in a ragged shawl. Her waist-length hair spilled about her shoulders in a riot of curls.
They all looked up with alarm, their laughter quickly extinguished.
“Forgive me, Mr. Jermain,” Dulcie said. “We were so happy to see Clara and Fiona recovered from their wounds that we forgot about you and your family.”
“I see.” He took a step closer to the bed and said to Fiona, “So, you are awake at last.”
“Aye.”