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and fishermen down east. He wore a fine gray frock coat and matching vest and trousers, his boots polished to a shine. He was clean shaven, his hair, a rich brown, cut short.

      Mr. Townsend sent his son to escort Cherish to their home.

      “Mrs. Townsend and Annalise are awaiting you,” Townsend senior told her.

      “We’ll be up for dinner,” her father added.

      “I shall see you and Silas then,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

      They rode along the river, past stately homes. Just before entering the main town of Hatsfield, they turned into a tree-lined drive before a white-columned portico fronting a Greek revival house.

      “Welcome to our home,” Mrs. Townsend told her. She was a handsome-looking woman, with light brown hair and a stylish dress. “Annalise has been telling me what a nice visit she had with you and what a good hostess you were to her.”

      Cherish turned to smile at the bespectacled girl, surprised that she had made such a favorable comment. If the girl had enjoyed herself at all, it was thanks to Silas. She couldn’t remember Annalise having said more than two words to her. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Miss Townsend.”

      “Come, let us go inside, shall we?” Mrs. Townsend said.

      They chatted amiably for a while in a back parlor, although Cherish realized she and Mrs. Townsend did most of the talking.

      “Warren, why don’t you escort the young ladies around the gardens? I think the day is warm enough for a walk.”

      “I’m sure I should enjoy that, Mrs. Townsend.” She rose as soon as Warren stood, relieved to leave the overstuffed parlor for a while. Annalise followed suit.

      “Annalise, put on your wrap.”

      “Yes, Mama,” she murmured.

      They walked onto the slate porch that ran the length of the rear of the house. Warren offered them both an arm and proceeded down wide flagstone steps.

      They walked all the way down to the water’s edge, where the Townsends had a small dock. After a few moments of contemplating the river, they strode back up to a cedar bench amidst the flower beds.

      Cherish racked her brain for a conversation starter. She didn’t feel she had done anything for her father yet.

      “Did you truly enjoy yourself at my house the other day?” she asked Annalise.

      “Oh, yes,” she answered softly.

      “I would have been overwhelmed, having to meet so many strangers all at once.”

      “Perhaps she was a bit,” Warren answered for her. “But you stayed by her side. The young man who was with us—I don’t recall his name—was also very attentive.”

      “That was Silas van der Zee. He’s been with our family since he was twelve. He works with Papa in the boat shop.”

      “We must have him come back with you the next time, then.”

      “Oh, you’ll surely meet him today. He sailed over with us. He’ll be by with Papa.”

      “That’s fine,” Warren said with a smile at his sister.

      “I do hope the two of you can come back to Haven’s End again,” Cherish said after a bit. She thought quickly. “I’d like to give another party. Perhaps with a little dancing and games this time.”

      “We would look forward to that.”

      Cherish breathed a sigh of relief when the dinner hour approached and they decided to head back to the house. Her father would have returned.

      When she saw he was alone, she asked him, “Where’s Silas?”

      “Oh, he’ll get something to eat down at the wharf.”

      Cherish tightened her lips, not saying anything. How could he have Silas come along and then treat him like nothing but a hired hand?

      She would make it up to Silas, she promised herself.

      Chapter Three

      After breakfast the next day, Cherish reported to her aunt in the kitchen. “I am yours to command, Auntie.”

      “We’ll be baking, so get on a big apron if you don’t want to be covered in flour,” the woman replied without looking up.

      “I’m going for a picnic this noon with Silas. Do you think the bread will be ready by then?”

      Aunt Phoebe gave her a sharp glance from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. “You’re not still thinking the sun and moon sets on Silas, after traipsing over the Continent, meeting who knows how many young gentlemen?”

      “Silas is the finest man I know.”

      Aunt Phoebe placed a large earthenware bowl in front of Cherish on the worktable. “Set the cake of yeast in here with the sugar and put about a cup of milk on the stove to warm.

      “Well, perhaps it’s more than a schoolgirl’s fancy if it’s lasted this long,” her aunt conceded. “If it is, you’ve got more sense than I credited you with.”

      She brought a large crock of flour out of the pantry. “We’re making four loaves, so we’ll need a good bit of flour. That milk should be about ready. Test it on the inside of your arm. It should feel just warm enough to stand.”

      “Yes, that’s what it feels like.”

      “All right, bring it over and pour it over the yeast.” After she’d done so and let the yeast work a few minutes, her aunt dumped in some cupfuls of flour.

      “Still, I hope you won’t be disappointed in Silas. I’ve known him since he was a lad. He’s grown to be such a nice young man, but sometimes I wonder what’s going on behind those gray eyes. He’s never given me any trouble, not like my Henry,” she added with a shake of her head. “He’s never gotten drunk to my knowledge, never uttered a profanity, nor gambled away his money. I admire those things about him—but as I said, I wonder sometimes…”

      “Whatever do you mean?” Cherish asked, never having heard her aunt voice a concern about Silas.

      She sighed. “Sometimes it seems as if something’s hurt him so deep, he’s buried all his natural feelings. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt by a want of feeling on his part. You’re a sensitive girl, a giving soul. I don’t know…some people can’t give what they don’t have.”

      “I don’t believe that of Silas,” Cherish answered, emphasizing her remark with a decisive punch at the gooey dough, which succeeded only in stirring up the flour Aunt Phoebe had just emptied into the bowl. Cherish waved away the cloud of flour threatening to go up her nostrils. “I think Silas is a very sensitive person.”

      “Well, you never can tell about people,” her aunt answered philosophically. “Sometimes no matter how long you live with someone, you still have no idea what lies beneath the surface, what—or who—it’ll take to awaken ’em.”

      She poured in some more flour.

      “How am I supposed to mix this? It’s so heavy and dry!”

      “You just work it in good with your hands—you’ll see how smooth it gets. The more you knead it, the softer the bread’ll be.” Her aunt went to get the bread pans and began to grease them.

      “I’ve always treated Silas like my own Henry. Your father didn’t hold with that, but I put my foot down, and I’m glad to say your mother, God rest her soul, did, too. We always sat him down with us at the table with the rest of the family. Your father wanted Silas to sit in here in the kitchen and take his meals with Celia and Jacob.

      “‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘Silas is going to sit at the table with us, where I can keep my eye on him and teach him his manners.’ His mother entrusted him to us. I was

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