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Martin's hair.
"Some men think of their stomachs before anything else," Sarah said.
"Gluttony is my besetting sin and you, Sarah, are my primary temptress." Jack Martin bent over a
roasted chicken, sniffing appreciatively.
"Shame on you, Mister Jack. Sin is serious." But Sarah's chuckle rose again.
"Sarah, Luke, this is Miss Clarissa Cummings, who will be staying with us for a while," Jack
Martin said. "She is unfamiliar with farm life, so she may have questions for you about the way in
which things are done here."
"We'll help you all we can, ma'am." Sarah gave Clarissa a long look, then nodded her head as if
she approved of what she saw.
"Mama?" Luke was still holding his tray of food.
"Put that pie down at the end of the sideboard," Sarah instructed him. "Mister Jack, I'll bring the
hot water for your tea in a short while so it won't be too cool when you're ready for it."
"Thank you, Sarah. Enjoy your own dinner." At Jack Martin's nod, Sarah and Luke departed.
"Miss Cummings, will you sit?" Clarissa looked around to discover her host holding a chair and
looking at her expectantly. There was a place set at the head of the bare, gleaming table, where
an armchair awaited the master of the house. On the master's right the place of honor had been
set for a guest, and it was there that Jack Martin stood, the back of a smaller, armless chair in his
hands.
Clarissa recalled Sunday dinners at her grandparents' house when she had been a girl, events at
which all the men and boys were expected to hold chairs for the ladies present--and one
particular cousin who used to push Clarissa's chair in so far that she was crushed against the
edge of the table. No gentleman had held a chair for her since she was 11 years old. She slipped
into the chair Jack Martin was holding. Unlike her mischievous cousin, he did not push it in too
far.
"Do you prefer the leg meat or the breast?" he asked. Clarissa was gaping at the fine china and
elegant silverware, so she did not answer him at once. "Miss Cummings?"
"Oh, the white meat please, but I can get it myself." She made as if to rise again, but his hand on
her shoulder stopped her.
She wanted to protest that she liked the outside pieces of breast meat best and that she wanted
the luscious-looking gravy ladled over the dressing, not the meat, but with a sense of abandon
she leaned back in her chair and let him arrange her dinner plate for her. While he was at the
sideboard she recalled another of her grandmother's rules. She took her elbows off the table,
straightened her spine, and adjusted her shoulders so she was no longer lounging.
"Here you are." The plate set before her contained three narrow slices of rosemary-scented
chicken breast taken from the outside, a scoop of cornbread dressing, a small pile of
saffron-colored rice, and green beans with bits of bacon scattered over them. The gravy had been
dribbled over the dressing and the rice, but not on the meat. Jack Martin's plate was heaped a
good deal higher than Clarissa's and before the meal was over he had emptied it and filled it
again and eaten all of the second helping of food.
Considering the many subjects they might have discussed, their dinner conversation was oddly
impersonal, consisting mostly of delighted
comments on the food and Clarissa's questions about the farm, which her companion answered
as briefly as possible.
In addition to the main course, there were incredibly light biscuits with fresh sweet butter,
followed by large slices of warm peach pie for dessert.
"Is this a special feast in my honor?" Clarissa asked.
"Sarah likes to cook," Jack Martin replied.
"It's wonderful. I haven't eaten this well in years."
"You have another enthusiastic admirer, Sarah."
Clarissa had not heard her come into the room. Sarah set a china teapot down on the sideboard
before responding. "It's just fresh food, simply prepared," she said.
"That's why it's so good," Clarissa told her. "Some people think fancy sauces can disguise
inferior food, but there is no substitute for fresh ingredients. At least, that's what my grandmother
used to say. I can't tell you how many dreadful meals I've eaten that were supposed to be
gourmet delights."
"I don't know what that means, Miz Cummings, but your grandmother sure was right about usin'
fresh food."
When Sarah left them alone again, Jack Martin rose from the table to open a door in the
sideboard and bring out a wooden tea chest lined with metal. He spooned leaves into the teapot,
gave the brew a stir, then replaced the little chest in the sideboard.
"When I first came here, I discovered that a family of field mice had moved indoors," he said,
having noticed her questioning look. "They were connoisseurs. They ate most of my first packet
of tea before I could evict them. I decided a metal-lined chest would keep out both mice and the
summer dampness. I forgot to ask if you want cream or sugar for yours. Do you like tea?" He
placed a silver tray containing the pot and two dainty china cups in front of Clarissa.
"I like it. I drink it plain, too." He obviously expected her to pour the tea for them. Feeling very
much the grand lady, Clarissa did so.
"Madam Rose said I am too thin, but if I eat like this at every meal, I soon will need a corset after
all," Clarissa noted. "Oh, dear. Somehow, I am absolutely certain that real ladies of this time do
not mention corsets at the dinner table."
"They do not," he said, but she could tell he was trying not to smile. "Upon whatever subject you
choose to discourse, Miss Cummings, allow me to tell you that I find your company most
pleasant. Despite Sarah's fine cooking, I do not entirely enjoy my solitary evening meals."
"Then you live here alone?" Clarissa discovered that she was unaccountably pleased by this
idea.
"Yes, except for my employees and the occasional guest. Do you care for Madeira?" he asked
when the tea was finished.
"I don't even know what it is," she admitted.
"Then you must learn. Even the most delicate elderly ladies have been known to sip a glass on
occasion." He poured the straw-colored wine from a crystal decanter into two stemmed glasses
that looked awfully small to Clarissa. "Shall we enjoy it on the veranda?"
Again he held her chair for her. Then, with the wineglasses in hand, he led the way along the
center hall to the front of the house.
"How quiet it is." Accepting the wine from him, Clarissa took a small sip. "Oh, that tastes nice."
She stepped off the veranda onto the gravel path. There was still a faint glow low in the western
sky, but overhead the stars were beginning to shine, and the sounds of a summer night gently
charmed her ears. Insects chirruped, frogs peeped down by the river, and tree leaves rustled in a
passing breeze.
"No boom boxes blasting away," she murmured, taking another ladylike sip of wine. "No fire
sirens or train whistles. Just peace. It's so restful here. If I stay at Afon Farm for very long, I will
learn to love it."
"Miss Cummings," he began.
"No." She stopped him. "You will probably tell me it's highly improper, but you cannot go on
calling me Miss Cummings. Nor do I intend to call you Mr. Martin."
"I have known ladies married for years who still called their husbands mister," he said, moving
to stand just a little too close to her. "What do you propose to call me?"
"I would like to use your real name." Clarissa stepped off the gravel and onto the rough grass,
moving away from him.
"Jack will do nicely then." He joined her on the grass.
"We both know Jack Martin is not your real name." She felt him go absolutely still beside her. A
long moment of charged silence grew between them.
"What do you mean by that?" His voice was quiet and even, but Clarissa wasn't fooled. She had
made a guess about his name and she knew she had struck a nerve.
"You don't look like a Jack. Jack is a plumber, a mechanic, a man who works with his hands." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]