Page 77 of Bane Bloom

I spoke a moment with Mrs. Liddell from the dry goods shop, who asked after Thomas. In our brief conversation it came out that he lent her a hand at times. She was a widow and couldn’t always manage the heavier items in the shop on her own. So I knew now of a few people who seemed on friendly enough terms with him.

And speaking of Thomas, I began to worry he’d talked himself out of coming. But on my third round with cider, as the food was beginning to come out on platters from the kitchen, he finally slipped in. I was turning toward the bar to divest myself of the tray when a man approached and reached for one of the remaining glasses.

“That’s very pretty,” he said, eyeing my crown.

I recognized the fellow at once—Thomas’s neighbor, Hamish Graham. “Good evening to you, Mr. Graham.”

An eyebrow lifted as he said, “Ham, if you please.”

Smiling, I replied, “Do you truly go by ‘Ham Graham’?”

He laughed. “Afraid so. I know it’s ridiculous.”

“Well, perhaps no more so than ‘Cricket Gray.’”

“‘Cricket’!” His brown eyes danced. “How wonderful. And how adventuresome of your parents.”

“It’s Catherine, really,” I admitted. “‘Cricket’ is only a pet name my father gave me.”

“And I adore him for it. How are you settling in at Pine Cottage? I’m one of your near neighbors, you know.”

“Oh yes! On the hill above. I understand you had some difficulty with a mare.”

He nodded gravely. “My favorite, in fact. She got through it, thanks to Thomas.” His gaze lifted, just barely, in the direction of the door. Thomas must have still been standing there—maybe nervous about coming in, after all.

I was about to excuse myself and rescue him when Hamish continued, “I imagine you’re feeling rather isolated by now. It’s a lonely old place, and we’re all still rather in shock about what happened to the other fellow. I know you’re not truly alone with Thomas there, but if you’re ever in need of someone to take you to the village, or even just out for a drive, don’t hesitate to ask. You’re always welcome at the farm, too. I’d be pleased to show you around.”

I studied him, surprised by this pretty speech. “That’s very kind of you, Mr.—Ham.”

“That a girl. And you’d be doing me a favor. The farm is too quiet since my wife passed a few years back. I’d enjoy the company.”

I recalled he’d mentioned being a widower. “I’m so sorry. Do you have children?”

He gave a quick shake of his head. “I’m afraid we weren’t blessed in that way.”

“Well, perhaps that is still in your future, if you wish it to be.”

“I do indeed,” he said, eyes flickering to mine. “But this is somber conversation for a festive occasion. Why don’t you let me take this tray back to the bar for you, and when I return, you can tell me all about your work at Pine Cottage.”

“I . . .” I glanced toward the door as he was taking the tray, breathing with relief as I saw that Annie had gone to greet Thomas, and they were talking quietly. His gaze lifted over her head and met mine for the space of a heartbeat, stopping my breath.

Then Annie was turning, still talking with him as he followed. They were making their way toward me. I glanced at the bar and saw that Hamish had left the tray and started back. I looked again at Thomas, who was watching me while still listening to Annie. His eyes shifted as he registered Hamish’s approach, and he stopped. Annie stopped, too, though without noticing the awkward moment that seemed intent on playing out.

Of course there was no real reason for it to be awkward. Thomas and his neighbor were obviously well acquainted. But the Scottish widower, to my thinking, was a little keen. While it might just be his way, I feared the close attention he was paying me might frighten Thomas away.

I stepped toward Thomas and Annie. “There you are,” I said.

“I’ll leave the two of you to enjoy yourselves,” said Annie. “Don’t wait too long to fill a plate. People come hungry!”

The Fosses had been lining up dishes and platters on the bar and on a nearby sideboard. Lake trout, lamb roasts, savory pies, large bowls of spring greens, bread, cakes, and more curd tarts.

I moved closer to Thomas. He smelled like lavender soap and rosemary hair oil; I hadn’t noticed in the open air of the cart. He had changed his buff trousers for dark ones, and he wore his tobacco-colored waistcoat. His eyes were less squinting than usual here in the inn, with its low light and wood wainscot.

“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,” I said, a slight tremor in my voice.

His eyes fixed on something behind me, and his lips parted, but before he could speak, Hamish joined us.

“Thomas! Happy to see you here.”