Cynthia watched her sons working at their copy books, the sunlight from the high windows in the schoolroom making halos on their golden heads. The creak of her rocker kept up a steady rhythm. She blinked to prevent herself from falling asleep.

“Done,” her middle son declared, and she rose, putting aside the sock she had been mending, to look over his work. The neat letters marched across the page in orderly rows.

“Very nice work, James,” she said with a smile, giving his narrow shoulder a gentle squeeze. Of all her sons, he least reminded her of Nathan. James’ temperament more closely resembled her brother’s—meticulous, thoughtful, and self-contained. She did not have to worry when she set James to some task; she knew it would be completed to her own and his satisfaction.

Next to him, John hunched over his own work and quickened his pace, but not before she caught sight of the ungainly scrawl. She shook her head. If James was the cautious one, John was more likely to throw caution to the wind in some scheme. He was entirely too much like his father, a fact that endeared him to her as well as worried her.

“This isn’t a race, John,” she cautioned. “Take your time, and do it properly. James, you may read while we wait for John and Adam to finish.”

Adam sighed gustily and bent back over the copy book, pudgy fingers straining on the pencil. He was still young for this work, but if there was anything Adam hated, it was being treated like a baby. He wanted to study everything his brothers studied, do everything his brothers did, be everywhere his brothers were. The current bane of his existence was that he still wore short pants. She had been saving for material to make him long pants, but so far it had been much easier to cut off the tattered legs of pants his brothers had outgrown and refit them to his chubby body.   

Someone coughed politely from the schoolroom door. Turning, she saw her brother standing there, narrow face closed as usual.

“Good afternoon, Jonathan,” she said, straightening. “What brings you up to see us?”

“You have a gentleman caller,” he replied, moving into the room with his manservant behind him. “If you would be so good as to come with me? Tims can watch the boys.”

Surprised, she nodded and smiled encouragement to the boys. As she followed him back into the corridor, she wondered who could possibly be calling on her. It couldn’t be news about Nathan. How many times had she tensed to a sudden knock at the door thinking this was the day they would tell her he had been killed? When it had finally happened it had almost been a relief. But surely the only other reason a man would call on her would be regarding Nathan’s effects. Had the Admiralty learned something new?

She hastened her steps, but she hadn’t reached the stairs when a hiss pulled her up short. Jonathan didn’t seem to notice, continuing on. Looking back, Cynthia saw John hurrying after them, her hair brush in one hand.

“Here.” He shoved it at her. “You’ll want to look your best.”

Frowning, she accepted the implement. “Thank you, John. You followed me just to give me this?”

He looked away, shuffling his feet. “Well, I thought you needed it.”

Cynthia had a sudden vision of him putting some creature in her bun as she was bent over James’ work. She reached up to touch her hair. Nothing seemed to be moving. “John,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing, “is there something I should know?”

He backed out of reach. “No. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, I suppose,” she replied, attempting to hand him the brush. “But if I am hideously embarrassed at this meeting, young man, you will answer for it this evening.”

He swallowed. “Just be nice, Mother. Please?”

She frowned again, but he was already turning to hurry back toward the schoolroom. She slipped the brush into the pocket of her gown and continued downstairs.

She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the sight that met her eyes. Daniel Lewiston was pacing her brother’s austere sitting room. His clothes, a dark blue superfine coat and matching trousers with a lighter blue waistcoat, were neat. What was more out of character, however, was that his meaty hands clutched an obscenely large box with lettering identifying it as coming from a famous Wells confectioner. It was obviously sweets and could only be a present for the boys, one he wasn’t sure she’d let them accept. She decided to put him at his ease.

“Mr. Lewiston, how nice of you to call,” she greeted him with a smile.

He started, then managed a smile as well. “Mrs. Jacobs. Very good of you to receive me.”

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it,” Jonathan quipped, seating himself in one of the fine white-lacquered chairs near the windows overlooking the terrace.

Cynthia quelled his amusement with a frown and took a seat on one of the closer chairs to give Daniel the excuse to sit as well. He glanced at the chair across the room near Jonathan, then sighed and chose the one closest to her instead. Offering her a weak smile, he pushed the candy box toward her in much the same way John had just pushed the brush.

“I…I thought you might like these.”

“Me?” She stared at the box in surprise. “I thought it was for the boys.”

He blushed and squirmed, just like Adam caught in a hug. What on earth was going on?

 

*

He was blushing. Blushing of all things! Was he such a coward? Daniel straightened and set the box into Cynthia’s lap. “No, Mrs. Jacobs,” he replied firmly, “I assure you they are for you.” When she continued to stare at the box, he couldn’t help adding, “Of course, you may share them with the boys if you desire.”

Cynthia glanced up at him, violet eyes clouded in obvious confusion. “Thank you.”

Satisfied, Daniel sat back in the chair. She continued to divide her attention between the box of candy and his face, and he realized the silence was stretching. He wracked his brain for something to say.

“They’re very good nougats,” he tried. Look at me, reduced to prattling! “If you like nougats, of course.”

“Actually, I prefer stick candy,” Cynthia replied. “I’ve always had a sweet tooth for rock.”

Daniel nodded. “A wise choice. Doesn’t get your fingers nearly as dirty. Not that you’d ever dirty your fingers, of course.”

A laugh bubbled out of her.

Her brother quirked a smile. “You’d be surprised how dirty her fingers get taking care of those boys, Daniel.”

He managed another weak smile at the jest. Cynthia frowned her brother back into silence. The quiet stretched once more. She was obviously waiting for him to say something. Daniel squared his shoulders.

“The boys tell me you like to garden.”

She blinked, thick lashes fluttering. “Garden? Mr. Lewiston, I haven’t been near anything resembling a garden in ten years. Certainly nothing like the rose gardens your mother used to tend. Do you still have them?”

There was something decidedly wistful about her tone of voice. He supposed she couldn’t have seen many gardens at that, not if she’d been living near the Bristol docks as Jonathan had intimated. “Yes, the gardens are still there, although I admit I don’t spend much time in them. I’m not all that keen on roses.”

She smiled at last, brightening the room. “Oh, but who couldn’t like roses? I always thought your mother was so fortunate: all those bushes, all those colors and shades. There must have been enough blooms to cheer every room in the house.”

So, she did like gardens. It was a pleasant surprise. No one had been able to do justice to the roses since his mother had passed on. His sister Clementine had scolded him about their sad state on her last visit. Perhaps if he married Cynthia… He cleared his throat and attempted to change the subject. “Actually, I far prefer the maze.”

“I haven’t thought of the maze in years. I’m so glad to hear you kept that as well. After all the times we lost you in there, I’d have thought you’d want to tear the thing to the ground.”

He smiled, sharing the memory. “You five were scamps, no doubt about it. But for all Jonathan and I shouted and chased you about, it was a great deal of fun. To tell you the truth, I miss it.”

She lowered her gaze. “You cannot mean it. Your sisters and I were awful to you. I don’t know how you put up with us.”

He looked away. “I suppose one is willing to put up with a great deal when one is lonely.”

She must have started, for out of the corners of his eyes he saw the candy box jerk.

“Well,” Jonathan put in, “I’m sure our Cynthia has outgrown all that.”

Glancing back at her, the black of her gown so severe, Daniel could almost believe him. “Then that’s a pity.”

She blushed under his steady regard.      

“But surely you came here to discuss something more than gardens, old fellow,” Jonathan prompted.

Daniel frowned at him. He knew he wasn’t making tremendous headway, but Jonathan’s prodding would not help. Perhaps he’d said enough for one day. He rose. “No. I just wanted to bring your sister the candy.”

“I don’t understand,” Cynthia replied, returning his frown.

He smiled at her. “No, I didn’t think you would. Good day, Mrs. Jacobs, Jonathan.”

She rose, and Jonathan rose with her. Together they saw him to the door. “Yes, well, thank you for the candy, Mr. Lewiston,” Cynthia told him. “I will be sure to share it with the boys.”

“Yes, you do that,” he said with a nod as Jonathan opened the door. “Tell the boys I look forward to their next visit.”

Her brow cleared. “So that’s why you visited. You want to make sure the boys continue visiting. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression I was against it. You have been very kind to them.”

“They’re easy to please.” As soon as he said it he realized he’d implied she wasn’t. Grimacing, he bid them both good day and hurried for his waiting coach. As soon as the door closed behind him, he sighed in relief.

He really should have known better. Cynthia no more saw a suitor in him now than she had when they were both in their youth. He was a fool to let three little boys convince him he could succeed in winning her. Even desperate as she was, she could do far better.

And she was desperate, he could see that clearly. He didn’t usually notice clothing, but it was hard to miss the fact that the boys were quickly either outgrowing or wearing out every stitch of the black mourning clothes, which he was beginning to believe was all they had. And Cynthia’s mourning dress, for all its careful hemming, had obviously been made for someone larger and taller than she was. He could remember a day when she would not have allowed herself to wear the same frock twice in a month. Yet he had seen the same dress both times he had visited.

But that doesn’t mean she would be willing to accept his suit. Cynthia could whistle up a prince. Small chance she’d settle for a frog.