Fortune Said: A Valentine Haberdashers Tale Read Online Free PDF Page B

yet."
    "Perhaps that's enough for now," he said, holding his hand up for the cup.
    She held up her finger to forestall him as she took another sip. This one went down easier still. She finally handed the snifter back to him. "What would you like to do with the evening?" she asked. "I could read if you like."
    "What have you usually done this time of the evening while we've been here?" He sipped at the brandy himself.
    She looked at her hands. "I would usually embroider and... and talk to you." She looked back up. "I thought it was important to talk to you. I still remember hearing my mother's voice when I was ill and think it is part of what kept me... here."
    He had a distant look in his eye for a moment. "Yes, I do remember your voice. Vaguely." Then he looked at her directly again. "But forgive me, I don't remember what we talked about."
    "Oh, just," she fluttered her hands, "nothing."
    "Then feel free to tell me all that nothing again, since I was such an abominable listener before."
    She picked up her embroidery and sat in the chair beside the bed, trying to be as casual as she had been for the fortnight he had been fevered. It was certainly harder to talk to him when he was awake and responsive.
    "What are you embroidering?" he asked.
    "A pillow cover." She held up the hoop for him to see.
    "That's quite elaborate, may I see it more closely?"
    She secured her needle and brought the hoop for him to look at.
    "That's extraordinary. I feel like I'm lying in a field of wildflowers. Where did you learn to do this?"
    "From my mother."
    "Is her work as exceptional? This is so detailed."
    "Yes, it was."
    "Was?"
    "I survived the fever but my mother did not."
    "I'm sorry, Miss Devonport, I didn't know."
    She felt tears burning at the back of her eyes and seized her embroidery back a bit more abruptly than she intended. She huddled into the chair and started sewing again. Clearing her throat she asked, "What of your family?"
    "My family? Well, you know my cousin Josh. My father was Gideon's father's valet. He didn't have me until late in life and has passed on some five years ago now."
    She stopped sewing. "I'm sorry."
    He shrugged , but his jaw was tense. "We were never particularly close."
    "Your mother?" she asked.
    "Still living," he confirmed, taking another sip. What he didn't say served to speak more loudly than anything he could have said. Apparently he wasn't close to her, either.
    "No brothers or sisters?"
    She saw his fingers tapping on the counterpane. Not his favorite subject, apparently. "No. You?" he asked politely.
    "Not anymore."
    His tapping stopped. "You didn't lose them to the fever as well?"
    She didn't trust herself to speak so she simply nodded.
    "Miss Devonport, I am so sorry. It must have been quite a trial for you to care for me."
    She set her sewing aside as she could no longer see through the unshed tears in her eyes. "No it wasn't, Mr. Whitman. Because you lived."
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Whit stared at Miss Devonport, aghast at the terrible tragedies of her life that he had unwittingly revealed. And bothered that somehow he had pleased an inordinate number of people by simply continuing to live. She began to cry in earnest, the tears running down her face, and was twisting the fabric of her skirt between her fingers.
    He was desperate to find something to console her. "I'll gladly share my cousin with you. I think he likes you better than he does me anyway."
    She looked up at him with a furrowed brow. "Dibbs loves you. He was willing to risk his own life to ensure your care." She bit her lip and looked away. "My own cousins couldn't be bothered with me at all."
    Excellent, he had misstepped with that statement as well. Perhaps he would be better off not saying anything at all.
    When her eyes returned to his she was still anguished and tearful. "I loved my family, Mr. Whitman. I loved them very much and had to watch them all die. When I turned to my uncle and cousins for help they simply asked me why, at