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money and status and cannot see my faults for my wealth. Though I have no doubt that marriage would open their eyes. His voice softened. “I feel very comfortable in your presence.”
    MaryAnne glanced briefly into his eyes, but said nothing.
    â€œI am very sorry, Miss Chandler, I have made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. I shall not broach the subject again.”
    MaryAnne looked down. “Mr. Parkin, there are just things that—” She stopped herself midphrase. “I think that I must go now.”
    She slowly walked over to the doorway, followed by David’s sad stare. She stopped and looked back at him.
    â€œGood day, Mr. Parkin.”
    â€œGood day, Miss Chandler.”

    Catherine pushed the drawing room door open with her shoulder and entered carrying a silver tray with a sterling tea service. The drapes were drawn tight and David sat on a haircloth love seat, staring into the crackling fire that provided the room’s only illumination.
    For Catherine bringing tea to the drawingroom was a familiar ritual, established years before David had purchased the house; in a sense, Catherine had come with the house. Her former employer, the mansion’s previous owner, fleeing the cold Salt Lake City winters for the refuge of the southern Utah sun, had left behind Catherine, his young housemaid, and Mark, his footman, to consummate the sale of the property, then seek employment elsewhere. When David arrived, he found the house larger than he imagined and emptier than he expected. As he was now alone, he entreated the two to remain. They gladly accepted and quickly became part of his family. The first year, David had tried to persuade Catherine to call him by his first name, without success, and he eventually abandoned the undertaking.
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Parkin, I brought some tea.”
    David turned, his trance seemingly broken. “Oh. Thank you.”
    She left the service on a bird’s-eye-maple parlor table next to his chair.
    â€œMr. Flake brought the French clock. I had him leave it in the parlor.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “Are you well, sir?”
    He sighed. “I am well enough, I suppose. Thank you for asking.”
    She turned again to leave.
    â€œCatherine.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œMay I ask you something?”
    â€œCertainly.”
    â€œAs a woman . . . you being a woman . . .”
    Catherine looked at him blankly.
    â€œI meant . . . Oh, I sound foolish. How shall I ask this?” He appeared flustered with his inability to communicate his question. “What kind of man am I?”
    Catherine looked confused. “I do not know how to answer that.”
    â€œI mean . . . do women, would a woman, find me attractive?”
    â€œYou are very handsome.”
    â€œI do not mean quite that. I mean . . . am I the kind of man a woman would want to marry? Or am I too long alone? Am I too rough? Do I say the wrong things?” His brow furled. “I need not ask that.” David looked down. “I suppose it is no secret that I am fond of MaryAnne. Everyone seems to know it but her. Or perhaps she does not wish to know. Have you met MaryAnne?”
    Catherine tilted her head thoughtfully. “I have only seen her from a distance, though Mark tells me she is very pleasant.”
    â€œYes. She is very pleasant. She always says the right thing—has the proper answer.” He took a sip of tea. “A skill I obviously lack.”
    Catherine smiled kindly. “Mr. Parkin, you are a very good and kind man. Any woman would be fortunate to have you.”
    David looked up. “Thank you, Catherine.”
    â€œGood night, sir.”
    â€œGood night, Catherine.”
    She stopped at the threshold. “I spoke forthright, sir. Any woman would consider herself fortunate.”
    â€œThank you,” he repeated softly, then turned back toward the fire and lost himself in