bits and pieces of green and white porcelain. “Is something the matter?”
She didn’t answer but turned and carried the shards over to the bin and dumped them.
“Seems a waste,” he said. “This must have been a nice set at one time.” It was a ludicrous thing to say. He’d never paid attention to teacups and such. Wouldn’t know Staffordshire from Sèvres. Still…it bothered him that she appeared so upset.
Miss Northrup took a cloth from the sideboard and folding it over, started to wipe the spilled tea off the table. Yale reached over and picked up one of the only two cups whole and intact.
It was an ordinary teacup to him, milky white porcelain with green leaves drawn all over it.
Miss Northrup snatched it from his hand. She set it on the sideboard with the other cup alongside the matching teapot and then immediately seemed to regret her rudeness. She turned to him. “They belonged to my mother. They are all I have of her.”
Yale had received gut punches that hurt less than her words. He remembered how he’d felt when he’d lost his mother…and then, of course, he was still sorting out his feelings about his father’s death.
He stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t.” She went back to wiping the table, her head bowed, the long braid swinging free over one shoulder in time to her movements.
Concerned, he watched her a second. He didn’t see that the table needed more cleaning. Something was not quite right about her behavior. He’d never really wasted a great deal of time considering the vagaries of women. They had an obvious purpose in his life, one he enjoyed very much, but he didn’t give them much thought.
But something about her quiet behavior bothered him. A small drop of water landed on the table. And then another.
Panic rose inside him. Oh, God, she was crying!
He wished he’d never stepped out of the bedroom. He bloody well should never have left Ceylon. This whole trip was nothing but a disaster—and for what purpose? His pride?
His pride wasn’t worth dealing with a crying woman.
“No, Miss Northrup, don’t cry. Just don’t. Everything will be all right. You can use themoney I gave you to buy more teacups.”
They were the wrong words. She began crying harder.
Yale placed his hands on her shoulders. “Here, sit. Sit!” He had to tell her a third time before she finally did as he ordered.
He knelt beside her. “Come, don’t be a goose. Broken teacups aren’t worth tears.”
“You are right,” she said, struggling to bring herself under control.
Tears and red eyes did not become Miss Northrup, yet she looked endearing all the same. He pulled her braid over her shoulder and gave it a pat. Its silky texture surprised him. He liked the feel of it.
“Then what is the problem?” he asked.
“When I married, I was going to take that tea set with me…and it does not really matter because I am never going to marry—” She broke off with a sob and broke down into tears.
Yale didn’t know what to do.
“Miss Northrup, please. Don’t carry on this way.” He started to put his arm around her and then pulled back when he realized it wouldn’t look right if anyone walked in and saw him half-naked and comforting her.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m all right. I’m just tired and my life hasn’t been going very well lately.”
“Tell me about it,” Yale said, grasping for anything to make her stop crying.
“Come along. Dry your tears.” He offered her the trailing edge of his sheet.
He was being silly but it worked. She stared at the sheet in his hand, and then laughed. He placed the sheet in her hand, and she did use it.
“Now, what is the problem?” he asked quietly.
“Sproule. My life. Everything.”
“Ahhhhh,” he said sagely. “And what is wrong with your life?”
She glanced at the door and then said in a low voice, as if she were afraid the villagers would hear her, “Sometimes I wish I
She didn’t answer but turned and carried the shards over to the bin and dumped them.
“Seems a waste,” he said. “This must have been a nice set at one time.” It was a ludicrous thing to say. He’d never paid attention to teacups and such. Wouldn’t know Staffordshire from Sèvres. Still…it bothered him that she appeared so upset.
Miss Northrup took a cloth from the sideboard and folding it over, started to wipe the spilled tea off the table. Yale reached over and picked up one of the only two cups whole and intact.
It was an ordinary teacup to him, milky white porcelain with green leaves drawn all over it.
Miss Northrup snatched it from his hand. She set it on the sideboard with the other cup alongside the matching teapot and then immediately seemed to regret her rudeness. She turned to him. “They belonged to my mother. They are all I have of her.”
Yale had received gut punches that hurt less than her words. He remembered how he’d felt when he’d lost his mother…and then, of course, he was still sorting out his feelings about his father’s death.
He stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t.” She went back to wiping the table, her head bowed, the long braid swinging free over one shoulder in time to her movements.
Concerned, he watched her a second. He didn’t see that the table needed more cleaning. Something was not quite right about her behavior. He’d never really wasted a great deal of time considering the vagaries of women. They had an obvious purpose in his life, one he enjoyed very much, but he didn’t give them much thought.
But something about her quiet behavior bothered him. A small drop of water landed on the table. And then another.
Panic rose inside him. Oh, God, she was crying!
He wished he’d never stepped out of the bedroom. He bloody well should never have left Ceylon. This whole trip was nothing but a disaster—and for what purpose? His pride?
His pride wasn’t worth dealing with a crying woman.
“No, Miss Northrup, don’t cry. Just don’t. Everything will be all right. You can use themoney I gave you to buy more teacups.”
They were the wrong words. She began crying harder.
Yale placed his hands on her shoulders. “Here, sit. Sit!” He had to tell her a third time before she finally did as he ordered.
He knelt beside her. “Come, don’t be a goose. Broken teacups aren’t worth tears.”
“You are right,” she said, struggling to bring herself under control.
Tears and red eyes did not become Miss Northrup, yet she looked endearing all the same. He pulled her braid over her shoulder and gave it a pat. Its silky texture surprised him. He liked the feel of it.
“Then what is the problem?” he asked.
“When I married, I was going to take that tea set with me…and it does not really matter because I am never going to marry—” She broke off with a sob and broke down into tears.
Yale didn’t know what to do.
“Miss Northrup, please. Don’t carry on this way.” He started to put his arm around her and then pulled back when he realized it wouldn’t look right if anyone walked in and saw him half-naked and comforting her.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m all right. I’m just tired and my life hasn’t been going very well lately.”
“Tell me about it,” Yale said, grasping for anything to make her stop crying.
“Come along. Dry your tears.” He offered her the trailing edge of his sheet.
He was being silly but it worked. She stared at the sheet in his hand, and then laughed. He placed the sheet in her hand, and she did use it.
“Now, what is the problem?” he asked quietly.
“Sproule. My life. Everything.”
“Ahhhhh,” he said sagely. “And what is wrong with your life?”
She glanced at the door and then said in a low voice, as if she were afraid the villagers would hear her, “Sometimes I wish I
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