5. Mourning, Renewal, Something New

MOURNING, RENEWAL, SOMETHING NEW

O ver the first few days that followed, Naomi remained in her bed long after the sounds of others being far more productive than she began—Luke pounding his hammer on the porch or sawing in the stable, and Ester banging around in the kitchen below.

All Naomi wanted to do was sleep. What was there to wake up for? She reasoned with herself that she wasn't hurting the baby by hiding from the world. The tasks she'd undertaken before, sewing the drapes, mending the cushions, and polishing the furnishings and wood, had all been to make their home more welcoming for Arthur's return.

She managed to rationalize herself into believing this for two days before the guilt set in.

"The major is finished with the porch and the trim. He even repaired the cupboard doors that didn't close properly. But now he has a few questions for you." Ester had entered the room without permission and was frowning down at her. "About the roof."

Leaks tended to appear with no rhyme or reason. The stains around her window were evidence enough of that. And just a few weeks ago, Naomi had spotted one in the room she intended to use for her baby's nursery.

The reminder was a gentle nudge.

Arthur may not be coming home, but her baby would be here soon enough. And she wanted to have a welcoming home for her baby, didn't she?

Reluctantly, she forced herself out of bed and, doubtless, nothing could have made Ester happier. Standing in front of her wardrobe, however, another conundrum presented itself. "I can't wear any of these." Because most of the gowns she'd brought with her were pastels. If they weren't pastel they were an even less appropriate color: canary, jonquil, pomona, or puce.

As a newly widowed lady, she couldn't wear any of them in public.

Ester withdrew a pale primrose and then a dull lavender muslin. "We can dye the lighter ones."

When her father's mother had passed, it was what her mother had done. Naomi remembered her mother had winked at her and said it would give them all an excuse to purchase the newest fashions when their mourning was complete. The memory was a bittersweet one. Naomi swallowed hard as she contemplated adding the cost of dye to her growing bill at the mercantile.

"Acorns," Ester provided before Naomi said a word. "And we'll need rusty nails."

"What are you talking about?"

"Homemade is the best. You don't need to be buying any fancy dyes."

"Rusty nails?" Naomi immediately conjured up images of Luke tearing the boards off of her porch. "I believe I can track a few of those down."

Together they placed two large pots of water on the stove to boil, and then her maid set out with a pail to collect the acorns from a nearby patch of oak trees. Wearing the lavender gown for now, Naomi marched toward the stable.

She wasn't completely surprised to find Major Cockfield—Luke—inside, as she'd heard him sawing back and forth through one of the rough planks. She had not really prepared herself to see him half-dressed, sleeves rolled back, muscles rippling with each stroke.

Watching from the large open doors, she kept quiet, not wanting to break his concentration.

And truth be told, she was a little embarrassed at having lazed in her bed for the last two days. She had no doubt that Ester had mentioned it to him.

When he paused to swipe his arm across his brow, he glanced up and caught her watching him. Sparkling cobalt eyes were kind but also curious.

"Nails." Her voice emerged sounding raw, so she cleared her throat.

A lock of chestnut hair fell along his jaw when he tilted his head.

"I'm in need of rusty nails," she elaborated, indicating the empty bucket by lifting it slightly. "I thought you might have collected a few over the past few days? We, Ester and I, need them to dye my gowns black. I don't have anything appropriate other than this." She was babbling now as he turned his back to her. "I need to—It sets the dye… They have to be rusty."

"Right here." He cut off her clumsy explanation and faced her again, this time with a small cup filled with exactly what she was looking for.

He stepped closer, his gaze locked on hers, causing her to wonder how it was that her blood ran hotter in his presence. She startled at the clanging of metal when he dumped the cup into her bucket. "Will this suffice?"

There were quite a few. "From the porch?" she asked.

"And the roof." His chuckle was low and soft. "And the trim."

How ironic that these remnants of something no longer useful would be used to make the clothing she would wear during her mourning. "I apologize for not?—"

"It's fine." He cut her off for the second time. She stared down at the hand he'd dropped onto her wrist. "We all grieve in our own way."

"And you grieve by…working with your hands?"

"I was drunk three nights in a row after the ambush. If I hadn't any responsibilities, I likely would have been drunk a week straight." His rueful smile moved her senses around like puzzle pieces.

She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze to the orange and red-tinted nails. "This ought to be more than enough." She shook the bucket. The boiling pots awaited her in the kitchen where she would spend the day removing the color from most of her wardrobe. Did she feel reluctant to go back to the house because she wanted to avoid this step towards accepting Arthur's death? Or because of the odd comfort she found in Luke's company?

Or perhaps a little of both?

"Ester mentioned you had a few questions—about the roof." She lifted her lashes and caught him watching her, and then quickly glanced away.

"Which leaks concern you the most? Ester mentioned the one in the parlor, and one in your bedchamber."

"The one in the attic is the worst." It seemed every time it rained, she discovered new ones. "It fills buckets faster than any of the others."

"I'll check on that one first, then." She could feel his gravelly voice in her chest.

"Thank you." She stepped backward, bumping into a wheelbarrow and then stumbling around it. Her emotions scrambled into an even less intelligible puzzle. "Do you have need of anything? Water? Tea? Are you hungry?" She barely remembered her manners. He was a guest, after all, who was laboring for free on her estate. A major, no less!

Eyes dancing, he shook his head. "I'm good. Thank you."

"All right, then. And thank you again, for everything."

"Naomi?" He called out just as she was about to bolt.

She paused and turned back around to meet his gaze.

"There's no right or wrong way to handle this. There's no one here to judge you. Whatever is right for you, is simply… right ."

The back of her eyes stung at his words, and she nodded.

In the days that followed, Naomi made it a point to rise each day before Luke arrived, wash up, and with Ester's help, don her short stays and one of her recently-dyed gowns.

She'd intended to return to the task of sewing coverings for the windows, but when she discovered a lovely mint-colored muslin in one of the old trunks, she instead washed out the musty smell and went to work making a quilt for her baby's bed. She embroidered stars and moons on the leftover material and made a few small pillows for decorations.

But babies didn't require pillows, did they? For the hundredth time, she wished her mother were here to answer these little questions she'd never before considered.

It was handy having the major about, however, and… interesting.

Even when Arthur had lived here with her—before he'd joined up with his regiment—he'd grow edgy and irritated if he couldn't go into town almost daily. He hated being housebound, he'd told her once.

It was always Arthur who completed any necessary shopping, and Naomi had usually been content to remain at their home. She'd not been na?ve to the fact that he passed a good deal of his time at the tavern. A few nights, she remembered, he'd not returned until the following morning. On those instances, he'd show up looking sheepish, bearing flowers or some gift, and full of apologies.

Ale made him sleepy. He'd always been sure to be home most of the next day and make love to her the following night. Sometimes, they'd lie in bed in the mornings together, he'd rest his cheek on her belly and talk to their baby.

He'd said he was excited that they would become a family and had promised to fix up the nursery before he left. But time had run out.

Luke's reliability was a stark contrast to Arthur's habits.

They were very different types of men, she reminded herself. Arthur's devil-may-care attitude toward life had attracted Naomi. All her life, she'd been a good girl, done the right thing. He had personified some of what she'd longed for.

Luke, however, was levelheaded and practical. Solid.

Dependable.

He arrived daily, without fail, and tackled each repair in a sensible manner. And aside from the first day, when he'd purchased the supplies without speaking to her first, he always consulted her before commencing a new project. He'd patiently explain the different options and then answer any questions she'd had.

Did she want the porch painted white or brown to match the stone accents on the house? Which part of the roof needed to be repaired next? And would she mind if he added bins in the pantry when he repaired the cupboards?

His presence was comforting and consistent. And he never chastised her if he caught her wiping a tear or, on the one occasion, when he'd come upon her sobbing in her garden.

He'd simply taken the hoe out of her hands and gone to work digging up the last of the potatoes in her stead.

When she had pulled herself together, he'd handed it back and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"At least now you won't have to worry about watering them," he'd said.

And she'd gone from crying to almost laughing. It had not been the first time he'd done that for her. Given her the chance to grieve and then brought her back to the present in such a way that she knew she could go on.

On the eleventh day of her widowhood, Naomi determined it was time she did some real work on the nursery. Water stains aside, the white color of the room had grown dull and gray from age, and the pale-yellow paint Arthur had purchased over the summer had yet to be applied. Surely, she could manage to brush the color on herself. How difficult could painting be?

She dressed in her oldest frock and, after eating a simple breakfast, some eggs and a cup of tea with cream and sugar, she climbed back up the stairs and entered the charming little room she'd selected for her baby.

Wanting to be able to actually see what she was working with, Naomi drew back the heavy drapes covering the window but then immediately bent over coughing from the cloud of dust she'd unsettled. The weak, gray light of a rainy day came pouring in, but she could hardly see through her watering eyes.

"Want some help?" Luke's sudden appearance made her jump.

"You need to make more noise when you walk." She blinked away the dust in her eyes and then sent a mock glare to where Luke was standing in the doorway. "Perhaps you should consider wearing a bell." He had a habit of appearing out of nowhere, often leaning against a doorframe and giving her that crooked smile that was becoming far too important to her.

He pointed at the rain-spattered window. "I can't do much outside until it stops, and Ester has shooed me out of her kitchen."

"She must be baking bread."

"And an apple pie."

"Well then, we mustn't hinder her in any way." Ester's pies were legendary, and Naomi's appetite seemed to have returned almost voraciously.

The volume of droplets on the window increased and the thrumming rain was now a dull roar. Autumn was flying by unapologetically. Whereas a few weeks ago the rains had felt almost warm, a biting wind now accompanied them. At least half the leaves had been blown off the trees and the other half glowed red, orange, and yellow quite spectacularly. But picturesque or not, Naomi could hardly expect Luke to work outside in the rain.

"I've never done anything like this before." She gestured toward the walls with one hand, rubbing her belly with the other. "But I'd like to fix the room up for my little radish."

"She's becoming more of a potato now. Far too big to be a radish."

"You're assuming my little potato is a girl." She shook a finger at him. But as she splayed her hand over the mound growing inside of her, she winced. "Or pumpkin, rather."

"Nah, it's a girl—Cockfield intuition." Damn that grin. "And perhaps a cantaloupe, but not quite a pumpkin."

"Cockfield intuition? Ha! I don't think I believe you." She couldn't help but shake her head at that. He was so very good at this. Making her laugh at the simple things when a week ago she'd doubted she could ever laugh again.

"But I wouldn't mind a little guidance with the room." She winced as she stared at one of the walls. "This color is too dreary, regardless of whether or not my… cantaloupe is a girl or a boy."

Luke pushed away from the doorframe and sauntered in. After running his fingers along the wall in various places, he brushed his hands together, scowled, and came to a decision. "We need to wipe it down first." He startled her for a moment by jumping up and down a few times. "Floor seems solid enough, though." When something in the darkest corner of the room caught his gaze, however, he frowned. "I thought I'd repaired this leak already."

The rusty-colored mark showed where water had been seeping through from above to trail a path down one of the corners. Such marks were ubiquitous throughout the house.

She grimaced when a large drop splattered onto the floor. "I'll get a bucket." She'd learned that such leaks were what had been ruining all of her floors.

By the time she'd returned from the kitchen, Luke had retrieved a ladder and was pulling soaked strips of plaster away from the corner, shaking his head.

The plaster fell away in sopping heaps that reminded Naomi of strips she'd once used as a child to make a paper maché elephant.

"Oh, hell, Naomi." He looked concerned as another large strip dropped to the floor. "Hand me that bucket." He stepped up higher on the ladder so he could examine the ceiling.

Naomi watched him in concern, but as he stretched and reached, she found herself noticing how the muscles in his thick thighs rippled when he twisted. And beneath his shirt, where the material pressed against his abdomen, the flesh wasn't soft but firm with obvious strength.

She shivered.

What would that feel like? To touch?

She licked her lips and got so lost in her own imagination that she didn't realize he'd turned and was watching her.

"Naomi?"

She lifted her gaze to his and her insides tightened at what she saw there.

Lust?

But then it was gone. She'd imagined it. She must have. And she could chalk the sudden bout of her own physical yearnings up to the changes her body was going through. This unfortunately wasn't the first time she'd caught herself doing this.

If this unsavory habit wasn't caused by the physical changes her body was going through, what kind of a woman would she be? And if she had seen lust, then what kind of man would that make Luke? Reluctant to analyze these questions, she shook her head and smiled cheerfully. "Sorry. Excuse me?"

"Hand me one of those rags?"

"Oh, oh. Yes." She scooped one off the floor and approached the ladder. What she failed to take into consideration was that, when she handed it up to him, her face would be embarrassingly close to what she'd been ogling moments before.

Heat flushed up her neck.

"Are you all right?" He'd bent down to peer at her closely. Lost for a moment in the sky blue of his eyes, the memory of him rowing her across the pond last spring popped into her head. Last spring, without fail, he had treated her with respect and concern.

She had liked him.

He hadn't been as flamboyant as Arthur, but she had liked Luke very much.

When he'd taken her out on the water, she'd wanted him to kiss her. How had she forgotten that?

"Naomi?"

Dismayed at the turn of her own thoughts, she practically threw the rag at him and then stumbled backward. "It's… hot in here. I think I'm just a little overheated."

"I'll get you some water." He was narrowing his eyes now as he climbed down, the leak momentarily forgotten.

"No. Don't bother." She backed toward the door, refusing to meet his gaze. "I'll check in with Ester and get it myself. Please, don't concern yourself. I'll be right back." Or not at all. Not, at least, until she could get these inclinations under control.

"Perhaps you ought to lie down for a spell," he suggested.

"Yes. Yes." Anything to curtail these yearnings. Because the thoughts that had begun to cross her mind were unthinkable.

She missed the intimacy she'd experienced with Arthur . That was all.

That was all!

Naomi rushed out of the room and into the foyer and, instead of seeking out Ester, scurried into her bedchamber and immediately closed the door behind her.

If she was to be strictly honest with herself, the facet she'd loved most about her marriage had been the lovemaking. It was nothing she could ever admit to anyone. Whenever she'd overheard older ladies speak of the marriage bed, they'd complained that it was something to be endured, to be tolerated. It was meant only for the creation of children.

But… Arthur had awakened something inside of her and now…

Now he was gone.

Standing with her back pressed against the door, Naomi moved the hand resting on her belly to just beneath her breast.

" Arthur," she whispered, imagining it was her husband's hand. Only he'd also used his mouth. He'd laved his tongue gently around the tip. He'd been learning what she liked. Both of them had been. The first few months of marriage, her husband had only begun to allow her a glimpse into the pleasures they could share with one another.

And then he'd left.

Naomi massaged the sensitive flesh that weighed heavily in her own hand. As she increased the pressure, she pictured a man suckling and even biting softly. Heat rushed to her core, and she resisted lowering her other hand to offer herself some relief.

"Mrs. Gilcrest." Ester's voice from the other side of the door had Naomi jumping guiltily. "The major asked me to bring you some tea and a bite to eat. Are you unwell?"

"I'm—I'm fine." Naomi opened the door. Tea was an excellent idea. She obviously needed… something. Although a niggling voice in the back of her head assured her that whatever it was she needed, it definitely wasn't tea.