Chapter 2

When Kit was halfway up the drive of Broadstone Farm, a woman dressed in a faded green gown and matching bonnet came around the side of the house and stopped, raising a hand to shade her eyes in their direction.

He waved at her. "That's your mama, I think," he said to the goose.

Moses continued to waddle stoically along beside Kit for another minute or two until the woman called to them.

"Moses? Is that you?"

The bird perked up at the sound and honked in return, his little webbed feet moving faster and faster until he was half running, half flying toward the woman.

"Indeed, that's your mama," Kit said with a chuckle, following along behind.

By the time he caught up to Moses, the woman was crouched down beside the goose scratching the back of his long neck. She gave him one last pat before rising.

"Ah, Mr. Mathison brought you home again," Miss Devereaux said to her pet, wiping her hand on her skirt. The bird must have been wet from the light rain that still fell. "Did you say thank you?"

"He never does," Kit replied with feigned exasperation. "I don't know what kind of bird you raised."

She laughed a little, even though they'd had this same exchange numerous times over the past two years. "I think he's jealous of your navigation skills. You can find your way back and forth between our two homes without any help at all. For all his intelligence, Moses still hasn't quite mastered that skill yet."

Kit smiled in return, wondering briefly if this would be the sum of their relationship from now on—small talk about a bird. "Well, his timing was good today. I needed to get away for a while."

"Oh?"

"My roof caved in."

Miss Devereaux gasped, her eyes widening. "No!"

"On top of me. While I was sleeping."

"Oh, Kit," she breathed.

He started momentarily at the use of his nickname. In the time since he'd moved back into his childhood home she'd only ever called him "Mr. Mathison," despite having called him "Kit" for all the years they spent in each other's company growing up.

"How awful. Come inside and sit down for a moment or two, won't you? Have you eaten yet this morning? Grandmère is just about to put breakfast on the table."

Mrs. Devereaux could make shoe leather taste good, and Kit put a hand to his empty stomach. "I believe I will. It's too hard to think when one is hungry."

He followed Miss Devereaux and Moses up to the house where the bird veered off toward the barn, and the two humans entered the kitchen where the smell of eggs frying in butter washed over them.

Kit's stomach growled.

"Grandmère, we have one more for breakfast," Miss Devereaux said to the gray-haired woman at the stove, removing her bonnet and hanging it on a peg behind the door. She pushed a lock of glossy brown hair behind her ear. "Mr. Mathison has had a trying start to his day, and I've asked him to join us."

Mrs. Devereaux slid the pan she was tending to a cooler part of the stove. "Christopher," she said with a bright smile, enunciating each syllable of his name in her French accent. "How good it is to see you!"

He swept his hat off his head and bowed like a proper English gentleman, but couldn't keep the grin from his face. "Madame Devereaux, the pleasure is all mine. What can I do to help?"

Mrs. Devereaux directed him to a towel and the stack of plates behind her. He gathered them up after drying his hands and followed Miss Devereaux out to the dining room.

"How bad is the roof?" she asked, laying forks and knives next to the plates he set out.

Kit's shoulder slumped. "There's a hole a couple of feet across that goes through the roof, into the attic, and through the ceiling. And it looks like there are a few weak spots elsewhere."

"That sounds like fairly extensive damage." Two forks clinked together in her hand as she separated them. "Will you need a completely new roof?"

"I won't know for certain until I can get a builder out to have a look," he set the last plate down and looked over at her, "but it seems likely. Until then, I'll have to cover the holes as best I can and hope the rain lets up."

Miss Devereaux met his gaze. "Less rain would be ideal, yes. In the meantime, you can't stay in a house with a hole in the roof, especially when it's so wet."

"What was that?" Mr. Devereaux asked, entering the dining room as his granddaughter headed back to the kitchen. "Christopher has a hole in his roof?"

Kit recounted the events of the morning for Miss Devereaux's grandfather, trying to keep his voice matter of fact when his mind was spinning.

"Sylvie is right, you cannot stay in that house again until it's properly repaired." The smell of bacon permeated the room and he waited a moment for Mrs. Devereaux to enter the room with a platter of sizzling hot food. Then he continued, "You should stay here for a few nights."

Mrs. Devereaux's eyes met her husband's and she nodded. "Yes, I was thinking the same thing."

Miss Devereaux followed her grandmother in with four cups. "What?"

"What?" Kit said at the same time.

Mr. Devereaux took the platter of food and set it on the table, then held out a chair for his wife. "You'll have a warm, dry place to sleep until your bedchamber is serviceable again," he said to Kit, as if the decision had been made.

"That does make sense," Miss Devereaux added, taking her seat at the table. "And we have plenty of room."

Kit looked at the three of them, offering up their home to him as if it was something they did every day. It was true they'd known him since he was in leading strings, but the years he'd spent in Scotland after his father died had added a measure of reserve to their relationship that they had yet to fully put aside.

"Thank you," he said simply, pulling out his own chair and settling himself at the table. "I will spend the day assessing and cleaning and patching, and I'll join you for supper tonight."

Mrs. Devereaux smiled brightly. "Excellent."

Mr. Devereaux nodded once and turned his attention to his food.

Kit's eyes met Miss Devereaux's and he smiled to cover the flash of longing that washed over him. Would these couple of days be awkward between him and Sylvie? Or could they perhaps use this physical proximity to start rebuilding their friendship?

~*~

Sylvie sat across the table from Mr. Mathison once again that evening, wanting to inquire about the state of his house—and himself. But his speech was slow and his eyelids drooped, and he excused himself to bed not long after they'd sat down. She led him up the stairs and down the hallway to the extra bedchamber she'd helped her grandmother prepare earlier in the day. He mumbled his thanks and disappeared inside, closing the door behind him.

The second evening of his stay, Mr. Mathison managed some small talk at supper but was otherwise quiet, almost dull—wholly unlike the boy she remembered from her childhood.

Of course, the boy never had to worry about the time and expense involved in repairing his crumbling home.

He once again excused himself to bed early, and Sylvie watched him trudge up the stairs alone, wondering what she could do to make him feel better. She turned the thought over in her mind as she cleared the table and washed the dishes, unsure of what kind of gesture would be welcome. They had been friends as children due to the proximity of their homes, but not overly close ones. Kit was the eldest son of an English landowner, while Sylvie's grandparents were immigrants who paid for the privilege of running Broadstone. The two families hadn't exactly moved in the same social circles.

But Kit had always been kind to her, and they had spent some time together as affable companions when they were children and into their adolescence. She grinned momentarily remembering the time Kit had wanted to learn to bake a cake and her grandmother had obliged him, showing him how to measure out ingredients, what to mix together when, and how hot the oven needed to be. With Grandmère's guidance, Kit's cake had been a tasty treat. When he'd repeated the action at home the following week, it had resulted in a blackened brick.

"Do we have any of that pound cake left?" she asked herself aloud, wiping her hands on her apron and searching through the larder. "Ah-ha!" She found half of the pound cake her grandmother had made the day before and a few undersized strawberries from the kitchen garden. "That will do just fine."

Sylvie waited for her grandparents to go up to bed, then waited another quarter of an hour. She crept quietly into the kitchen and cut two slices of pound cake, then carried them slowly up the stairs.

Was he even awake?

There was a faint light shining under his door, and she took a chance, knocking softly. "Mr. Mathison?"

There was a rustle of fabric and the creak of the floor, then the door swung open. "Miss Devereaux? Is everything all right?"

"Yes, everything is fine." She offered him one of the plates. "I only thought that if you were still up, you might like some cake."

He glanced from her to the plate, then back to her, and a wide smile spread across his face. "That was very thoughtful, thank you." When he accepted the plate and took a bite of the cake, his features melted into an expression that was part bliss and part relief. "This is so good."

"Grandmère's special recipe," Sylvie replied with a smile of her own. It was good to see him happy, even if it was only for a moment.

Mr. Mathison chuckled, leaning against the door frame. "Do you remember the time she tried to teach me to bake?"

"Yes," Sylvie grinned, taking a bite of her own piece of cake. "The first one turned out rather well, if I recall."

"But not the second." He breathed in and let out a long sigh. "I fear the same thing is happening with the house, and that I'm not as good at taking care of my home as I should be."

Sylvie almost made a joke in an attempt to return the joy to his face, but elected not to. Perhaps he needed a sympathetic ear more than a quick smile. "Is it that bad?"

"I think it might be." He took another bite of cake and chewed it slowly. "I will know for certain in three days when the builder comes out, but I already know that it will not be good."

She wanted to reach out and touch him, to try to impart whatever comfort to him that she could. But she didn't know how to do that for him anymore. In that moment, she wasn't sure she ever did know. Instead, she said, "You can stay here as long as you need to. I know it's not the same as sleeping in your own bed in your own home…"

"But I very much appreciate your kindness," he finished for her. "These past few days have been exhausting. Coming home to good food, a dry bed, and people who care about me has been exactly the thing I need to keep going."

Sylvie's gaze dropped to the floor for the briefest of moments before meeting his blue eyes again in the dim light emanating from his bedchamber. "I'm glad we could provide that for you."

They stood in a slightly awkward silence for another moment before she spoke again. "I should seek my bed. I may not have a leaky house to repair, but I do have a list of tasks as long as my arm to start in the morning."

He gave her a half-bow, holding tight to his cake plate. "Good night, Miss Devereaux."

"Good night, Mr. Mathison."

~*~

Kit said goodbye to the builder and headed slowly for Broadstone Farm. When he was about halfway up the drive, Moses came waddling toward him, honking a greeting.

"I'm glad one of us is in good spirits," he told the bird, stooping to scratch the base of Moses's neck.

The pair walked up to the house together in companionable silence and met Miss Devereaux, who was sitting in the grass with her back against the rough bark of a large oak tree. She raised her eyebrows in an unasked question, and Kit sat down beside her as the leaves rustled quietly in the slight breeze.

"The whole roof has to be replaced."

"Oh no."

"And the amount of time it will take will depend largely on the weather."

It was dry currently, but there were thick gray clouds gathering on the horizon, and Miss Devereaux's brown eyes shifted to them. "Oh no," she repeated with a note of dread.

It was the same feeling he'd had when the builder had broken the news. Putting a new roof on a house in the summer should have been a fairly straightforward procedure, but this summer had been everything except straightforward.

"Well," she continued, returning her gaze to him, "I meant what I said the other night. You can stay with us as long as you have the need."

He turned his body toward hers and offered her a small smile. "Thank you."