Whispers of Heaven Read Free Page B

circumstances or events might be. And afterward, one never mentioned such occurrences. One certainly never hinted at or even acknowledged their private inner anger or pain. To do so would be not only un-English, but ungenteel. When one lived on the edge of the world, surrounded by English criminals, Irish rebels, and their free but tainted offspring, one had to be very careful of such things.
    "I've arranged a homecoming party for you," Beatrice said, her hand flashing as she set a tiny row of neat stitches in her embroidery cloth. "A formal reintroduction to society, to be held next month. And I'm going to insist that you rest until then. No riding about the countryside studying rock formations, or investigating reports of some strange new variety of orchid, or... or such things. You'll need time to recover from the voyage."
    "I'm not tired, Mother." Jessie sank onto a small stool near her mother's feet. "I certainly don't need a month to recover." And then she wondered why she had bothered to say it, because she already knew what her mother's reaction would be.
    "A lady should always rest after strenuous exertion. Your sisters understood that." She paused, but Jessie sat with her hands gripped tightly together and didn't say a word. Ever since she was a young girl, she'd heard herself compared unfavorably to her two dead sisters. No matter how hard she tried—and she did try, very hard—she always fell short.
    "I wouldn't even have invited Harrison and Philippa to join us for supper tonight," Beatrice continued, her attention fixed on her embroidery, "except that Harrison is so anxious to see you." She looked up and gave her daughter a warm smile. "He has missed you terribly. I couldn't make him wait any longer."
    Harrison Tate was their closest neighbor and Jessie's dearest friend. He was also one of the wealthiest men in the colony since five years ago when, at the age of nineteen, he had inherited his father's vast estates. They had all played together as children—Harrison, Warrick, Jessie, and Harrison's younger sister, Philippa. And two years ago, on Jessie's eighteenth birthday, he had quietly taken her hand and asked her permission to announce their engagement.
    That had been only a formality, though, for it had all been settled long before between Anselm Corbett and Malcolm Tate, Harrison's father. Anselm's son and heir would marry Philippa Tate, while Harrison would marry Jesmond. Jessie had grown up knowing of the arrangement. It had never oc- curred to anyone that she might someday object to it, and she hadn't objected to it. Only, she had wanted her time of study in London first, and Harrison had taken what her mother called "Jesmond's headstrong folly" in good part, even going so far as to promise to wade out to meet her ship with a bouquet of red roses clutched in one hand and her wedding ring in the other. Jessie had laughed when he said it, of course, because she had known it for the joke it was. Harrison was too punctiliously proper, too English, to ever seriously entertain doing something so emotional and demonstrative. Besides, public displays of affection always embarrassed Harrison.
    "At one time he spoke of going with Warrick to meet you," Beatrice was saying, as if following the train of Jessie's thoughts. "But I discouraged him."
    "You discouraged him?" Jessie linked her hands over her bent knees and leaned forward. "Whatever for?"
    Beatrice glanced up again from her embroidery. "I thought it appropriate that your reunion with your betrothed take place in more... formal surroundings."
    Jessie rocked backward with a quick, startled burst of laughter. "My betrothed? Goodness, you make him sound like some awe-inspiring stranger for whom I must be sure to display my most proper manners, rather than someone I've known since—since I was a babe in leading strings, and he was a grubby little boy in shortcoats."
    "I don't remember Harrison ever being grubby, even as a little boy. You're thinking of