“Good. Well, that’s good then,” he murmured. Feeling uncharacteristically gauche and awkward, he moved over to the sideboard and helped himself to his favourite staples. When he turned around he met his father’s curious look.
“Everything alright?” he asked. He put sufficient purpose in his question for his father to get the gist of the true meaning.
“Seems so,” his father replied gruffly. “Too early to tell yet.”
Myles nodded. Rath
er than take his habitual seat beside his father, he moved further down the table and sat opposite Estelle.
Estelle tried not to stare, but couldn’t seem to stop looking at him, and did so frequently as he took a seat and began to eat. When Isaac shifted in his seat and coughed discretely, she looked at her own plate but paid no attention to it. Only a few minutes ticked by before she was tempted to look at him again. When she did so, she jerked when their gazes met.
Something shimmered in the air between them. It wrapped them both in a world of their own where the room and everyone in it faded, if only for the briefest of moments. Everything changed in that instant. Estelle knew she would never forget the way the candlelight flickered and emphasised the curvature of his features, the sharp blade of his jaw, the way the shadows played against the slight hollow of his cheeks. Even his eyes appeared to glow a little brighter in the shade of the dancing flames. They certainly carried heat, because she began to tremble and feel flushed the longer his gaze lingered on her.
“So, what are your plans today, Myles?” Barnabas asked in a desperate attempt to bring some normality back to the breakfast table.
He had never seen that smitten look on his son’s face before and turned his attention to the young woman staring back at Myles equally as avidly. This was the first time he had ever seen his son take such an active interest in a female before in his life, and wasn’t about to take steps to quash his apparent interest by rebuking him for his behaviour at the breakfast table. As far as Barnabas was concerned, four and thirty was far beyond an age when a man should settle down and start to raise a family of his own. While he had accepted that Myles must choose his own bride, he had often been of the opinion that his son had to be either the pickiest man alive, or had a strong aversion to marriage. At this late date in the marriage game, any woman who managed to capture Myles interest was worth snaring.
Mentally plotting, he turned his attention back to his meal and left the young couple to stare at each other. It was only when several minutes had ticked by that he realised Myles had yet to answer him. Spearing his son with a stern look, he turned his attention to Estelle, determined that if there was ever a good time to find out what he needed to know about her it was now.
“Tell me, my dear, who are your relatives?”
Estelle looked down the length of the table at Barnabas. She sighed sadly when she thought of her grandma and the worry she must be feeling right now. Guilt made her look down at her plate with regret.
“My grandmother is Mrs Matthews. She lives just on the outskirts of the village.”
“I know of her,” Barnabas replied. “No parents then?”
“No, sir,” Estelle replied sadly. “They d-died in a house fire some weeks back.”
“Recently?” Barnabas speared her with a worried look.
“Yes, sir.”
“I am sorry,” Myles murmured.
“Thank you.”
“So you came to live with my grandma when your guardian passed away?” Barnabas asked. “You are relatively new to the area then.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, I moved in about nine weeks ago,” she replied.
Barnabas nodded. “What did your father do?”
“He was a farmer, sir. He had some land on the outskirts of Northampton,” she explained.
“What did he farm?”
“Crops mostly. He supplied the brewery in Cromberg.”
Barnabas stared at her. “Cromberg Brewery? Your father supplied them?”
He knew the Cromberg Brewery. Anybody who drank ale did. They were one of the country’s leading brewers and used only the finest of ingredients.
Now that I come to think about it, I can remember an article in the broadsheet about the farm that supplied the brewery having been destroyed in a fire, he mused.
“An associate of mine owns it,” he murmured absently. It elevated Estelle’s status a little as far as he was concerned. “I am sorry to hear of your loss, my dear.”
“Thank you.”