Love. An L word, but not one Mr. Trent was likely to use. Still, she held her breath in case her kiss led to some unexpected revelation.
“League.” What had she expected him to say?Love, truly? No. But also notleague. Interesting. What word to follow that up with? “Mast, nautical, overboard—”
“Mr. Trent! You’re stealing my turns!”
“I’m moving the game along at a quicker pace so we can be done with it.”
“If you don’t wish to play, you should have said so.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you”—she wiggled on the plush seat because Mr. Stoic had given himself away—“have been on a ship. Or you’re obsessed with ships. Either way… sailing, you—do tell.” He wouldn’t, of course.
“I grew up on and around boats. My father was a sailor. I joined him on The Paragon when I was twelve. As a cabin boy. Too young by most standards, but I had nowhere else to go, and the captain allowed it.”
Oh, here it was. Information. The man’s stern exterior unfolded just a bit, giving her a peek inside at the gears that made him tick. “Your father must be very proud of you. Or perhaps he disapproves of leaving the family business to strike out on your own.”
“He’s dead.”
Oh.Oh no. She’d prodded too much, and now she’d bruised. Herself as well as him. His voice sounded hollow, and she felt hollowed out. Nothing for it but to offer up a salve, hopefully. A connection between them that showed she understood his grief.
“Mine, too. And my mother. A carriage accident.”
The carriage wheels crunched over dirt and rock and chomped up the churning silence between them, and when he next spoke, he wasn’t looking at her, though he stared in her direction. His eyes had gone dark and blank and distant.
“Not entirely certain what took my mother. I was out playing one day when Pa was at sea. She’d been fine when I left. Singing. And when I returned…”
Isabella pushed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. She would not cry. Otherwise, she could not give him what he’d given. Information worked that way—a fair exchange.
“My older sisters and brother knew about my parents for three whole days before I found out. And not through them, but through two others. Two maids in the hallway, whispering but not quietly enough to avoid my hearing.”
He returned from whatever distant place he’d retreated to. “Your family should have told you.”
She shrugged. “They were young, too, unsure what to do.Overwhelmed, likely. Grieving, of course. They wished only to protect us younger ones. Unfair for you, too.”
“Not unfair. Simply life.”
Why was the air so thick around them? His lips had thinned once more, no longer kissable. More like steel bars set tight to keep everyone out. To keep her out. But there’d been a moment when he’d softened. How could she bring it back?
“Do not worry I feel pity for you,” she said. “You are too successful and likely too rich for my pity. The Hestia is proof of that. Your expansion plan is proof. Tell me, will you stop at procuring The Blue Sheep? Or will you send your tentacles out all over the country and beyond?” He seemed the ambitious sort.
“I will expand in every direction, to own an inn along every major road from London to Edinburgh, from London to Bath, from London to Dover.”
“My, you are ambitious. Do you not trust others to provide good service to the weary traveler?”
“No. Have you visited London's other hotels?”
The Hestia was not the only source of gossip. “Grenier’s is quite a nice hotel. As is The Clarendon and Grillon’s and—”
He grunted. “They deal in opulence and luxury and do not understand what makes a traveler comfortable. And for certain travelers, luxury is comfort. Hestia provides that well enough. But along with silks and velvets, fine woods and high ceilings, you also must have perfect cleanliness. And though it may seem a contradiction, a certain amount of clutter. Homes accumulate meaningful old things, new things, objects that mean something to the owners, mementos of their lives. I am keen to have the Barlows’ inn because they understand this, and that much of the work is already done. As you pointed out—the doilies.”
His description certainly fit the Hestia. Its trappings were luxurious, the materials used to make them fine and of high quality. But the mantels in each sitting room, in each parlor, in the coffee room and dining room—they were all scattered with little statues, tiny fancy clocks wound by the maids, small, framed watercolors, and ink drawings. Embroidered pillows made homes of chairs and sofas, and therugs, though thick and new, appeared well-worn in places, as if friends often stopped by.
“Hestia. The goddess of the hearth,” Isabella said. “I should have guessed you to have a fixation with domestic trappings.”
“Have you noticed the hearth of every fireplace in Hestia possesses a small, decorative carving of that goddess?”
She frowned, trying to remember. It did not take long for image after image to click into place. “My goodness! So it is!”
