My head whips his way. “Jasper… I don’t know if that would be wise.”
His voice comes out almost pleading. “She wouldn’t have to know about us. But we’re friends, are we not?”
“You know that’s complicated for men like us.”
Jasper looks down at the water, and I hate to see him turning his face from me so. I reach for his hand, relief loosening my chest when he squeezes me back.
“I won’t ever be able to bring you home, Abraham. But if we can trust your mother, I’d really like to see yours.”
My heart aches. It’s not my mother I’m worried about. She already knows of Jasper, at least in part. She may not know him by name or even the true nature of our relationship, but she’s aware of our family’s benefactor. She’s never pried for more details than I’ve given her, and I don’t expect she’d do so now.
But everyone else? Those who live near us who might see Jasper walking by so out of place?
“We’ll need to be careful,” I tell him.
He brightens immediately. “Of course. I’llfollow your lead.”
“And my home… It won’t be what you’re accustomed to.”
“I don’t care.” The words are as forceful as the look in his eyes. “It’s yours, which will make it perfect.”
I let out a slow, slow breath. “I wasn’t made to resist you, Jasper Sinclair.”
“I do not wish for you to try.”
I laugh at his candidness, swooping forward to steal a kiss from his lips. By his answering grin, it wasn’t so much stolen as a gift freely given.
Jasper and I dry the best we can before re-dressing and starting off toward my house. His hand tangles with mine until we’re too close to the inhabitants of town to chance such proximity. Jasper follows me at a steady pace inside the tree line, the path keeping us out of sight for a long while. We pass the small, wooden houses along the stretch where I live, their roofs thatched, many in need of repair.
Once my home is in sight, I ask Jasper to wait so I can prepare my mother. She won’t want to be caught unawares by company.
I’m quick to head inside, finding her sitting near the open window. She’s working on a blanket for the winter, but she stops when I walk in.
“Mama,” I say, not mincing words with Jasper waiting so near outside. “I have a friend who’d like to visit. May he come in?”
“I… Yes, of course,” she says, smoothing her hair back. She leaves the blanket on her lap and gives me a nod.
I head back outside, finding Jasper peeking at me through the trees. I smile and wave him forward, and he walks my way as if lacking a single care in the world, when I know that’s not the case. With his stockings off and his waistcoat held in his hand, he could almost pass as belonging here at the quickest of glances.
Almost.
I open the door for him to pass through, and once inside, I shut us in. My mother is quick to appraise Jasper. From his fine clothing to his posture and the filled-to-bursting haversack slung over his shoulder, I have no doubt she realizes exactly who he is.
“Mama, this is Jasper Sinclair,” I introduce. “Jasper, my mother, Abigail Morris.”
Jasper steps forward, tugging the sack off his arm. He opens it, rifling through the contents until he pulls a small container forth. “Ma’am. I brought blackberry jam. Catherine says it’s your favorite, and she made up this batch fresh. I hope you like it.”
My mother accepts the glass jar, looking somewhat shocked. “Catherine,” she says slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. “Catherine Turner. She’s your family’s maid.”
Pain flashes across Jasper’s face before he hides it away, offering my mother the smallest of smiles. He takes a seat across from her in one of our wooden chairs. “She is a kind woman who has always been good to me, even as she never needed to be. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Morris. Thank you for having me in your home.”
My mother looks from Jasper to me, holding my gaze for a long moment. My stomach twists, but finally she hands me the jar of jam. “I’m certain I will love this, Jasper. Thank you for bringing it.”
He looks relieved, a wide smile gracing his face as he passes me the sack of food. I unload the rest of the items, my ear on the conversation as I work to steady my breaths. Jasper is speaking now.
“You knit? Catherine does as well. I never learned it.”
“No, I don’t suspect you would have,” my mother says, not unkindly. “I do. More now than I used to.”
