“And you are sure – you are quite sure it is safe?” Elizabeth’s concerned face wrinkled over the pot on the stove as Abigail stirred. “I have never heard of Sweet – Sweet . . .”
“Cicely,” Abigail said demurely. “Do not fret, Elizabeth, I would not do this unless I was absolutely sure.”
She glanced down to see Elizabeth’s hands folded protectively over the large bump below her light blue gown, and smiled. A longed-for child, almost ready to greet the world. When you had waited as long as Elizabeth and Jonathan, prayed, hoped, and became desperate for a child, you would naturally be suspicious of a strange plant popped into your favorite stew recipe.
“Where did you find this Sweet . . . herb thing?” Jonathan asked as he came into the kitchen, looking for a vase to place some flowers in.
Abigail hesitated, and guilt she should not feel swam into the gap. She should not feel bad; she trusted Laken. She had told him of her intentions for the herb, and he had some dried he had pulled from a pocket. There was no harm in trying it out.
“Laken Weston,” she said finally in a small voice. “I am growing some in the herb garden, for Gerald’s medicines, and Mr Weston – ”
“Laken?” Jonathan’s voice was sharp as a knock on the front door sounded. “You have taken a plant from Laken Weston and put it on my stew?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and Abigail hid a smile. She loved seeing her brother be teased by his wife, and Elizabeth never disappointed.
“You have caught us!” she said in mock horror, throwing up her hands. “Call the sheriff! My long-held plan of poisoning my husband, all come to nothing – woe is me!”
Abigail giggled, and a louder chuckle came from the doorway.
“What is all this about poisoning husbands? Sign me up!” There stood a woman who was almost a reflection of Elizabeth, but not quite, and she looked as though she would give birth at any moment.
Abigail smiled gently and turned back to her cooking. It would take her another few years to become accustomed to seeing two sisters who had married two brothers, but anyone who saw Katherine and Elizabeth together could not deny they were alike.
“Something smells good,” said Thomas with a broad smile, following his wife through into the kitchen. “What is it?”
“Stew,” said Abigail in a low voice. “And really, I can manage perfectly well – why do not you all go through to the dining room, and I will bring it through shortly.”
“Well,” Elizabeth sounded unsure as she glanced once more at the stew pot. “If you are sure . . .”
Katherine strode across the room and took her sister by the hand. “Elizabeth, you worry too much. Come, it will do us both good to spend a little time off our feet – you have everything under control, Abigail?”
She nodded. Anything to have the kitchen empty again.
“Thank you, Abigail.” Thomas shot her a smile as he beckoned his wife to follow him. “Do shout if you need anything!”
He held out an arm for Katherine, who clucked around him. “I need no help, young man, I am quite capable of walking yet!”
The gentle ribbing continued as they went through the house, and only when the kitchen door had shut behind them did Abigail’s shoulders slump.
Alone. Just how she liked it; a luxury fast becoming more difficult to indulge in, now Sweet Grove seemed to be growing into its own little town. Why, there had even been a letter Aaron had mentioned only yesterday, about a family who wanted to move here.
Before long, it would be absolutely full of strangers. Abigail shivered, despite the heat of the stove. She was not over good with strangers.
A peal of laughter echoed through the house, and she smiled despite herself. That Katherine truly was a joyful woman. It was difficult not to be slightly envious of what she had with Thomas, Abigail mused as she lifted the heavy pan from the heat to the table, making sure the table was protected. And Jonathan and Elizabeth. And Aaron and Phoebe. And Mariana and Gerald, for that matter!
Abigail smiled to herself. Being the youngest had its perks, of course, but it was rather strange to be left as the ninth cog in a wheel, the only one without a partner.
“Hello, partner.”
Abigail started, dropping the six sets of cutlery she was carrying, the clattering and clanging noise resounding in the room like gunfire.
“Whoops – careful, Abigail,” Laken Weston grinned from the doorframe. “You could do yourself a real injury if you are not cautious.”
Deep hot red had covered her entire face, and she dropped to the floor to pick up the knives and forks in an attempt to hide her face.
It did not entirely work.
“You could boil an egg on your cheeks, you know,” said Mr Weston conversationally. “Is that what we are having for dinner?”
“No,” she muttered, twisting slightly as she rose with her back to him, desperately trying to calm her breathing in the hope her cheeks would lessen their color also. “I have made us a lamb stew, and added the Sweet cicely as you – ”
“Sweet cicely? What on earth for?”
At his surprised tone, she had no choice but to turn around. He was staring at her as though she had suggested they throw the table into the stew too.
“For?” Abigail repeated, unsure of herself. “Why, to remove the acidity, of course. Like you said. Elizabeth and Katherine are here also, and as they are so close to their time – ”
“Oh, no,” said Laken Weston with a concerned look. “No, that is not the way, Miss Bryant. You had better find something else for the ladies.”
Abigail’s heart skipped a beat, and she stared at him in horror. “Is it dangerous?”
“Dangerous?” Elizabeth had come through without a sound and was now jerking her head between her sister and Mr Weston. “Dangerous, what is dangerous?”
“I think we need to – ” Abigail started, but she was interrupted.
“Nothing, Mrs Bryant,” said Mr Weston smoothly, “and may I say what a picture of health you are looking this evening; you and your little one. Why do you not go through, and I shall carry through this delicious stew for Miss Bryant. ‘Tis far too heavy for her, you see, and I wish to be of service.”
Abigail stared at him. What could he be playing at? “But – ”
“But me no buts, Miss Bryant!” Mr Weston sounded triumphant. “I absolutely insist; it is too heavy. Come now, Mrs Bryant, you sit yourself down at the table and encourage your beautiful sister to do the same.”
Elizabeth looked a little unsure, but Abigail knew her feet had been sore for weeks now, and she willingly accepted the wishes of Mr Weston and went through to sit.
“What are you about?” Abigail hissed to him in an undertone. “Is the Sweet cicely dangerous or not? Tell me, sir!”
Her vehemence surprised her, but then, was there anything she would not do for her family? The idea that the food she had so willingly flavored with this new herb could harm – could possibly hurt . . .
“‘Tis only a joke, Miss Bryant,” said Mr Weston lazily. “You must learn to judge my sense of humor; I think it is a little different from the Bryant variety.”
Abigail stared at him wide-eyed. “A joke? Elizabeth and Jonathan waited two years to conceive that child, and you would joke about its safety?”
For a moment, she thought she saw a look of contrition pass across the handsome features of Laken Weston, but then it was gone.
“Now, I was not to know that, was I?” he said, smiling broadly and adjusting his simple black waistcoat over his linen shirt. “Are you ready to go through?”
It was at that moment she should have known, but Abigail was still too young in the world to see the danger coming, and she smiled and nodded her assent.
“Just – just no more jokes of that nature,” she said firmly, indicating he was to pick up the heavy pot of stew. “Please.”
And yet it was not to end there. As the six of them were finishing off their stew, the conversation came to a natural lull after a fierce but cheerful debate between Jonathan and Thomas over the next place to build homes for the ever-growing Sweet Grove.
“Well, we shall have to see,” said Thomas diplomatically, “as along as my church has no need to move.”
Abigail smiled silently. It was strange to have her brother the Pastor, and yet there had never been anyone more suited to the servant leadership he practiced.
“Who knew you could almost agree on this,” ribbed Katherine gently, placing her fork onto her plate with a sigh of contentment.
Elizabeth smiled as she shook her head. “Not I, that is for sure – although I suppose it is Aaron who is the fiery one.”
Silence fell onto the table, and Abigail looked around her with contentment. Silence. Truly golden, and rarely appreciated.
It was not to last long.
“Here is a question,” said Mr Weston, waving his fork as he spoke. “You two are sisters, are you not? And you married two brothers.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Your point, Mr Weston?”
“Well,” he said with a smile, and suddenly Abigail’s heart went cold, “have you ever considered you have married the wrong sister?”
A silence fell of a different kind: not warm, or familial, but cold and dry and prickly, like a thistle you discover in a bouquet of what you thought were roses.
“No,” her brother Jonathan said stiffly. “No, I think we are quite happy as we are, thank you.”
“But things could have been very different, could they not?” Mr Weston persisted, and Abigail wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. This was her fault; she had invited him, and now he was embarrassing not only himself but her, too.
“I do not think so,” said Thomas eventually. “We are all quite different people, despite our sibling closeness. What works for one would not work for another. Now, Abigail, pudding?”
Laken saw the discomfort he caused, but seemed unable to stop his mouth from moving – it had always been the same; he could never leave a silence alone. He just had to fill it. A habit from childhood he had never been able to break.
“I think it is fascinating,” he said with a smile, hoping one of them, at least, would smile back at him. “I mean, you all met independently, did you not? I think you have told me the stories, though, Katherine, I must say yours is the most extraordinary!”
Why did he say that? Berating himself silently, Laken placed his hands into his lap and dug the nails of one into the palm of the other. Stop it, he told himself. Just stop it.
But it was too late. Katherine was blushing darkly, as he knew she would. No gentleman would have inferred about her previous . . . profession.
Thomas was speaking now, and his voice was angry. “I think that is enough of that topic, Mr Weston, if you do not mind.”
“Tell us more about the herbs we are growing,” said Abigail Bryant in a quiet voice barely heard above the clatter of plates she was gathering from the table.
Laken stared at her blankly. “Herbs?”
She nodded, and he was taken by the curve of her neck as she reached across him. Something about her words calmed him. The pain in his palm lessened.
“The herbs,” he repeated, and found the pain in his lungs he had not noticed until now was disappearing. “Well . . . there are three we are growing. Sweet cicely is one. We – we use it in cooking to remove the sharp acidity in the food.”
Laken looked around him and saw the table was quiet. All were listening to his words attentively, but none spoke. Why did none of them join in?
“And then there is the toothache plant,” he said, a little louder. Katherine winced, but he ignored it. “You do not have to think too hard to know what that plant is used for, and it is also useful for painful swelling of the mouth.”
He paused. Abigail was in the kitchen, and he could hear the plates clattering again. Why did she not come back? Why did no one else speak?
The silence – he could not stand the silence. Why must it continue? He had to fill it, he had no choice.
“Lastly, we have saffron, a powerful…restorative,” he said with a grin to Thomas, “and will give a gentleman the power of – ”
“Pudding,” said Abigail loudly. Elizabeth started, as did Laken. He had not seen her come in, and she had spoken in a tone far louder than he had ever heard from the petite woman. “Mr Weston, a word?”
To emphasize her point, she tilted her head towards the door. A blonde strand of hair fluttered down from its pin, and she pushed it behind her ear, seemingly without thinking. Laken smiled and rose from the table.
“Do excuse me,” he said to the stunned group. “Miss Bryant needs my assistance.”
She said nothing until they were both in the hallway, and the door to the dining room had closed – and then she rounded on him.
“What is wrong with you?” she whispered hurriedly, an angry crimson coating her cheeks now. “All evening you have been strange, with your painful jokes and your inappropriate questions!”
It was not the response Laken had expected. “Inappropriate questions?” he said defensively. “They are just questions, Miss Bryant, nothing more.”
Abigail sighed and bit her lip. “Do you honestly not see the improprieties of asking a man whether he would have preferred to marry his brother’s wife?”
He could not help it. He grinned. “Have you not always wondered, little woman?”
“Laken Weston! Do not call me that!” Abigail said, outrage encapsulated in a whisper. “And why do you fill every silence – constantly – with no conversation of real merit!”
It was his turn to color now, and he tried to block out the memory of the screams. “I just . . . I do not like silences. They make me feel . . .”
Do not think about it, he willed himself silently. Do not go back there – no good will come of it.
Something must have shown in his face, for now Abigail Bryant was staring at him, most alarmed. “Are you quite well, Mr Weston?”
She was ever so close, and the questioning, the constant questioning. Laken bristled.
“Quite well, thank you, Miss Bryant,” he said stiffly. “But I must go now – I have no wish to waste anyone’s time, and if my dinner conversation is not up to the Bryant standard, then I will depart.”
Two steps around her, and a hand flung out to open the front door. She may have been about to say something; he would never know.
The door slammed behind him as he stepped into the cool night air.