Authors: Nicole Williams
“It’s wonderful to see you again too,” I answered wholeheartedly.
Her eyes drifted back to us, falling on the foal, before returning to mine with their usual enthusiasm. “Do you like your present?”
I fingered through the spiky black mane again. “I love it. How many people get a horse as a ‘just because’ present?”
Cora looked pointedly at William and then raised her brows in explanation. She leaned in as if she were just speaking to me. “Something tells me if he thought you wanted the Titanic, he would retrieve it from the depths of the Atlantic for you.”
We both giggled, but I didn’t really doubt her.
“Supper’s ready you two. Abigail’s been working on it all day since this is the first dinner we’ve all had together as a whole family in
awhile.”
She looked purposefully at William. “So let’s not keep her waiting, okay?”
“We’ll be right behind you,” William answered, as Cora spun around to make her way back to the house.
“Let me put her away and we’ll go have some dinner, and I’ll introduce you to my father,” he said to me.
I gulped.
“Don’t worry. He’s really not that scary, I promise.” I could hear the smile in his voice even though he stood behind me. “He’ll love you once he gets a chance to meet you.” There was something purposeful in his voice, something that led me to believe that Charles, and whatever he already knew of me, was not already fond of me.
While I waited for him to return from the stable, I ran through several possible greetings I could use when introduced to William’s father—some more conventional, some more unique—and when I’d run through my seventh option, I questioned why I was so concerned with impressing the senior Hayward.
It didn’t take long for the answer to surface. I knew what was riding on the impression William’s father, their Council’s Chancellor, had of me—a Betrothal to William. That knowledge forced the blood from my face, and the adrenaline rush of nervousness to course through my bloodstream.
“Miss me?” a sweet voice whispered in my ear at the same time he wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Always,” I answered. Releasing his hold of my waist, he grabbed one hand and led me towards the home where I knew our Betrothal—however informal of proceedings, but as certain as a verdict—would be decided.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A FORMIDABLE GIFT
“What are you doing giving the mashed potatoes to Patrick? He’ll have the whole bowl gone before he gets it out to the table!” William shouted as we entered the house, announcing our arrival.
The screen door shrieked shut behind us.
“Hey-a, you two!” Patrick called out as he exited through a screen door that was propped open with a tall boot, a steaming bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes in hand. “I was wondering how long you two love birds were going to keep us waiting.” His voice dimmed as he moved farther outside, but was louder when he spoke again.
“Not as long as I would have thought, though.” He hopped back into the kitchen through the doorway, and stopped, looking carefully at each one of us. “Although I suppose that lovely shade of pale blue you two still have firmly affixed would explain your early return.” He grinned impishly, and William growled in irritation.
“When are you going to grow up, Patrick?” Abigail chided as she flitted through the kitchen. She didn’t acknowledge the two new additions standing in the entry.
Patrick ran his finger along a round, frosted cake, and Abigail slapped his hand away. “When I find myself a woman as good a cook as you, and as loving as you are Abby, I’m never going to let her go,” he said, before sticking the frosting coated finger into his mouth.
Abigail exhaled sharply. “
If
you find yourself a woman.”
“Hey-a, William—” he shouted, snapping a dish towel in our direction. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any pretty, pale blue eyed, un-betrothed girls around here looking for a husband would you . . . maybe with a preference to the strapping Hayward stock?” He twitched his eyebrows up and down in furious bouts, his teethed stained blue from the frosting. He winked at me.
“Sorry, I can’t cook,” I sneered back. “And there isn’t an Immortal woman around that could love you more than you already love yourself.”
William howled at my rebuke, and I detected the slightest of smiles cover Abigail’s normally stoic face whenever I was in her presence.
“That hurts, Bryn.” Patrick blinked for emphasis. “After everything we’ve been through—”
“Enough with the theatrics, Patrick.” Abigail cut in, handing him another food filled tray, and pushed him out the back door. She followed behind with a cloth covered basket.
“William.” A deep, slow voice spoke from above us.
William’s eyes rested above the staircase to the far right of where we stood. Mine followed, and found a tall man, past middle-age, making his way down the stairs.
“Father,” William answered respectfully, bowing his head slightly.
I sucked in a deep breath, an attempt at bolstering my confidence, as Charles Hayward descended the stairs. He was fair haired, and while similar in his statuesque height to Nathanial, his body did not burgeon with the stacked layers of muscle. His face was sketched with the wrinkles of middle-age, but the strong jaw, and masterfully cut lines of his face that could never be obscured by time’s passage, linked him to this clan of handsome Hayward men.
Stepping onto the floor, Charles looked to me as he approached us with carefully guarded eyes, and smiled. Not an overly warm smile, but it was at least a good start.
“Miss Dawson.” He extended his hand to me when he stopped in front of us. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“You too, Mr. Hayward,” I said, placing my hand in his. “But please call me Bryn.” I smiled, and hoped he could read in my eyes, or my handshake, or deep within my soul, that I loved the man standing beside me—still holding my hand in support— with every ounce of my being.
“Alright, Bryn,” he rolled the name over in his mouth, and carefully removed his hand from mine, eyeing it over with a curious expression. “If you’ll call me Charles, then.”
“I believe I can manage that.”
He kept his smile firmly affixed, but his eyes stared at me with an intensity of which I was unfamiliar. If felt like he was searching for something, as if trying to find some deep seeded mystery which I held within me. His gaze was unnerving, and my eyes couldn’t keep hold of his stare, so they searched around the expansive, adjoined living and dining room area.
I heard William engage his father with some question, while I took in the finer details of the house; the multitude of framed photos covering every wall or surface available; the antique rifles that hung displayed above the stone fireplace; and the intangible feel of a safe, loving haven. It was a home rich in the memories of this life and their former.
“We’d best not keep everyone waiting for us.” Charles’s voice cut through my surveillance, motioning for William and me to proceed.
William pulled me along. “Is that because it would be rude, or because of the impatience and bottomless pitted stomachs of my three brothers?”
I heard the smile in Charles voice as he followed us through the back door. “Both.”
There were five expectant faces awaiting the three of us as we approached the partially filled benches accompanying the well stocked picnic table. The early sunset colorings of vibrant pinks and purples streamed through the early spring buds on the maple tree the table rested beneath.
“Hey Bryn, it’s nice to see you’re no longer the poster girl for the living dead,” Patrick bellowed across the space between us, his mouth partially full with what I figured were mashed potatoes.
I heard William sigh in disapproval, and tense for what I assumed to be some kind of physical thrashing for Patrick forthcoming; when Joseph, sitting to the left of Patrick, smacked his hand across the back of his head.
“Ouch, little brother,” Patrick protested, rubbing his head.
I managed to stifle my laugh, but William didn’t.
Joseph glanced up at me innocently, as if nothing had just transpired, and smiled angelically. “It’s great to see you again, Bryn. You’ll have to forgive Patrick here. Sometimes he forgets he’s no longer a five-year-old.”
I smiled at Joseph’s endlessly happy face. “Good to see you, too.”
Charles took his seat at the end of the bench containing Cora, Joseph and Patrick, which left William and me to sit with Nathanial and Abigail. William placed himself in between his older brother and me, and I thanked him with a squeeze of my hand.
I extended a quick, nervous greeting to Nathanial and Abigail and was met with a couple of acknowledged nods—not even the conventional smiles I received at our first meeting. It appeared their former cool feelings towards me had only grown colder in the wake of the event where their brother had nearly lost his live. Not that I could blame them—I would be livid with anyone who’d put William in a similar situation. I was livid with myself as it was.
Like my first dinner with the Haywards—where conversation and laughter were the highlight—this one was no different. Some of the recalled memories and stories brought such laughing hysterics, minutes passed before anyone could regain their composure. All that was, except for Charles, whose intent gaze rarely left me as he continued his search . . . for what, I didn’t have a clue.
When darkness threatened the faint pink and purple ribbons of the fading sun, Abigail began clearing the table, while Nathanial lit a few antique lamps hanging from the low branches of the maple tree.
Joseph and Cora crept off into the house to return, only a minute later, with a couple of guitar cases in hand. Cora handed the black case she was holding to William as Joseph took one of the empty seats beside him, and commenced unhooking the clasps of his case.
“You up for playing?” Joseph asked his older clone with anticipation in his voice.
“Always.” William took the guitar case from Cora and she clapped her hands eagerly before taking a seat beside her husband.
I looked at William inquisitively as he withdrew the shiny acoustic guitar from its case. He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. “I play the guitar. It’s kind of a family thing,” he explained, as he began strumming at the strings.
“Is there anything you
can’t
do?” I asked, hypnotized from the way his hands moved with fluidity over the guitar.
Joseph laughed under his breath, and William elbowed him.
“He’s not very good with the ladies, and it appears he no longer has a career in espionage, either.” Patrick chortled, as he made his way back from the kitchen, a stack of cookies in his hand.
“I’d beg to differ with you there,” I retorted, before I remembered William’s father sitting quietly behind us. I flashed red.
“Does that differing come from all of your
extensive
experience in those two areas Miss Dawson?” Patrick retorted back, before stuffing a whole cookie in his mouth.
“Don’t worry, Bryn. He’s got a full mouth, so he’ll shut up for a few seconds, and then he’s got at least five or six more of those things in his hand,” Joseph encouraged me, and with the gentle lamplight thrown across his face, he looked more like William than ever before. “So you can look forward to another fifteen to twenty seconds of silence from him. Why do you think we keep so much food on the table when he’s around?”
Patrick swallowed and smiled in mock thanks at his youngest brother. “HaHa.”
“Come on.” Charles stood up, and came to a standing stop beside Cora, a rusted harmonica in hand. “Are you boys going to argue all night or would you like to play anytime soon?”
With that, the two, dark haired brothers nodded at one another, and broke into a light, fast-paced song. Charles’ harmonica tuned in a few notes later, followed by Cora’s sweet voice.
Amazement exploded over my face as I watched William and his family consumed by the music they created together. They played with the skill of a musical group people would pay to see . . . although I guess they’d had a few extra decades to perfect their melodies than most. I couldn’t repress the involuntary swaying of my body, keeping time to the steady beat coming from the foursome.
Nathanial, having retrieved Abigail from the interior of the house, escorted her to a make-shift, grass dance floor in front of the Hayward quartet, and Nathanial led her in a cheerful swing-like dance. Abigail’s face was alive and glowing in the arms of her husband. A twist of sadness stabbed me when I was reminded I may never glow in the arms of my husband while we danced beneath a star-blanketed sky if William and I were not granted a Union.
The song grew livelier, and with it, my body moving to the music.
“May I have this dance?” All signs of the cookies formerly held in them gone, Patrick’s hands extended towards me, and he winked devilishly at William.
“Sorry brother. You snooze, you loose. You don’t get to dance with the ladies when you’re stuck behind the varnished wood of a musical instrument.”
William rolled his eyes at Patrick, and then nodded at me in encouragement, never missing a note.