The morning mist still clung to the lake when Valerie arrived at the Ashton cabin, her arms laden with supplies she had quietly gathered from her mother's kitchen. Florence had been absent at breakfast, having taken refuge in her bedroom with what Constance proclaimed to be "one of her heads."
Oscar met her at the door with something approaching relief.
"She had a rough night," he said. "Couldn't get comfortable, kept asking for her mother."
Catherine's mother had died three years prior, Valerie remembered hearing whispered at church.
Inside, the cabin felt smaller than it had the day before. Catherine lay propped against the same stained pillows, but her breathing seemed more laboured.
"Good morning," Valerie said softly, setting her basket on the table.
Catherine's eyes opened. "You came back."
"I said I would."
A smile ghosted across Catherine's features. "People say lots of things."
Valerie began unpacking her supplies. Catherine's gaze lingered on the jar of honey, the fresh bread, the small bottle of laudanum she had taken from her mother's medicine chest.
"Is that for me?" Catherine asked.
"If you want it. Dr. Pemberton said it would help with the pain."
"Did he now?" Oscar's laugh was harsh. "Generous of him, considering he won't come out here anymore."
She mixed a small dose of the laudanum with water and helped Catherine drink it before settling into the chair beside the bed.
"Where's Jimmy this morning?"
"Playing outside. He doesn't like to be in here when his mama's..." Oscar's voice trailed off.
The next hour passed quietly. She had just finished washing the breakfast dishes when a shadow fell across the doorway.
"Excuse me," said a voice from outside. "I hope I'm not intruding."
Oscar looked up. "Depends what you want."
The man in the doorway was perhaps thirty years old, tall and lean, with dark hair that looked like he had been running his fingers through it. His clothes were simple but well made.
"I brought some books for Miss Ashton," he said, holding up a small canvas bag. "And some tea that might help with her breathing."
"Bennett," Catherine said, her voice stronger than it had been all morning. "You came."
The transformation in her was remarkable. She struggled to sit up straighter, and colour actually returned to her cheeks.
"Of course I came," the man said, approaching the bed. "I promised I would."
His eyes met Valerie's across the small space. They were grey, she noted, the colour of lake water on an overcast day.
"I don't believe we've met," he said with a slight bow. "Bennett Shaw."
"Valerie Whitfield."
Recognition flickered across his features. "Florence Whitfield's daughter?"
She braced for the usual reaction, the careful stepping away. Instead, he simply nodded as if filing the information.
"Miss Whitfield has been helping us," Catherine said. "She came yesterday and cleaned everything, brought medicine..."
"Did she?" Bennett's gaze returned to Valerie. "That's very kind."
"It's nothing," she said, then immediately regretted the disclaimer.
"On the contrary," Bennett said, settling into the chair on the other side of Catherine's bed. "It's everything."
She felt her cheeks warm under his regard.
"What did you bring me today?" Catherine asked.
Bennett opened his canvas bag. "Poetry. Keats. Some Yeats." He held up a leather bound book. "Byron's letters."
"Oh, Byron." Catherine's voice carried a thread of energy it had lacked moments before. "Mama used to read me..." She stopped, coughed wetly into her hand. "Sorry. She used to read me 'She Walks in Beauty' when I was small."
"Would you like me to read?"
"Please."
Bennett read in a low voice while Valerie found a spot on the floor that needed sweeping. The cabin had a smell she couldn't quite place, something sweet and wrong underneath the woodsmoke. She swept the same patch twice, listening.
When he finished, Catherine turned her head on the pillow. "Miss Whitfield, do you know Byron?"
"Some." Valerie felt the familiar flush. "A little."
"What did you think of 'Childe Harold'?"
"I thought it was..." She stopped. Her mother's voice in her head, warning about opinions, about seeming too clever.
"Go on," Bennett said.
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
She looked at him then, really looked. He was watching her the way he had watched Catherine, as if her answer mattered. Outside, a crow was making a racket about something in the trees. Oscar had fallen asleep in his chair, his chin on his chest.
"I thought Harold was tiresome," she said. "All that wandering around feeling sorry for himself. If he was so miserable, why didn't he do something?"
She waited for the polite disagreement, the gentle correction.
Bennett laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised out of him, and Catherine smiled at the sound of it.
"Tiresome," he said. "Yes. That's exactly right. Byron would have been offended, of course."
"You don't think I'm wrong?"
"I think you've said what I've thought for years and never quite managed to articulate."
The conversation that followed was unlike any Valerie had ever experienced. Bennett listened to her opinions as if they mattered, challenged her thoughts without dismissing them.
It was only when her stomach growled audibly that she realised how much time had passed.
"Good heavens," she said. "What time is it?"
Bennett consulted a pocket watch. "Nearly two o'clock."
"Two o'clock?" She stood quickly. "My mother will be beside herself."
"Will she?" There was something in his tone that made her pause.
"She'll think... she'll assume..." Valerie stopped, unable to articulate what her mother would assume.
"She'll assume you're living your own life instead of the one she's planned for you."
The words hit her because they were true. Florence had mapped out every day from birth to eventual spinsterhood. The only variable had been which disappointing turn Valerie would take next.
"It's not that simple," she said.
"Isn't it?"
He moved closer, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of soap and woodsmoke. Close enough to see the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her.
"I barely know you," she said.
"Do you need to know me to enjoy my company?"
Outside, they walked together toward town. The afternoon air carried the scent of pine and woodsmoke.
"You live on the island, don't you?" she asked. "Mistawis Island?"
"I do." His voice was carefully neutral. "Does that trouble you?"
Everything she had heard about Bennett Shaw suggested she should be troubled. He lived alone, kept to himself, had no visible means of support. The gossips whispered everything from criminal to madman.
"No," she said finally. "It doesn't trouble me at all."
They parted at the main road. She found herself walking more slowly than usual, reluctant to return home.
The interrogation came sooner than expected. Florence was waiting in the front hall.
"Mrs. Pemberton tells me you were seen speaking with that Shaw person."
Valerie paused, removing her coat. "Was I?"
"Don't play coy with me. That man is dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
Florence's hands fluttered at her sides. "He lives alone on that island, doing heaven knows what. He has no family, no references, no visible occupation. For all we know, he could be a criminal. A fugitive."
"He reads poetry to dying women. If that's criminal behaviour, perhaps we need better criminals."
Florence gasped. "How dare you speak to me that way? I am trying to protect you."
"Are you? Or are you trying to protect yourself from the possibility that people might talk?"
Florence's face went white, then red. "Go to your room. Go to your room this instant."
"I'm twenty nine years old, Mother. I'm not a child."
"Then stop acting like one."
The accusation stung because it held a grain of truth. For twenty nine years, she had acted like a child, accepting her mother's authority without question.
"You're right," she said quietly. "I have been acting like a child. But not anymore."
She climbed the stairs. Behind her closed door, she sat on her bed and tried to sort through the confusion of emotions churning in her chest.
Tomorrow she would have to face questions she couldn't answer honestly. But tonight, in the mercy of darkness, she could remember what it had felt like to have her thoughts matter to someone.
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