Chapter 34

"Mr. Wells," Anne said, snuggling closer and kissing his nearly hairless chest, their mutual passion thoroughly spent, "I think we ought to go down and get some breakfast. Sun's pretty high."

"Really? And here I thought you were enjoying yourself." He stretched and squinted at the bright sunlight, raking back her lustrous hair with both hands and kissing her open-mouthed as their legs tangled. "If you insist." He tried to ignore his excited amazement and found he could not.

"Um," she purred, nuzzling, "this has been very instructive and all, but, had I a proper necessary, I would be paying a visit quite soon."

"Ah, yes, the call of nature, eh? Begone woman, do as you must. Tempt me not. I'm wore out anyroad, going to take a little nap." He turned to his side and pulled up his knees and made snoring sounds.

She poked him in the ribs, hard, rolled off the narrow bed they had shared, picked up her nightgown and fled down the hall, a sight he would long remember. At breakfast they found it hard to even look at each other without grinning, and the two slave girls spent most of the day whispering about what they had heard in the early hours of the morning.

Philip went outside and discussed the plans with the young carpenters, and they suggested a few changes including a separate henhouse with two levels of roosts and sliding doors on the stable. Anne and Bess made plans for a kitchen garden, and the old cook suggested that the apple trees were long past their prime and might well be replaced. Anne said she was planning on a couple of crabapples and perhaps a grape arbor attached to the necessary. Then she talked to the Rileys about a pen for the goats, and the boys suggested she have one for pigs as well. The barn cat still sat on the back porch, watching and waiting, front paws tucked out of sight.

The sheriff's visit was brief and perfunctory with Philip as his guide. He did not talk to Anne but did question all the slaves briefly. After he mounted, he looked down at Philip, pursed his lips and said, "Lot of talk in town, nasty talk. Keep your eyes open, young man. Tell her to load her other weapons and lock her doors."

Philip Wells and Anne Conroy dined together at about two that afternoon and during the meal, he raised the question of marriage, suggesting that they should do it pretty soon, he thought. "You mean us, you and me, Mr. Wells, married? Really?" Anne asked, cocking an eyebrow and trying to look serious, feeling her heart beat faster, hands clasped under her chin, cocking a well-practiced eyebrow.

"Of course. Yes. Who else? Of course. My God, Anne! I'll be admitted to the bar in a year or so, maybe less. I guess you're old enough aren't you, I mean since you're an orphan and all. How old are you anyway?"

"Oh yes, I'm plenty old enough, probably older than you, an ageing spinster eh? But Philip, I like you, I really do, and as much as I enjoyed this morning, and I really did, and last night as well, there is a problem, just a small, little tiny problem." She licked her lips, showed him the size by holding her fingers just an inch apart, and then sat back, crossing her arms and refusing to smile. The word "coquettish" crossed her mind.

He pushed back his chair, crossed his legs, grinned and said, "A problem, eh? You don't like my kisses?"

She put a finger to her lips, used her napkin, took a breath, rehearsed what she planned to say, picked her words with care, cleared her throat, raised her chin, tossed back her remarkable hair and said, "Yes, m'lad, there is the little matter of love. Ell-oh-vee and ee. I am certainly not sure I love you, although I more than like you, sir, I really do, even admire you sometimes, but I have not heard anything about love from you. Not a smidgen. Nary a jot or tittle or whatever they say these days." She inhaled and licked her lips, proud of her rectitude and sure that was the proper word. Yes, rectitude.

"Ah, now I understand." He smiled, nodded and stroked his stubbled chin, trying to look thoughtful. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Love is it? Hm, yes, I see, Hm." He leaned forward and held her eyes and then grasped both her hands. "Well, Miss copper-headed Conroy, let me tell you that I love you, love you with all my heart. Mr. Maguire loves you. The judge loves you. The blacksmith loves you. I'm not sure about the sheriff. The barber loves you. Mr. McMillan probably loves you, and I would not be at all surprised if young Caleb Sinclair had trouble getting your lovely visage out of his mind last evening when he lay in his bed and diddled himself."