"I hope you won't think me presumptuous", she smiled and said, stepping inside the house as she handed him the decorative box from the bakery. "You can keep them for later if you like."
"Not a'tall. Thank you," he said. He was delighted.
He untied the string, and inside were scones and sweet cakes. He smiled.
"I thought you'd like them," she said. It was just a small offering. She remembered how he had enjoyed them at the after-services church coffee.
"Or rude," she continued. I . . . sorry, Edward and I, I should say . . . do mean to repay you for having the piano tuned and moved. It's just that with getting settled, it's been rather difficult." He had refused any compensation for the moving and temporary holding of the piano.
"I understand," he said. "I am happy to do it. Ye're welcome to keep it here for as long as ye like. Your visits . . . the lessons . . . are enough."
He wondered if he had gone too far then, and made his feelings known, said too much. He thought she might have stared at him curiously for a moment, but she didn't say anything in response.
She went to set up her music at the piano.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she called out.
"Nae, just make yourself at home," he said in answer. "Unless ye'd like to set out the cakes."
In the kitchen, he took out from one of the cupboards a caddy of loose Assam black tea - it looked well used. Water was already heating in a cast iron kettle over a fire at the hearth, as it usually was. When the steam looks and sounds just about right, he takes the kettle from the fire with a heavy cloth wrapped round the handle and pours a little of it into an earthenware teapot, swirling the water around to warm it, emptying it out into a basin at the dry sink - then, adding the tea leaves and pouring the hot water over them. As the tea steeps, he sets out two cups and saucers, the nice ones for company, the spoons and the other silver.
There was a cut loaf of Rēwena Parāoa potato bread on a breadboard, the wooden table laid with a simple cloth, along with some jars of preserves. Nelson Orchard Apples - Sturmer Pippin, it said, and there was one of pears too, as she read the handwritten labels; a sugar bowl and milk jug.
He showed her where the dishes were kept, and she chose an appropriate serving plate. He strained the tea into each cup.
They sat down, drinking their tea and chatting. The tea was rich and relaxing. She told him her about her visit to Wellington.
"Ah," he said, and smiled.
His favorite thing was when she just played ramblingly, as she did that day on the beach, when the music would overtake her, and he would simply listen. And he would gladly follow wherever it led, he thought.
Suddenly, she stopped playing and turned to him.
"Wouldn't you like to play something?" she asked. He hesitated, at first, but she insisted. "Come, bring up a chair."
The big man carried over one of the ladderback chairs from around the table, setting it down beside her, and sat down at the piano. It wouldn't be the best thing, the height might be too low to the keyboard, but it would do for now, until something else suitable could be found.
"We'll try something simple at first, the little prelude," she said. She moved her piano stool further to the right, placing her fingers at the octaves above middle C, his the octaves below. She does not scoot.
Slowly, tentatively, he followed her lead. His large, clean hands easily spanned the octaves.
"Well done," she told him, smiling and touching his arm.
Their hands had crossed and touched briefly throughout their playing and did again, and this time he took hers in his, kissing the back of her hand. He touched her cheek and he looked into her eyes for a long moment; as if to kiss her. She pulled away.
"Mr. Marston . . ." she began. "You humiliate me, Sir," she said. "I was not a part of this arrangement."
"John." He said his name. "I . . . I'm sorry."
She was mortified. She tried to find the melody again, to pick it up again from where they left off, but her hands were trembling too much and her playing faltered.
"Mr. Marston. John . . . Perhaps it is best if that were all for today," she said. She stood and gathered her things. "There is no need to accompany me."
"All right," he said, nodding his head towards the door. "Go then." The aura of distance she always put up around her had not dampened his ardour one bit. Her cheeks flushed in anger. He wanted her, but he would honour that. He would not treat her like a whore, a fine woman such as herself, nor make himself wretched. And there would be no deals to be made with the Maori involving him either, unless it was something they wanted and was beneficial to them as well. He would not betray or take advantage of a people who had been helpful and kind to him.
But just the same, Gabe followed with her to the path, and then sat down at the edge of Mr. Marston's property, watching and waiting as she hurried on her way, until she was out of sight.
Later that evening, after she had put Gracie to bed, she changed into her nightclothes and braided her hair. Sitting there at the mirror, she felt an almost violent longing for him, wondering what he saw in her face, her lips, of his kissing her. Oh, Bloody Hell!, she thought, chiding herself. She was hardly a schoolgirl. She'd had a lover and given birth to his child, for Heaven's sake.
But she could feel the sting of tears beginning to well in her eyes, because it was something that could not be. She was committed to Edward now; the wedding was being planned for late spring or early summer. It was too late. She made one more check on Gracie, and then to make sure the door to their rooms was locked, trying to shut it from her mind, and went to bed.
The next day, Sally Dunham knocked on the door.
"This came for you," she said.
It was a package wrapped in tissue and tied with ribbon. Attached was a note:
My dearest Jessie, she read.
Jessie was the pet form of her name, the name her family called her, as she'd mentioned to him. The note continued:
I hope you can forgive me.
Please accept this as a wedding gift,
and as a token of my affection.
Yours sincerely,
J. A. Marston
Inside was the bronze water-lily leaf bowl that she had so admired.
She turned the bowl over in her hands; the blacksmith's touchmark was on the underside. It was beautiful. She returned it to its tissued box and would place it with her other wedding gifts, and put the note in a corner drawer of the desk. She felt her smile twist; conflicted. She must remember to send a thank-you letter.