He hadn't been thinking of Valancy during that trip to the Port, not really. He hadn't been thinking about her warm smile or the way she drew herself up, brow furrowed and slender shoulders pulled back, to lecture Abel for tracking in mud again. He hadn't been thinking about the gentle dignity she afforded Cissy while tending to her, or how that delightful laugh of hers rang through the house whenever she and Cissy engaged in girlish conversation. He hadn't been thinking about the mischievous glint in her eyes that preceded some unconventional remark or observation, and he certainly hadn't been thinking about the way she sat on the steps of the back veranda on those evenings he and Abel exchanged stories, her hands clasped about her knees, a dreamy smile on her lips, her eyes resting on nothing and no one in particular, but rather, fixed on a point far in the distance, as if admiring something or some place only she could see.
No, he hadn't been thinking of Valancy that day. Not at all.
At least, not until he walked past the confectionery, a crate of oranges in his arms, and saw the little boxes of chocolates on display in the window, wrapped in gold foil and done up with dark blue ribbon. And then, Valancy did not so much come to mind as she overtook it. He imagined her as clearly as if she were standing before him—the look of delighted surprise on her face as she took the box of candy from his outstretched hand—followed immediately by the quizzical lift of an eyebrow. He smiled to himself, unsure what he would say to that, but confident that he could think of something during the drive back to Abel's—something friendly and fitting and unencumbered by the overwrought sentimentality that had a habit of creeping into his language whenever he found himself in the presence of something exquisite or remarkable—a habit that seemed to have become more frequent and aggressive as of late.
Whether or not he ever found the right words, the fact remained that Valancy must have these chocolates. If anyone deserved something so lovely, it was she. She deserved much more, quite honestly, for the kindness she’d shown both Cissy and Abel, for the warmth and life she’d brought back into their home. She deserved all the chocolates in the window, in the world, for giving him, the cynical and reclusive Barney Snaith, one more reason to leave his Mistawis shack every day.
So, he set down the crate of oranges by the door and walked into the confectionery, where the clerk immediately greeted him with a smile. “How can I help you today, sir?”
Barney angled his head over his shoulder. “I’d like one of those boxes of chocolates in the window, please.”
The clerk’s smile faded as he gave Barney the once-over, taking in his faded overalls and two-day beard, doubtless wondering whether Barney could afford to pay for the candy. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before his professionalism brought a new grin, more saccharine than any offerings in the store, to his face.
“Of course, sir. Just a moment.”
Barney watched the clerk stride to the window, daintily pluck one of the boxes from the display, carry it to the counter and set it down as if it were made of real gold.
“An excellent choice, sir,” the clerk said. “These are quality chocolates, the finest in the province—dare I say, in the country. I’m absolutely certain your special lady will be delighted.”
Barney tried to disguise his inadvertent chuckle by clearing his throat. “Well, I sure hope so.” What need was there for him to clarify? After all, Valancy was a special lady; it made no difference that she was not “his.” Nor would he ever aim to make her so, he realized, even should the moon strike him crazy enough to pursue such feelings again. Valancy belonged to no one but herself, as spirited and self-possessed as the songbirds that perched high in the boughs of the forest. And like those birds, for someone to take her and keep her as his own—that wouldn’t be love. It would be cruel.
But Barney did not recognize the gravity of his thoughts as he counted out the money for the chocolates—he only imagined setting them into Valancy’s small hands, showing her that her hard work and gentle affection had not gone unnoticed.
He spent the drive home muttering and laughing to himself, still trying to perfect his statement of friendly appreciation, determined that Valancy should not have an opportunity to misinterpret his gift as a sign of anything more. Every now and then, he glanced at the little gold box nestled safely among the oranges and laughed anew. Had anyone been able to hear him over the horrendous sounds of Lady Jane, they surely would have thought him a lunatic.
Not that that would be so different from what they thought of him already.
When he arrived at Abel's, he slipped the box of candy into his pocket before hoisting the crate of oranges, and not a moment too soon, because when he turned around, Valancy had already rounded the house from the back, smiling and waving.
"Good afternoon, Miss Stirling," he said with a friendly nod. "I suppose Lady Jane announced my arrival in advance."
"She certainly did. It's a lucky thing you've no need for stealth; she would give you away in an instant, I'm afraid."
"Never have had a need for it. Stealth is the refuge of deceit, a prison of shadows for the soul. Honest and free is the only way to live."
Valancy tilted her head and peered at him through narrowed eyes, and for a second, he feared she could see right through him, to the tiny cluster of secrets around which he had built his life in Mistawis. But then, a playful grin spread over her lips, and his heart relaxed.
"'Like the rush of the creek or the flight of the geese, or the wind sighing through the forest boughs,'" she said. "I thought you didn't like John Foster's writing."
He blinked at her and inwardly cursed himself. "I don't."
"You quoted him just now."
"That? A mere coincidence. Mr. Foster isn't the only man with latent philosophical tendencies."
Valancy laughed and opened the gate. "Very well, I suppose you're right. Won't you come round the house and say hello to Cissy? It's such a nice afternoon, we decided to take in some fresh air on the back veranda."
Cissy sat up in her hammock the moment she saw him and set aside the book she was reading to select an orange from the crate. "You're back early. I didn't expect we'd see you until this evening."
"And make sweet Miss Gay wait all day for her oranges?" Barney grinned. "Perish the thought! Besides, there wasn't much of a crowd at the Port today." He adjusted the crate and felt the real reason for his haste back to Abel's shift in his pocket.
"I'm glad. Perhaps you'd like to stay for some tea?"
"Thank you, but I wouldn't want to trouble you."
"It's no trouble at all," said Valancy, holding open the kitchen door for Barney. "I'll put some water on. Abel's at a job right now, so it's just the two of us, and I fear I'm not the most skilled or interesting conversationalist."
"Don't say that." Barney set the crate on the table. "You have plenty to say, and all worth listening to. Don't think I don't notice how much more often Cissy laughs when she's talking with you, or how her eyes become clear and full of life! After spending years with Abel's grumbling—I've done my best to be good company to her, but I've never got her to open up as much as she does to you. You're a wonderful friend to her, Miss Stirling, and I don't think she'll ever tire of your company."
"That's kind of you to say." Valancy was turned away from him, facing the stove. "I'm truly very fond of Cissy. I only wish—I only wish I hadn't waited so long to show her that."
"You can't fix the past. But you can just keep doing what you're doing now. It's good for both of you, I think." He felt the edges of the box in his pocket. "You needn't bother with the tea, really."
Valancy spun around, wearing a delightful little smile. "Too late, the water's already on! Make yourself comfortable on the veranda."
"If you insist, Miss Stirling! But first—" he pulled the box from his pocket and extended it toward her. "—I picked you up a little something at the Port. I thought you might like it."
Valancy's eyes widened as she took the box, and she held it up and examined it from every angle. "Thank you. What is it?"
"Open it and see."
"Chocolates! Oh, they're lovely! Lovely, but far too good. Barney, you needn't—you mustn't—spend money on such frivolities, least of all for me!"
"It is my money to do with what I please, and what I pleased was to please you. Do you like them?"
"Yes, very much! This is—" She bit her lip and looked away.
"This is?"
"Oh, it sounds so silly!"
"I don't mind silly."
Valancy laughed. "This is…the first time I've ever received candy. It seems a sin to even think of eating one!"
"That's what they're made for," Barney answered with a shrug, glancing out the window and noticing Cissy craning her neck to see what the commotion in the kitchen was all about. "You needn't worry, just enjoy them! It's a simple gift, a token of appreciation for everything you've done here—everything you're doing."
"I've told you before, it's not all that special."
"You're right, it's not special. It's extraordinary. Now, Miss Stirling, take the kettle off the stove and let us join Cissy. You can't be a conversationalist—interesting or otherwise—by hiding in the kitchen." He opened the door to the veranda. "How's the orange, Miss Gay? Sweet enough?"
"I'm not hiding," Valancy protested, scurrying after him. She took a seat on the top step, leaning against the railing, and held the box of chocolates out toward Cissy. "Barney bought some candy at the Port. Would you like one?"
Cissy shook her head with a sigh. "No, thank you, Valancy. I'm afraid those would be far too rich for me. Enjoy one for me, instead." She hiked a delicate eyebrow toward Barney, which he avoided by picking at a worn patch on the knee of his overalls.
"So, Miss Gay," he said, "what book are you reading?"
"A collection of poetry. Valancy and I have been taking turns reading them to each other. Would you like to read one?"
"Why not?" He took the book from Cissy's outstretched hand and cleared his throat. "'In the Tender Light of Morning. In the tender light of morning, I watch your sleeping face. The sun caresses your dew-soft skin…" He inwardly groaned, but dutifully kept reading. Of all the poems Cissy could have handed him, she gave him the one most laden with overwrought sentiment! Perhaps the whole collection was like this; it seemed the sort of thing she would enjoy. He briefly wondered what Valancy thought of them—she didn't seem to be a romantic, at least not overtly—but then again, she did enjoy his ramblings as John Foster, so perhaps her taste for sentimentality extended beyond the natural realm to that of romance, as well.
All he knew for certain was that, when he glanced at her mid-reading, and found her with her hands clasped around her knees, staring at him with that same dreamy expression he'd so often surreptitiously watched on evening visits, a sudden warmth flooded his chest and the next line faltered in his throat. He turned back to the text and rushed through the rest of the poem. When he finished, Cissy and Valancy clapped politely.
"Bravo," Cissy said, a mischievous grin playing across her pale face. "You really brought life to the subject, Barney."
"An awkward subject," Barney grumbled, returning the book.
"How so?"
"Would either of you figure me for the romantic type?"
"Not at all, but that's where the fun in this lies. Why, just before you got here, Valancy read the part of a warrior queen!"
He looked at Valancy and raised an eyebrow. "And how did you do?"
"She did marvelously," Cissy answered for her, twisting a strip of orange peel and holding it up to her nose.
"I did my best," Valancy said. "And, as Cissy said, that's the fun of reading these poems aloud. To inhabit a different time, a different spirit, if only for a while."
At the moment, Barney wished he could inhabit a different body for a while—one whose heart was not pounding, whose mouth was not dry. To think of Valancy slipping into a role she thought herself unsuited for—a role that embodied all the strength and valor she showed daily in her own quiet way—endeared her to him even more—perhaps to a dangerous degree. He swallowed hard and gave what he hoped was his best carefree laugh.
"Then I will leave you ladies to your fun."
"You're leaving so soon?"
"I really must be on my way. It was a pleasure. Miss Gay, enjoy your oranges; Miss Stirling, your candy." He nodded to them both and descended the veranda steps. Valancy rose as he passed, clearly intending to see him out.
"You needn't bother, Miss Stirling," he said.
"It's not a bother at all," she answered, accompanying him to the gate. "Thank you for going to the Port for us, and for humoring us. I know you're not fond of sentimental prattle. I have no idea why Cissy chose that poem for you. She does have quite the unexpected mischievous streak."
"I've noticed." He smiled, though he knew exactly why she had chosen it. Thank goodness Valancy had not picked up on that, nor overestimated the significance of the candy. It was only a simple gift, after all, for a woman who deserved so much more. He bid Valancy goodbye and hopped in Lady Jane, grateful for the noise of her engine, as the racket helped drown out the conflicting thoughts swirling and overlapping in his mind.
It was just candy.
A token of appreciation.
After all, he hadn't been thinking of Valancy when he went to the Port that day.
No, he hadn't been thinking of her at all.