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stare at her, their mouths agape.
    Adwina’s hard brown eyes cemented with knowing disdain.
    With a silent groan, Finnea wondered what she had done this time.
    Moments passed before she noticed that not a single other person there had touched the flower and she understood her mistake. Americans, apparently, didn’t eat nasturtiums.
    Her mother’s slightly rouged lips rounded with humiliation; her brother groaned. Emmaline stammered.
    But it was Matthew who spoke.
    “The nasturtiums are a special surprise, Miss Winslet,” he said, his voice low and deep, commanding. “I told my mother they are a delicacy in Africa, and she served them in your honor. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
    “Ah, yes, dear,” Emmaline said, her pale gray eyes flashing with quick understanding.
    Matthew looked at Finnea, his eyes intense. She didn’t know what to make of his actions, and her embarrassment grew. She wanted to leap up and run from the room. But then, with his gaze never wavering from hers, he picked up the flower from his own plate and bit off the petals.
    Finnea’s eyes suddenly burned as she watched this man, such a contradiction. One minute fierce, the next so caring. Just as he had been in Africa.
    She forced herself to finish chewing. And after a moment, Emmaline picked up her own nasturtium, eyeing it dubiously. “I hope they are as good as what you enjoy in Africa, Miss Winslet. I’ve been looking forward to trying them myself.” And she did, chewing carefully and swallowing.
    One by one, the guests murmured doubtfully but followed suit—every guest but Adwina Raines. She sat in her chair with a suspicious scowl.
    “Eat!” Matthew bellowed, his fist crashing against the table, silverware clattering against china and wood.
    A startled moment passed before Adwina picked up the stem and bit off the top.
    Matthew focused on his plate, but after that he seemed to understand Finnea’s dilemma. After each new course was set before her, with barely held patience, he very discreetly, though emphatically, showed her which utensil to use.
    There were forks for salad and forks for meat. There were knives for cheese and spoons for coffee until all fourteen pieces of silver were gone and Finnea felt she would burst from so much food. But at the end, she felt proud. She hadn’t made a single other mistake the rest of the evening.
    At least she hadn’t until the guests began to depart, and she noticed that the bracelet her mother had given her to wear was missing. She glanced back toward the dining room. But just then Grace Baldwin extended her hand to shake in polite farewell.
    Without thinking, Finnea extended her own, placing her left hand under her armpit, as was her custom.
    First Grace’s then Adwina’s eyes went wide. Her mother groaned. And the pudgy, old Mr. Baldwin couldn’t seem to help himself. He laughed out loud.
    Finnea forgot about the bracelet as she realized it was her hand in her armpit that was causing the consternation.
    Nester made a harsh, frustrated sound, then snatched his coat from the footmen and bid a tight good evening.
    Shaking her head, Finnea dropped her hand and forced a smile, hating the sudden threat of tears that burned in her eyes.
     
    Chapter Three
     
    “I think it’s time you remarry.”
    The words stopped Matthew cold in his tracks.
    It was the next day, Sunday, and he was exhausted. The dinner party last night had taken its toll. It was getting harder and harder to hide the fact that the injuries that were only hinted at by the scar on his face were getting worse, not better.
    He stood in his parents’ foyer, having just arrived from his town house on Marlborough Street. At the sound of his mother’s voice he looked up to see her standing at the top of the stairs. Her hand rested on the mahogany banister that stretched out atop white spindles that looked like soldiers lined up in a row.
    Hawthorne House was what most prominent Bostonians considered an exemplary home. Large, but not