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in the Revolution and my husband. I warned he was too old to go off fighting. A stubbornman was he. I rued the day he and my boys left. I’m sure your mother is glad you lived.”
    The memory of his mother caused Seth's smile to waver. “My mother died before the war, ma’am.”
    Mrs. Bayberry's expression was empathetic. “Well, fortunate for you, you have a sister. But no wife? What a pity. For you’re young and handsome. You cannot deny ladies wait upon your attentions.”
    “I can deny it with confidence.”
    He did not enjoy such open conversations regarding love and hoped the subject would change. His experience with women was his own, private, something he felt a man should not boast about. Still, he had not known what it felt like to be in love.
    Mrs. Bayberry's mouth fell open. “Perhaps you simply have your eyes closed to it. You’ll have them opened in due time. We should be grateful our infant country and England are on good terms, else no one would inherit a smidgen from their relations on the other side of the ocean. Some of us would’ve been cast off.”
    Stowefield cleared his throat and looked up from his plate of food. “Shall we have a toast to our brave lads?” He raised his glass.
    With a gentle acknowledgment of their revolutionary heroes, the guests drank, and then coughed from its strength. Seth remained quiet during the rest of the meal, but politely answered every question directed at him. Most came from Mrs. Bayberry, the spokesperson for the group. He was not in the mood for chitchat with strangers, and the conversation put him in a sullen mood, thinking about his parents, the war, his sister, and the decision he faced.
    Afterward, tables were set up for card playing. Moodily, Seth stood by the window. Over the mantle hung a group portrait, and when his eyes met those of the woman in it, he was struck by the beauty and skill of the painting. The color of the eyes, the way the artist caused them to glisten and express feminine joy, captivated the viewer.
    The subject was unlike any he had seen. She wore a slight smile upon a face naturally beautiful. No powder, rouge, or wig concealed her. Her hair, long and dark, brown as the color of oak leaves in autumn, lay soft across one shoulder. Her left hand held the flow of hair at her breast. A band of blue ribbon pulled her heavy locks together near her forehead, and from under the front of the ribbon, delicate curls framed her face.
    A gown of white linen, accented with blue taffeta ribbon at the belled sleeves, graced her feminine frame. Her shoulders, round and smooth, were bare. Her right hand lay in her lap, touched by a flow of soft creamy lace. Within it, she held a spray of purple heather.
    Then there were the eyes, the depths of which drew the admirer. The artist's attempt to capture the facets of color held Seth's gaze in rapt attention. Sparkling full of spirit, clear amber struck Seth with the noonday sun. He wondered how they would appear in real life. Would the light play over them and her soul be revealed?
    Stowefield drew up beside him. “I see you admire the painting.”
    Seth's eyes remained transfixed, as he studied the contours of the woman's face. “Who is she?”
    “My niece Juleah. Lovely creature, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Yes, she's pretty.”
    “Mather Brown produced the painting earlier this year in London. He painted John Adams and his daughter Nabby's portraits.”
    “I’ve heard of Mr. Brown.”
    Stowefield turned and lifted his brows. “Have you?”
    “Even Virginian planters can be kept abreast in the arts. Who are the children beside her?”
    “Ah, her sister, Jane, and brother, Thomas. Jane is a fine girl, and I daresay she shall be as pretty as Juleah. Thomas will be a strapping young man when he's older.”
    “Do you see them from time to time?”
    “No, but we correspond throughout the year. Juleah will not forget her uncle. I commissioned the portrait a year ago and received it this week. I had