“You can do more than that,” the old woman gushed. “Lionel, shut the door. Look at you shaking. By heavens, let’s get you some dry clothes and a blanket.”
Lionel shut the door but he lingered near it. “Shipwreck?”
She nodded.
“How many?”
“Ten men. I rescued four before we capsized too and I’ve lost sight of them.”
“You went out in this,” gasped Mrs. Starkson. “My good Lord.”
“Have you made it to town yet?”
She shook her head. “I just need a second to warm and then—”
“No,” Mrs. Starkson said firmly. “There areno ‘and then’s’. Lionel will go.”
“No,” she started, but the woman hushed her immediately.
“My dear girl, look how hard you’re shivering. You’ll be liable to catch a cold like this, you poor thing. No, you’re staying where you are and Lionel will go. I’m going to make some tea.”
She didn’t bother telling the woman she had only been sick once in her whole life.
“Is that,” she started, but Lionel cut her off.
“It’s fine,” he answered. “Where were they?”
She explained where they had started and the directions of the current, and with a nod, he was putting on his coat and boots and was out the door.
She fell asleep before the tea had boiled, and maybe Mrs. Starkson took the pot off when she saw her or maybe she even slept through its whistle, but it was morning when she woke.
CHAPTER 4
“Are you feeling better?” Mrs. Starkson asked when she shifted awake.
She wanted to groan. Despite falling asleep on an armchair, it was beaten down enough that she felt like she had slept on the floor, but Father had always said to be grateful when in the home of another, so instead she tried to give her best smile. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Starkson.”
“Oh no, call me Rose. You call Lionel his name because of your father, don’t you? I won’t be having any special treatment.”
She wasn’t sure if that was good etiquette or not, but it was probably best to just go along with whatever the person wanted, right? She smiled, this time actually meaning it. “Okay. Thank you, Rose.”
The woman’s brown eyes sparkled. “I’ll make some tea. Do you like biscuits? Well, even if you don’t, you’ve never had a biscuit until you’ve had mine. Why Lionel…” She went on and on, her voice a constant and yet soothing drone. It was the first conversation Daria had had in over a year—if she didn’t count the monthly delivery of supplies from the shipping company, which she didn’t for there was so little talking, and if she didn’t count the screams of last night, which was hardly a conversation at all.
In fact, besides her few conversations with the carpenter and with the shipping company for business purposes, it was probably the first she had spoken to anyone since Father had died some five years ago. Of course, back then, Lionel had come by first to speak to Father and then upon finding out the news, to pay his respects. But he was a quiet man—stoic—and she didn’t remember him saying more than he was sorry to hear it and that they’d be there for her if she should ever need them. And that was five years ago at least.
So it was nice, even if she wasn’t always fully following. She hoped there wouldn’t be any need to recall any of it later, not when the woman talked of this and that way to bake bread.
Finally, there were biscuits steaming in front of them.
“You like honey?” the woman asked, drizzling it over before Daria had answered. “I always say they’re better with honey.” She handed Daria a plate.
“Thank you for this,” Daria said, taking it. Father had only known one bread recipe and he had taught it to her. She hadn’t even thought to try another.
But upon one bite, she understood. “Wow!” she exclaimed. “This is incredible! I’ve never tasted anything like this.”
The woman laughed. “Who knew you had such a reaction in you? You’re very cute, aren’t you, dear? I’ll give you the recipe. In fact, I can lend you all of my recipes.”
She nodded, mouth full of biscuit. “Okay!” Had Father known things could be this good?
