Goretti's Boarding House, West-and-Long
Lovely, Clark had said, twice, sounding it out, gazing down at his little daughter. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, and Ava understood better than she wished to what was in it. As she had with all the rest – as she had to – she tucked the knowledge away, carefully, smiling at the little babe. Margaret, she thought, too, with a faint twinge of unease. Margaret Cooke. Meggie might be a given name, though, or short for Megan.
Ava had never known Tom Cooke in life; she could not have said how he’d have behaved. She knew something of how he moved, when he moved like himself, cat-quiet, toe-to-heel, with a careful, intimate knowledge of the placement of every bit of him, even now. She was still smiling at Renata, and behind her she could see Clark Cooke, his shoulders drawn up, and his chin held between them, his big hands cradling his daughter; and, too, though she did not look at it, she could see the scar that ran through his face.
Renata let go of Ava’s finger when voices came from the stairs; her wide-eyed gaze went with her attention, and her small dark brows drew together. Ava turned, and smiled at the woman who came into the room, and the man behind her, taking both of them in without looking the least as if she did so.
“Mrs. Goretti,” Ava said, smiling. She swept a delicate, neat curtsy. “It’s good to meet you. I’m only glad my letter reached you, and that you knew to expect my arrival at all. Sir,” she curtsied to Orso as well, and rose back up. Even if she hadn’t known already that Mrs. Goretti was a widow, she would not have taken Orso for her husband; they were too similar in feature, and the manner between them was entirely wrong. Clark set Renata down, mumbling softly into the empty space; he went, carefully, easing himself out of the room.
“Dinner smells excellent,” Ava said, smiling. “Your attention was well spent. I’d be very grateful for some wine,” she grinned, and let something just a little sheepish, a little more friendly, crinkle the edges of her eyes. “I’m told the Arova is a gentle river, so surely the fault must lie with me.” Ava pressed a hand delicately to her stomach, and said nothing more specific on the subject.
Not unexpectedly, with the tanned, weather-beaten look of his skin, and the mingling of his accent, Orso had a good deal to say on the subject of seasickness, its cures and remedies. Ava laughed, as appropriate, although never too long or lingeringly. Claudia had handed her a glass of wine, and she had opinions of her own to share as well. Ava encouraged them, gently, teased them out; she was simply desperate, she explained, to make the journey upriver easier. Would Mrs. Goretti suggest…? The glass of wine was raised more often than she drank from it, in truth, and only the faintest hint of pale pink lip color stained the edge of the glass.
It was not easy, but neither was it hard, to find the delicate line to walk, to take the thread and weave it into conversation. Ava did not press, or push; she went nowhere that they did not wish to go. There was time, yet; she would get there, in the end.