Cara and Mary were murmuring by the fireplace in the way women do when, for reasons of privacy, they want to be seen but not heard by their menfolk. If they had a mind to, women could plot entire revolutions, all within sight of their unsuspecting kin.
“Surely he’s not old enough,” Cara was saying. “I thought he’s been traveling for decades.”
“Twelve years,” Mary said. “It’s not all that long.”
“Over half my life,” Cara insisted.
Mary smiled. “You’re young. So I see he’s not what you expected. What did you envision all those years you were tracking his expeditions in the atlas and plotting his ports of call?”
“I don’t know, someone . . . august. A scar on his face, a limp, a lion’s mane of white hair, maybe?”
“Oh dear,” Mary said with a laugh. “An ancient warrior with one foot in the grave. Well, I’m afraid he’s fallen off the lofty pedestal you had him on. Let’s hope it’s a soft landing.”
Cara glanced over at the mustached man who oddly seemed both comfortable and ill at ease while Henry described his latest project for improving the drainage at Silver Oaks. That there was an unusual air about him was certain.
“Aunt Winnie said he nearly killed himself with drink,” Cara noted.
Mary looked down at the rings on her left hand. “He did. After his wife and son died.”
“Aunt Winnie said he nearly killed himself with drink before that, too. And that there were duels.”
Mary frowned. “Aunt Winnie says a great many things she should keep to herself. Jasper was always a good man deep down, and during his travels, he brought that good man to the surface. You know Henry thinks the world of him, and when it comes to people, Henry’s always right.”
Cara glanced at her mother’s sister a touch maliciously. “Aunt Winnie says Mr. Jasper Wainwright is a known abolitionist.”
Mary pursed her lips. “Don’t say such things, Cara, not even in jest.”