Then he said:
“For whatever it’s worth…”
“That phrase usually means trouble.”
“Probably.”
She looked at him.
He continued:
“I didn't ask you to look at me because I wanted to frighten you.”
“You frightened everybody.”
“I know.”
“Why then?”
His gaze lowered.
“When you came out of the kitchen, you kept looking at the floor.”
“I thought you were angry.”
“I was.”
“At the stew?”
“No.”
“At what?”
He turned the blue cloth between his fingers.
“My mother died when I was young.”
“My father wasn't kind.”
“I spent years believing the safest way through a room was not to meet anybody's eyes.”
Matilda listened.
He continued:
“Your mother hated that.”
“She'd say, ‘Look at me when I'm speaking so I know you're still in there.’”
Matilda’s throat tightened.
Her mother had said similar things to her.
Not often.
But enough.
Jedodiah looked at Matilda.
“When you came out looking down…”
“I heard her.”
“So I said it.”
Matilda whispered:
“Like an order.”
“Yes.”
“That was stupid.”
“Yes.”
She laughed softly.
His mouth moved.
Then she asked:
“What did you see when I looked up?”
Jedodiah answered too quickly to invent it.
“Her eyes.”
Matilda's breath caught.
Then disappointment arrived.
Not because she wanted him to see beauty.
She wasn't sure.
Because for one brief moment she had thought he was looking at Matilda.
Not Eleanor’s daughter.
He noticed.
“I also saw you.”