emotion. Most of the time the changes were so insignificant she was certain only someone who knew him very well would notice. “Well,” Patience said, “you don’t look any younger when you frown like that.”
His face went blank. Not in confusion or lack of emotion. No, Patience had studied Mr. Woodsworth’s face enough to know that when it went neutral like that it was because he was trying to control his emotions. “According to Augusta,” he said, “you feel that my smile makes me look like a duck. So I hardly think going around with a smile upon my face is a good idea.”
Oh dear, now was probably not the time to tell him his smile reminding her of a duck was actually a compliment.
“You’ve met the Jorgensen children?” Miss Morgan stopped her restless watching and joined the conversation. “I’ve yet to meet your children, Mrs. Jorgensen.” Miss Morgan shifted closer to Mrs. Jorgensen. “Or should I call you Sophia?”
Mrs. Jorgensen reached into the basket to pull out a block of cheese wrapped in paper. “Mrs. Jorgensen is fine,” she said without fully looking at Miss Morgan.
Patience swallowed a laugh she was certain would not be well received by Miss Morgan. Was Miss Morgan actually jealous of her relationship with Augusta and Harry? Didn’t Miss Morgan realize that all it would take from her was one word and Mr. Woodsworth would be happily engaged to her? If she was so possessive of him, she should just marry him already. That is exactly what Patience would do. Two years was a long time for a man to wait on a woman. Even one he considered perfectly suited to him.
“I’m not that old.” Mr. Woodsworth was still carefully masking his face. Why would that bother him? Did he want to be called young and naive like she so often was? “And I don’t really think I smile like a duck.”
“I never said you smile like a duck.”
“Sophia’s two children would disagree.”
“Regardless, I didn’t say that, not exactly. And as you know, I am incapable of lying.”
Miss Morgan’s ears perked up. “You never lie?”
Mr. Woodsworth straightened his back and leaned forward. “Honesty is a great virtue.”
“Not even little white lies?” Miss Morgan asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Patience didn’t know Miss Morgan well, but her interest didn’t seem friendly.
“You know,” Miss Morgan said. “A lie to soften a blow or help someone feel better.”
Patience didn’t like the gleam of interest in Miss Morgan’s eye. “I am practically incapable of it. I would like to say it was a virtue, as Mr. Woodsworth suggests, but more likely it is that God knew I would need extra help in being virtuous, so he made lying nearly impossible for me. I hope that despite my particular habit, I have learned how to not hurt others. I think there are ways to answer those types of questions without being hurtful or lying.”
A smile formed on Miss Morgan’s lips, and she leaned forward. “Do you think Mr. Woodsworth looks old?”
Patience examined Mr. Woodsworth’s face. He cleared his throat and curled his fingertips around the cuffs of his sleeves. She could see him restraining himself from pulling at his sleeves and making sure his clothing was in order. He didn’t actually look very old, just severe and serious. Which isn’t young either.
“I’m only twenty-six,” he said before Patience could answer.
“And you look exactly twenty-six,” Miss Morgan said. Her answer practically bounced out of her. “But go ahead, Miss Smith, I would like you to answer my question. Does Mr. Woodsworth look old to you?”
“Mr. Woodsworth is hard to describe,” Patience began, and it was true. In the small amount of time she had been around him, he had shown her many sides of himself. A man who would propose to a woman hiding behind a curtain. A man who would kneel next to a servant and patiently teach her to start a fire—a job any decent maid should know how to do—while reserving judgment. Her lip quirked as she remembered him flustered on her bed with bright yellow fabric enveloping him. “I do not think he looks old.”
“So you think he looks young?” Miss Morgan prompted, apparently not willing to give up on her entertainment.
Mr. Woodsworth’s light-blue eyes hit hers, slicing into her like knives carved of ice, both sharp and vulnerable. Attack the knife from the side and it would break; leave it in the warmth of the sun and it would melt. But a slice from