Free The Mirk and Midnight Hour by Jane Nickerson Page B

sharply. “You’re not a Yankee. Maybe you’ve forgotten that civilized people dine at tables.”
    The boy stammered something apologetic, and I found myself immediately on his side and not at all hesitant to go against Dorian.
    “No,” I said. “He’s right. I love twilight too. I guess I’m not civilized either. Let’s all sit on the porch. The mosquitoes aren’t bad yet, and we’ll be more comfortable outside than in the stuffy dining room.”
    Seeley shot me a swift upward glance. He was not a particularly attractive little boy, but he had beautiful, long-lashed eyes. I smiled at him. “I’ll go tell Laney where we’ll be.”
    “What’s that?” he asked as I was turning to go. He was pointing to where, barely visible, a shadow darted across the lawn like a thing possessed, pouncing first here, then there.
    “That’s our mad cat, Goblin,” I said. “There’s moths out there and she’s being the mighty hunter.”
    “Would she let me hold her, do you think?”
    “I’m not sure we can catch her when she’s in her wild creature form. Once she comes in for the night, though, just try to keep her off you. Wouldn’t you rather hold Cubby? He’s a very nice baby and only scratches when he’s trying to pull your nose off.”
    Seeley shook his head, but I was rewarded with a faint smile.
    “If we eat on the porch,” I said, “we’ll lure Goblin with food. She’ll be your friend for life if you feed her the rabbit stew we’re having tonight. She likes her rabbit neatly chopped up with vegetables. Especially parsley. Isn’t she silly for a mighty hunter?”
    My young cousin grinned. His teeth were too big for his mouth and pointed chin, but maybe his face would grow around them eventually.
    Dorian followed me inside. “Rabbit stew, eh?” he said. “So y’all in Mississippi have been driven to living off the land. Soon you’ll be scrounging for catfish whiskers to nibble. Or—don’t tell me—are you already?”
    I widened my eyes. “Well, we Mississippians don’t care for that sort of thing, but if y’all Virginians have a hankering for whiskers, we’ll find you a cane pole so you can go fishing tomorrow.”
    Over Dorian’s head I saw Sunny pause at the top of the stairs. She wore the paisley voile she’d worn at the wedding. Since she’d sported blue muslin earlier, she must have thrown on the voile at the first inkling of company. Her hands smoothed down the fabric over the curve of her bosom and then over her hips as she prepared to descend.
    Dorian was still laughing about catfish whiskers when she swept up to him.
    “And who do we have here?” she asked, inspecting Dorian with her head cocked slightly to one side. The light shining from the doorway sent fiery glints shooting through her chestnut hair. She looked rather bold and very beautiful.
    As I introduced my cousin, I caught his glance fix on her low-cut neckline for a second too long before he bowed slightly and took her hand.
    “Hopefully you’ll stay for a good while, Mr. Rushton,” Sunny said, looking up at him through her lashes. “Long enough to appreciate our Mississippi hospitality.”
    “As Violet said, we needn’t bother with titles,” he said quickly. “Call me Dorian since we’re all family. And I’m sure I will enjoy your … hospitality.”
    I drew in my breath. I wasn’t sure, since I was already turning away, but he might have winked at her.
    At suppertime the two of them—Sunny and Dorian—sat together on the front porch steps. Sunny’s skirts were spread sowide there was little room for anyone else. Since the Tingles and Miss Elsa occupied the rockers, I hunched on the bottom step, trying feebly to join in the conversation, which mostly was about my cousin’s blockade-running.
    Sunny raised her hem high enough to expose her ankle and shapely calf encased in delicate lace. “So,” she said, “you, sir, are one of the valiant gentlemen responsible for bringing Southern ladies their pretty