Читать книгу The Mail-Order Brides - Bronwyn Williams - Страница 11

Among the nicest features of Emmet’s house were the two porches. From the front she could look out past the garden, down toward the landing and watch the activity as ships lined up waiting to come alongside and unload or take on their cargo.

The back porch looked out over a chicken house, three enormous fig trees and one lonely grave, a sagging net-fenced pen and the outhouse. Beyond those there was only sand, a bit of marsh, some scrubby woods and more water. Both front and back porches were sheltered under the deeply sloping roof, which made them good for both sitting and hanging clothes out to air.

When it came to laundry—to drying her most intimate garments, however, Dora chose the attic. Someone—Sal, perhaps—had strung a line across from rafter to rafter. According to Emmet they had planned to turn the space into another bedroom, so as to house St. Bride’s women until they could make other arrangements. With a small window in each end, it would have served well enough.

She tried to visualize what could be done with the small space. Now that she no longer had to live up to anyone’s expectations but her own, she was beginning to discover not only new interests but new talents.

For instance, she was quite good at planning. Better at planning than at the actual doing, but that would come in time. The important thing was that she had a perfectly good brain and a pair of capable—marginally capable—hands.

For no reason at all, she thought of the man who had sent for her, only to reject her. “Here’s one in your eye, St. Bride.”

Her friend Selma Blunt used to announce her serves that way when she meant to zing one across the net. But then, Selma had always been fiercely competitive. She’d always had to be the best at anything she attempted. More often than not she’d succeeded.

Selma had wanted Henry. So far as Dora knew, she hadn’t succeeded there. She did know, however, that both Selma and her personal maid, Polly, had done their best to spread the gossip. Her own maid, Bertola, had told her so.

Well, Selma could have Henry Carpenter Smythe with her blessings. The two of them deserved each other. Personally, Dora found the position of companion far preferable to marriage. If she ever did marry, the truth would have to come out, because she simply wasn’t capable of living a lie.

But then, neither was she ready to confess to the truth.

Sighing, Dora thought of what an utter ruin the Suttons had made of their lives. Her poor father had been unable to accept failure. She, at least, was trying to recover and make a new start. Whether or not it was what Emmet called fate, she happened to have stumbled onto the ideal solution. Instead of being forced to marry for the sake of security, as she had resigned herself to do, she had found the perfect position with a man who was content with what she could offer. Best of all, she had found a friend.

The early morning sun came streaming through the window, striking her face with blinding brilliance the next morning. She had her pallet rolled up and hidden behind the settee by the time Emmet emerged from the bedroom.

“You shouldn’t be up,” she scolded. He had upended a broom and was using it as a crutch.

“I’ll be dancing a fandango before you know it.”

“Fandango, indeed. You’re a scamp, Emmet Meeks, do you know that?”

His eyes, clouded though they were, had a decided twinkle. “Been called it a time or two. I reckon we’d best see to clearing out the back room. After Sal died I shoved everything inside and shut the door. There’s a bed under there somewhere. I built it. Didn’t do as good a job as James Calvin would’ve done, but I reckon it’ll hold a small woman.”

“Emmet, are you sure? I don’t want to—hurt your feelings.”

“Go to it, gal. Can’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Dora assured him. Although as long as she was going to live here, she would really prefer an arrangement that would afford her a bit more privacy, not to mention comfort.

After a leisurely breakfast of scorched sausage, overcooked eggs and embarrassed apologies, she helped Emmet out onto the front porch where he could watch the goings-on at the landing, arranging a stool for his ankle. The swelling had gone down, but he was still unable to pull on his boot.

Washing dishes involved bringing in water from the rain barrel, heating it on the woodstove, pouring it over a chunk of brown soap and scrubbing until the plates came clean, then heating more water to rinse them and drying them with a towel made of a flour sack.

In the process she managed to burn her fingers, drop a cup, which was thankfully thick enough that it didn’t break—and splash water all over her bodice.

“Well, that’s done,” she announced proudly, joining her employer on the front porch just as the redheaded warehouseman passed by.

“Morning, Clarence,” Emmet called out.

“Morning, Emmet. Miz Sutton.” It was the same man she’d seen yesterday when she’d stumbled off the boat. Evidently word had spread, as he obviously knew who she was. If he was surprised to see her still here, he hid it well. “Looks like rain tomorrow,” he declared.

Salty, Emmet’s yellow dog, who appeared to be a mixture of retriever and shepherd, yapped once and then curled back into her spot of sun on the corner of the porch.

“On his way up to fetch Grey’s ledger, I reckon,” Emmet said when the man walked on by. “With the way business is picking up, it don’t pay to let things slide.” Emmet’s rheumy gaze followed the lanky young man walking along the shell-paved road to Castle St. Bride, as Dora had come to think of it.

“Mercy, it’s warm.” She discreetly plucked her damp petticoat away from her body, wishing she had more than a single change. So far, she’d learned to wash drawers, stockings and dishes. Her education was progressing by leaps and bounds, but with every leap forward, she was aware of many more shortcomings.

Really, she thought, something should be done about women’s education. What good was knowing the proper seating at a dinner party for twenty-four when one could barely manage a simple meal for two?

Emmet eased into a more comfortable position. “If Grey had in mind to marry you to one of his key men, there’s Clarence, or James Calvin or Almy. You got any particular leanings?”

“If you mean do I favor any particular man, I’ve spoken only briefly to Clarence. I’ve never even met the others.”

Dora, who had already decided that she would far rather stay on as a companion than marry any man, asked, “What would have happened if I’d been accepted, but then my prospective bridegroom and I hadn’t suited?” Now that marriage was no longer a possibility, she could allow herself to wonder.

“I reckon you’d have suited any man with eyes in his head. St. Bride must’ve figured you wouldn’t thrive in a place like this. One thing I’ll say for the boy—when he makes a mistake, he’s not too proud to admit it. He’s hard, but he’s not heartless.”

The boy. Grey St. Bride had to be at least thirty years old, but then, coastal men, like farmers, tended to age earlier than men like Henry and her father. Although one would never have known it from his soft white hands, Tranquil Sutton had come from a long line of Beaufort County farmers. Sutton Hall had once been centered in more than two thousand acres of rich, productive farmland before it had been sold off, a few hundred acres at the time, to enable her father to go into what he called “investments.”

As it turned out, he’d have done better to lease out his land and live on the proceeds.

“You’re going to need a pair of real shoes. Pity Sal’s things won’t fit you. She was a sturdy woman.” He fell silent, and Dora completed the thought. But evidently not sturdy enough.

Looks could be deceiving. “I left my trunk in storage over on the mainland.” While it wasn’t a hint that he might offer to send for it, she could hardly stay on with only two dresses and a single change of undergarments.

“I’ll have Clarence send for it when he comes down the ridge again.”

“How much do you suppose it would cost to ship it out?”

“Cap’n Dozier’ll see to it. He brings out supplies two, three times a week.”

Grateful but embarrassed at having to accept charity, Dora reached down and scratched the ears of the dog sleeping beside her chair. Things were moving almost too quickly. Having her trunk shipped out—moving into Emmet’s house…There was still one big obstacle to be faced before she felt truly secure.

St. Bride.

“Well. I suppose I should—should go and find something useful to do.” Rising, she turned to go inside.

“Easy, girl, you’ll come about just fine.”

Dora was proud of each small accomplishment. Better yet, Emmet seemed just as pleased. Using her eyes and hands along with Emmet’s encouragement and Sal’s recipe book, she cooked another meal. After fanning the smoke out the window, they dined on underdone biscuits, scorched bacon and what was supposed to have been sauce made from dried apples, but ended up a tasteless, lumpy mush.

Emmet praised it all and Dora swelled with pride. If she could do this much now, she could do even better with enough practice. She wasn’t stupid, after all—only inexperienced.

The next day she accomplished two things. First she mastered the art of cooking beans, then she worked up her courage to slide a hand under Emmet’s hens and remove the eggs.

Unfortunately, the gander chose that morning to escape from his pen, which was separated from the chicken’s side only by a length of fishnet. The wretched bird chased her back to the porch, hissing and clacking his beak. She ended up throwing six of the seven eggs she’d collected at the vicious creature.

Emmet had laughed until she almost felt like throwing the last egg at him, but then, she’d had to laugh, herself.

After that had come the crucial test. Fish. “Filleted and fried?” she asked dubiously, thinking of the heavy cast-iron frying pan and the hot bacon drippings their old cook had always used, and the way the grease had always spattered. Could she do it without burning down the house?

“If you don’t mind, I believe I’d as soon have it stewed.” Evidently Emmet picked up on her uncertainty.

“Then stewed it is,” she said, covering her relief. “Sal says potatoes, onions, corn dumplings and salt pork.” She had read the book from cover to cover, trying to absorb in a matter of days the lessons of a lifetime.

“And fish,” Emmet said dryly, and they both laughed again.

That was something they did frequently. Laugh together. For the life of her, Dora couldn’t imagine why, because nothing either of them said was particularly funny. The best she could come up with was that they were comfortable together. Here in their safe little world, where there were no real threats, the smallest things brought pleasure.

More than once she warned herself not to look back, for the past held little but pain. Instead she focused on the future. After only a few days, when nothing disastrous happened, she felt secure enough to lower her guard.

Emmet would have probably listened if she had gone on and on about the latest fashions, or even the latest gossip about who was courting whom. Somewhere between then and now—between Bath and St. Brides, those topics seemed to have lost their appeal. With the perspective of time and distance, her entire life seemed incredibly shallow compared to that of a man who had once guided big ships through a treacherous inlet—a man who had finally found love, only to lose it so suddenly.

At Emmet’s urging, however, she related a few stories from her childhood. Small things. Like hanging around the kitchen hoping to get a taste of frosting before it went on the cake. Like dressing up on rainy days in gowns she found in a trunk in the attic.

Nothing at all about her father’s losing everything, including the home that had been in their family for more than a hundred years. Certainly nothing about his suicide, or her shame in allowing Henry to seduce her.

Dora talked and Emmet listened, and then Emmet would talk while Dora listened. More often than not they ended up laughing together over some trivial incident from either her past or his. They played checkers—clouded eyes or not, he was a wicked competitor.

And then, Emmet suggested she marry him.

It wasn’t a proposal so much as a business proposition. Dora was sitting in one of the two parlor chairs, rubbing her foot through her lisle stockings, as the sole had finally worn through her left slipper.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Now, don’t jump ship before you hear me out.” Emmet had buttoned his blue shirt up to his neck and put on his best denim trousers. His ankle had healed enough that he was able to get around quite well. “I’m an old man. Like I said, my sand’s running out. While I’m still able to get about, I’d like to see things settled between us. Now, Grey, he means well, but he might take a notion to send you on your way once he gets back—ought to be showing up most any day now. If I remember correctly—and I gen’ally do,” he added with a familiar twinkle—”this house is mine for my lifetime, then it goes to my widow and any issue I might have. Otherwise, it turns back to St. Bride.”

Frantically thinking of all the reasons why such a match was absurd, Dora hardly heard what he was saying about his house. St Bride was on his way home. He would find her and…what?

Emmet waited patiently for her reaction. Having presented his case, he left the decision to her.

Could she stay on as his companion if she said no? If not, where could she go? Could she even afford to leave the island? She had no desire to marry. On the other hand, such an arrangement would benefit both and harm neither.

Dora took a deep breath. Then, suppressing second thoughts, she accepted.

The wedding was held the next day, before St. Bride could return and object. It was quite small. Clarence was there, his smile bright enough to light up the whole church. And the two carpenters, James Calvin and Almy Dole. By then Dora had met several of the local men. She couldn’t help but feel relief at not being thrust into a stranger’s arms by Lord St. Bride.

Clarence was nice. Red-haired and freckled, he had an engaging smile. She rather thought he was an intelligent man, but on the few occasions when they’d met, she hadn’t been able to think of a single thing to say to him.

As for the boat-building carpenters, James Calvin and Almy Dole, who were cousins, according to Emmet, they both seemed equally decent. Both were dark haired, dark eyed, really quite attractive men, but painfully shy. If Emmet was right and St. Bride had picked out one of those to be her husband, what on earth would they ever have found to talk about?

She sighed, waiting for the minister to stop clearing his throat and get on with the marriage service. Emmet didn’t need to be standing for any length of time. Besides, St. Bride was expected at any time.

Somewhat surprisingly, the church was filled, all three rows. Most of the men appeared to have made an effort at grooming for the occasion. Hats in hand, hair slicked back, each one bowed gravely as Emmet introduced them to his bride-to-be. Instead of flowers, the church was beginning to smell distinctly like fish.

Suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation, Dora managed to swallow her mirth just as the preacher said sonorously, “Friends…we are…gathered here…”

He did, indeed, speak slowly, just as Emmet had warned. It wasn’t so much a drawl as an emphasis on each word spoken. Halfway through the proceedings Dora was ready to scream, “Get on with it, do, before I lose my courage!”

But she gripped Emmet’s arm and they supported each other until they were finally pronounced man and wife.

On the way back to the cottage, having been showered with shy smiles, a few mumbled blessings and even a bow by a courtly old gentleman wearing faded denim and rubber boots—Dora walked slowly, aware that Emmet was tiring. His ankle was largely mended, but he still had a limited amount of strength.

She’d been able to take most of his daily tasks on herself, even if she didn’t do them particularly well. After nearly a week she was still discovering strengths and weaknesses, as well as abilities she might never have known about if her life hadn’t taken such a sudden turn.

They had almost reached the front gate when Grey St. Bride came riding over the dunes on a big, shaggy bay horse. “Oh, dear, he’s back, she murmured.

“Heard he was due in,” replied Emmet equably.

Suddenly the animal reared. Silhouetted against the sunset, the man appeared to Dora almost like a centaur. Her mouth went dry and her heart began to pound until she could hardly breathe.

Shading his eyes against the lowering sun, Emmet said cheerfully, “Good evening, to you, St. Bride. I reckon you’ve met my wife. Sorry you missed the wedding.”

Protectively gripping her husband’s arm, Dora heard with amazement the cocky note in his voice. Weak or not, he suddenly sounded far younger than he had only moments ago.

St. Bride looked from one to the other before his gaze settled on Dora. “The devil, you say.”