Читать книгу The Paper Marriage - Bronwyn Williams, Bronwyn Williams - Страница 11

The last piece of trim had been nailed onto Annie’s room just that morning. As Peg had been determined to build it for her, Matt had directed him to add it onto the bedroom at the far end of the hall, privately designating that as Mrs. Powers’s room. He had no intention of sharing his own quarters with the woman.

Bess and her companion could work it out between them. Bess had her own favorite room with a corner exposure. He seriously doubted she’d do him much good with Annie. As for her friend, if the woman would fill in until his wife showed up, he’d be forever grateful.

Wife. Some helpmeet she’d turned out to be, Matt told himself bitterly. He’d had her for nearly two weeks now, and had yet to set eyes on the woman, much less benefit from the alliance. According to Bess, she’d been called out of town just after the wedding to look after a sick relative.

And now, instead of one, he had two women to contend with. Bess hadn’t come right out and said so, but if he knew his aunt, it would be the Widow Littlefield who got stuck with the job of playing nursemaid. Fancying herself a famous writer, Bess could twist words until plain old black and white might mean any of a hundred shades of gray.

“Mailboat’s headed into the channel, Cap’n, want me to hitch up the cart?” Crank had been baking all morning. One thing about it, with company on board, they’d all eat better. Matt, for one, had had his fill of beans, fish and cornbread.

“Tell Luther to see to it.” The crew had long since stood down from shipboard protocol, but they still looked to the captain for direction.

Matt returned to the reports he’d been studying all morning. The Swan was losing money with every haul. The captain signed on by the consortium that had bought her was obviously an incompetent fool with no more business sense than a slab of bacon. According to Matt’s source at the Port Authority’s office, the Swan had lost cargo from improper stowage, lost money by being consistently late delivering consignments, and suffered considerable damage in a hard blow off Barbados. Damage that hadn’t been properly repaired before the turnaround.

Matt swore. The first ship he’d ever owned, the Black Swan had been his pride and joy. At the rate she was going, by the time he reclaimed her she’d be fit for little more than hauling coal. He’d be damned before he’d do that to her. He’d give her a decent sea burial himself before he would lower her pride any further.

Briefly, he had even considered buying one of the small, fast schooners and taking up the coastal trade. It would ease the tedium of waiting to get his own ship back. With any luck, on a regular run from Maine to Savannah, he’d not have to see his wife—when and if she ever showed up—more than once or twice a year.

But the proceeds of selling the Swan were earmarked for buying her back. As long as he kept his focus on that end, he could wait as long as it took. For better or worse, the Black Swan was the one true love of his life, and by damn, he was going to have her back.

“And then you, Mrs. Powers, wherever you are,” he said softly, “can have Powers Point with my blessing.”

Rose lay on her side on a filthy pad on a bunk that had obviously been built for someone half her length, her eyes tightly shut as she fought down a fresh surge of nausea. Bess had given her gingerroot to chew on, which had helped somewhat, but by the time the miserable little mailboat had wallowed her way in and out of every tiny village with so much as a two-plank wharf, she was praying only to die quickly.

As for Matthew Powers and his baby, she fervently wished she had never heard of either of them.

Bess popped her head through the doorway. “Time to spruce up,” she announced cheerfully. A seasoned traveler, she had spent the entire journey in the pilothouse, swapping tales and taking notes.

“Just leave me to die in peace,” Rose begged without opening her eyes. She was as spruced as she would ever be. They could dig a hole and bury her at the next stop for all she cared, just so long as she never had to set foot on a boat again.

“Folks don’t die of the seasickness.”

“They only wish they could,” Rose said. Bracing herself against the constant rolling motion, she waited a moment to see if she would need the bucket again, then struggled to her feet. “You might as well know, I’m never going back. Not unless someone discovers a land route to the Outer Banks.”

“Here, chew on this, it’ll make you feel fresher.” Bess handed her a sprig of wilted mint. “Now, pinch your cheeks and do something with your hair, you don’t want your bridegroom to see you looking like the scarecrow’s ghost.”

“He’s not my bridegroom until I say he’s my bridegroom,” Rose grumbled.

“That can wait. You’re here to get the lay of the land before you commit to anything more permanent, remember?”

How could she forget? She didn’t know which was more preposterous, marrying a man she’d never met or pretending now that she hadn’t. For years she had railed at not being allowed to make her own choices, yet every time she’d been given a choice, she’d made the wrong one. This time she intended to be patient, to look at the situation from all angles and think carefully before reaching a decision.

Using a sliver of her favorite lilac soap, she washed her face, then smoothed her damp palms over her hair. She had taken down her braids because it hurt to sleep on them. Now her hair resembled old, unraveled rope. Her mother had once lamented the fact that everything about her was the color of dead grass, from her hair that was too dark to be called blond and too fair to be called brown, to her eyes that were the color of unpolished brass, to her sallow complexion.

Thank goodness, she rationalized, he won’t know who I am. He couldn’t possibly care what his aunt’s secretary-companion looked like.

Anonymity was small comfort, however, as she stood on the deck a short while later, still rocking and reeling. Warily, she gazed out over the small crowd, searching for someone who looked like Bess—someone short, stout and redheaded, with a stubborn jaw and snapping dark eyes. No matter how unattractive the poor man appeared at first glance, she vowed to withhold judgment. To be thoughtful and deliberate before making a final choice. She could only hope he would be as forbearing.

Bess bustled about cheerfully, gathering up her hand luggage, which consisted mostly of books, notebooks and writing material, while the young mate toted their trunks ashore. If it hadn’t required too much energy, Rose could have hated anyone who looked so chipper after enduring an endless journey through the bowels of hell.

“There’s Luther come to drive us to the Point.” Waving her furled umbrella, Bess marched surefootedly down the narrow bouncing plank. Rose followed cautiously, trying not to look down at the expanse of dark, choppy water between wharf and deck.

The wind caught her hat, which had been anchored, with the only hatpin she could find, onto hastily reconstructed braids. She slapped one hand on top of her head and with the other held down her blowing skirts.

Luther, a handsome young man whose eyes belied his obvious youth, offered her a shy smile as he handed her up onto a crude bench seat. “Welcome, Miss Bess, ma’am.”

“Poor Billy. I know you miss him.” And without pausing for breath, Bess went on to say, “I thought Matt was going to get a proper cart horse. Don’t he know the difference between a mare and a mule?”

“Yes’m, this here’s Angel. She swum ashore off’n a barge that went aground back in January. Nobody else wanted her, so we kept her. Even for a mule, she’s not real smart, but she took to the harness right off.” He turned to grin at Rose. “We got some nice horses if you like to ride.”

Rose had never ridden a horse in her life. She’d driven her own gig and ridden behind any number of coachmen, but a mule cart was a new experience.

I can’t believe I agreed to this mad scheme, she thought again as they set out along a deeply rutted sand trail for a place called Powers Point. She should’ve applied for a position at the asylum, it was obviously where she belonged.

Luther asked Bess if there was any news of the captain’s bride, and Rose felt her face grow warm.

“She’ll turn up directly,” Bess replied calmly. “How’s Peg mending?” Briefly, she explained to Rose that the ship’s carpenter had broken several bones when the jolly boat had fallen on him in the storm of ’91, and still suffered for it whenever the weather changed.

“Same’s always. Don’t slow him down much. He built on a new room for Annie, so you and Miz Littlefield can take your pick of the rest.”

Mrs. Littlefield. Merciful heavens, that’s me. Not Augusta Rose, not Mrs. Robert Magruder, I’m Rose Littlefield again.

The young driver made a noise with tongue and teeth and slapped the reins across the mule’s thick hide. “Git on home, Angel, we’ve not got all day. I reckon maybe Miz Powers’ll have some say in who sleeps where, but so far, she’s not showed up.”

“Oh, we’ll leave as soon as Matt’s bride shows up. One woman in a household is aplenty, I always say,” Bess chirped.

Do you? I’ve never heard you say that, but then you say so many things….

Rose knew she was being uncharitable and promised to think kinder thoughts if she ever recovered from this awful journey. Keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her own knotted fingers, she waited cautiously to see if mule travel would affect her the same way boat travel did.

Evidently not. Her head was still reeling, but her stomach no longer threatened rebellion.

Gradually she began to take more notice of her surroundings, reminding herself that she was stuck here until she made up her mind whether or not to accept her paper marriage. Or until she could bring herself to board that awful little mailboat for the journey back home.

Wherever home was.

Her sole impression, once they left the wooded village, was emptiness. Sand, a strip of marsh grass to the left, a single rutted cart track, and a few wind-twisted, vine-covered shrubs.

And water. With the Atlantic on one side, Pamlico Sound on the other and, according to Bess, an inlet on either end, she was completely surrounded, held captive, by water.

She was familiar with Cape Cod and Cape May, having vacationed at both places with her parents. Robert had wanted to build on Cape Cod, but the best he’d been able to do was a small cottage on Smith Creek, on the outskirts of Norfolk.

This barren place had nothing whatsoever in common with either of those fashionable watering holes except for the water. Even the village consisted only of a few unpainted houses scattered haphazardly under enormous, moss-hung live oak trees. No streets, no shops, only the weathered cottages, a few tomb-stones, a few boats at various stages of repair, and nets strung between sprawling live oaks like giant spiderwebs.

Oh, Lord, you’ve done it again, haven’t you? Leaped before you looked.

As they bumped along over the rutted road along a stretch of open beach, she hung on to her bonnet and wondered why any woman in her right mind would choose to live in such a desolate place. Evidently, she wasn’t alone in making bad choices and being forced to live with them.

Powers Point, which according to Bess, had been family land for generations, came into view slowly. My husband’s estate, Rose thought as she gazed over the backside of the mule at the scattered assortment of buildings, none particularly impressive so far as she could determine.

“You remember Jericho, Miss Bess? Matt’s got him to where he can ride him and not even get throwed more’n once or twice a day,” Luther said proudly.

“That so? They make a pair, all right. One stubborn as the other.” To Rose she explained that Jericho was a wild stallion her nephew had bought in a moment of weakness.

Taking some small comfort in knowing that even men could occasionally make unfortunate choices, Rose gaped at the only thing resembling a residence. Unpainted, it seemed to have come together by accident. Although it might once have been an ordinary two-story frame house, rooms had been added on with no thought as to style or balance. There were random gables, mismatched bay windows, even a widow’s walk.

“Humph! Whose idea was that?” Bess pointed to the small railed platform on the highest part of the roof.

“Peg thought now that the captain’s married, his wife might want to keep watch for when he passes offshore. He can fly a flag or something when he rounds the Cape so she’ll be able to tell the Swan from the other ships.”

Oh, my mercy, he means me, Rose mused, picturing herself standing high on the rooftop, frantically waving her scarf at every ship that sailed past.

As far as she was concerned, the sole appeal of her husband’s estate was that it stood high and dry on solid ground, each gaunt, weathered building telling the world, “What you see is what I am. Accept me or not, I’m here to stay.”

Which was more or less her own position. Here I am, she announced silently. This is what I am and who I am, and you can take me or leave me, I’m sure it won’t matter to me in the least as long as someone will direct me to a bed and a bucket and leave me alone for the next few years.

The mule meandered to a halt. Several speckled chickens ran squawking to greet them. Luther reached into one of the sacks in the back of the cart and tossed down a handful of grain. “Go on inside, ma’am—you, too, Miz Littlefield. I’ll fetch in your bags as soon’s I feed up and unhitch.”

Bess hopped down as nimbly as someone half her age. Rose followed more cautiously, willing her knees not to buckle. It was bad enough that she was here under false pretenses without landing in an ungainly heap at her husband’s feet.

“Matt, we’re here! Now where’s this baby of yours?”

Trudging through the sand behind the older woman, Rose heard a door open and glanced warily past Bess’s portly frame. Her eyes widened.

This was Bess’s nephew? This giant of a man?

This was her paper husband?

She swallowed a fresh surge of nausea and wondered if it was too late to catch the mailboat. Being seasick was utterly miserable, but physical violence was far worse. She still had nightmares, especially on stormy nights.

If this man ever lost his temper and struck her, she might not survive. His arms were as thick as tree limbs.

“Rose, come here and meet Matthew. Matt, this is Mrs. Littlefield. She’s my secretary and companion, but I’m lending her to you for a spell.”

When Bess had said the Powers men bred true, Rose had taken it to mean they were all short, stout and redheaded. This man had hair black as pitch. He stood more than six feet tall, even without the boots. If there was an ounce of spare flesh anywhere on his muscular body, it wasn’t evident from this distance. Rose had been around men all her life. Her father, the sons of her parents’ friends who had teased her as a child and ignored her thereafter.

And Robert, of course.

Not a one of them had been so utterly, blatantly male as the man who stood on the porch, his belt buckle level with her eyes, his close-fitting trousers practically flaunting his masculinity.

Oh, my mercy…

“Rose? What’s the matter, are you still sick to your belly?” Bess inquired, and, in an aside to her nephew, added, “She don’t travel well. We’re working on it, but she’ll likely be glad to stay in one place for a spell.”

It took every vestige of courage she possessed, but Rose forced herself to climb the five sandy wooden steps and follow Bess inside, even though it meant brushing past the man who held the door. She was careful not to breathe, but she could feel the heat of his body. The weather outside was cold and damp, yet he was wearing only black serge trousers and a white shirt, open at the throat, with the sleeves turned back to reveal corded, hair-roughened forearms.

“You’ll want to freshen up,” he said. “I’ll tell Crank to boil up some tea. There’s cold biscuits left over from dinner if you’re hungry. You can have ’em with preserved figs or mustard and ham. They’ll hold you off till supper.” He looked directly at Rose. “Miz Littlefield? Did you hear me?”

Rose’s stomach gave a small lurch, but she managed to nod. Bess said, “Tell that old seacook to fix my tea the usual way, will you? Come on, Rose, I’ll show you where to hang your hat.”

Rose didn’t even try to take in her surroundings, other than to give thanks that the rooms smelled clean and fresh and the floor felt steady underfoot.

“Annie’s back here in the new room. I’ve put you in the room next to it, Miz Littlefield. Bess, Crank aired out your usual.”

His voice was like the man himself. Deep, dark and dangerous, his accent impossible to pin down. It was neither southern nor northern, the single identifiable element being the ring of authority. Matthew Powers was obviously a man accustomed to being obeyed.

He held the paneled door for her to enter, his hand, she couldn’t help but notice, the size of a ham for all it was nicely shaped.

Get out while you still can, the voice of caution urged.

But of course, she didn’t. That would have required initiative, something she’d never possessed in abundance, but she was working on it.

“Now, isn’t this lovely?” Bess inquired of no one in particular.

Lovely was hardly the word Rose would have chosen to describe bare floors, an enormous iron bed, a varnished cane rocking chair and the plain, unpainted washstand. There was a bowl and pitcher, both of undecorated white crockery. The bed was spread with a simple white coverlet, the feather mattress plumped up high as a cloud.

“There’s quilts in the locker. Lamp’s filled, wick’s trimmed, door there leads to Annie’s room and the head’s through the door at the end of the hall.”

“The head?” Rose echoed, her voice weak with horror.

“Means the privy.” Bess planted her hands on her hips and addressed her nephew. “You ever hear of indoor plumbing? What about little Annie, you expect her to grow up like a heathen?”

“Now, don’t tell me you didn’t squat in the bushes out in that Amazon jungle you wrote about last winter.”

The man’s grin was surprisingly infectious. Fortunately, Rose was immune. She’d traveled that road once before.

Bess snorted. “I’ll send you a catalog soon’s I get back.”

“You do that.”

Rose gripped the doorframe, willing them to leave her alone. If only she could sleep for a few weeks she might be ready to deal with that dark, enigmatic gaze, the deep drawl that hinted at amusement, exasperation, and a few other things not so easily identified. Nausea alone was bad enough. Nausea, fear and a guilty conscience was too much. She wasn’t sure she could carry out the charade.

“Come meet Annie,” the captain commanded.

“Who, me?” Rose inquired inelegantly.

“You.”

Swaying only slightly, she followed him, once more pinning her eyes to the horizon. Bess had said it helped to maintain one’s equilibrium, only in this case the horizon happened to be the captain’s backside, which was even more impressive than his front side. Shoulders broad as an ox, a long back that tapered down to narrow hips and long limbs, both of which functioned with an economy of motion that threatened to unsettle her belly all over again. To think she’d been married for nearly two years without ever noticing how differently men and women walked.

“I had Peg build her quarters through here to make it handy for the woman I sent for.”

“The woman you sent for? Matthew Powers, is that any way to speak of your wife?”

“What wife?” he growled, turning so that the late-afternoon sun caught his profile, illuminating a jaw that could have been cast from bronze and a high-arched nose that could only be called proud.

Brushing past him, Rose entered the small room, drawn by the sound of a baby’s whimper. Her throat constricted. Tears dimmed her eyes as she stared down at the tiny infant swathed in an unadorned gown of coarse muslin.

“That’s Annie.” The man had come up silently to stand beside her. The unexpected note of tenderness in his voice threatened to undo her completely. Kneeling, he lifted the tiny bundle from the cradle, growled softly as he rocked her in his arms and said, “Annie, this is Miz Littlefield. She’s going to be taking care of you for a spell. She’s not much to look at, but at least she’s got hair now.”

Rose blinked in disbelief. She knew very well she wasn’t much to look at, she’d been hearing it all her life, but she had hardly expected to hear it from a stranger. And she certainly did have hair, yards and yards of it, even if it was the color of dead grass.

“She eats most anything you give her, but so far we’ve held her to tinned milk and burgoo. We tried goat’s milk, but it didn’t set right.”

And then, of course, Rose realized that he’d been describing Annie to her, not her to Annie, which made her feel almost charitable. “I’m sure we’ll get along just fine, but you might as well know, I haven’t had much experience with babies.”

“None of us has, but Annie’s a right fair teacher.”

Bess took one quick look, sniffed dismissively and disappeared down the hall. Peering down at the wide-eyed infant cradled so tenderly in those massive arms, Rose forgot her misgivings and said softly, “Oh, she’s beautiful. Do you think she’d mind if I held her?”

“Annie’s not particular, long’s she gets to call the shots.”

She laughed, but it was a shaky effort. When the captain carefully transferred the small bundle into her waiting arms she felt her eyes film over. Knowing she had to take control of her emotions or risk having to endure all over again the devastating pain that came with the loss of a child, Rose did her best to seal off her heart. In case Captain Powers didn’t like her, or she didn’t like him, she couldn’t afford to let herself get too attached to his baby.

“She feels damp.” She glanced up questioningly.

“We’ve not been able to housebreak her yet,” the captain said gravely. “You’ll find napkins in the locker over by the window. I’ll set Crank to heating her some milk. Um…welcome to Powers Point, Miz Littlefield.”

Back in his office, Matt tried and failed to concentrate on the shipping news that had come out on the same boat as the two women. He gave it up, tilted back his chair, clasped his arms behind his head and gazed out the window, to where Venus gleamed like a diamond in a bed of purple velvet.

Bess’s Mrs. Littlefield was something of a surprise. He didn’t know what he’d expected—maybe another pouter pigeon like Bess, short, bosomy and bossy. The woman didn’t have a lot to say for herself, which was all to the good. Bess could talk the hind legs off a jackass.

She wasn’t much to look at except for her eyes. Funny color, he mused. Still, they were steady. The kind of eyes that looked directly back at a man.

Matt was admittedly no expert when it came to women. Having been deserted by one and made a fool of by another, he was unable to form any but the most fleeting commercial relationship with any woman. Since moving to Powers Point, he had done without even that brief convenience.

Which reminded him that he was going to have to tackle Bess about the Magruder female. Bess had described her as down on her luck, plain, but sound of limb and meek of disposition. He should’ve held out for reliable, but by the time he’d given in, he’d been so damned desperate he wouldn’t have cared if she howled at the moon as long as she took good care of Annie.

So far, she hadn’t even bothered to show up.

Flexing his shoulders to ease the tension that always seemed to collect there, he settled back in his chair and picked up the shipping reports again.

By the end of the first week, one thing was plain. Bess knew nothing about babies and had no interest in learning. Commandeering his mule and cart, she spent every day in the village collecting stories of early island lore, all the way back, as she informed the table at large, to the first English settlers and the Hattorask Indians who’d been there to meet them.

“Hell, I could’ve told you that,” Matt said. “Pass the biscuits. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

“Don’t swear,” Bess said primly, as if she couldn’t cut loose like a stevedore when it suited her purpose. “Mrs. Littlefield don’t like it.”

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Matt muttered. Rising abruptly, he begged to be excused and stalked out. “Damned house’s too small,” he grumbled to Peg, who’d chosen to eat with Crank in the kitchen instead of in the seldom-used dining room.

The two old men glanced up, then went back to their fried oysters. Matt stood in the open back door for a long time, letting the chilly air flow past him into the warm kitchen.

Ignoring him, the other men picked up their desultory conversation. “Don’t talk much, do she?” Crank observed. He speared another oyster off the platter.

“Good with the young’un, though,” the carpenter said after he’d split another biscuit and drowned it in molasses.

“Aye, she is that.”

“Peculiar eyes. Seen a cat once with eyes like that.” Peg loosened the rope at his waist that held up his canvas trousers.

“Yeller, I’d call ’em, wouldn’t you, Cap’n?”

Matt flexed his shoulders, but didn’t reply. He was tired of hearing about Mrs. Littlefield. Bess sang her praises enough, without his men jumping on the bandwagon.

“I’ll be riding south in the morning,” he announced abruptly.

The two old men went on eating. When Matt stepped off the back porch and strode down to the three-plank wharf where the shadboat was tied up, Crank grinned. Peg shook his head. “All I can say is, that wife o’ his better hightail it on down here. Last time the boy had that look about him, he went and sold his ship.”