Читать книгу Wild Rose - Ruth Axtell Morren - Страница 8

Haven’s End, June 1873

The door to Mr. Watson’s general store banged shut behind Geneva. She paused a few seconds at the door to give herself time to adjust to the dim light. The sweeter smells of spices, tobacco and new leather mingled with the more pungent odors of pickling barrels, hard cheeses and salted fish.

Three women leaned over one end of the long counter that ran the width of the store, examining lengths of ribbon and lace. At the sight of Geneva, they drew in their ranks, as if afraid of contagion in such close quarters. Used to such a reaction to her presence, Geneva ignored them and strode to the opposite end of the counter. She would state her business and leave as quickly as she had come.

Leaning her hands against the counter, she drummed her fingers lightly against the scarred, wooden surface.

“What can I do for you, Geneva?” Mr. Watson approached her with a smile.

Geneva didn’t smile back, lest she give the storekeeper any encouragement. Suspicious of the teasing look in his eyes, she deemed it best to keep him at a distance.

“I’ll take two dozen long nails.”

Mr. Watson slapped the counter with his palms. “Two dozen nails it’ll be.”

When he turned his back to her to rummage in the keg, Geneva could hear Mrs. Bidwell’s voice at the other end of the store.

“I hear tell he begged and pleaded with his intended to forgive him.”

Geneva glanced toward the speaker, whose bonnet nodded up and down, giving the impression she had been in the very room at the time, an eyewitness to the scene she was describing. Her listeners seemed to think so, too, the way they drank in her words.

“Poor Miss Arabella Harding must have been brokenhearted.” Young Annie Chase, who was engaged to one of Mrs. Bidwell’s boys, expressed this opinion. “Such a pretty woman. So ladylike.”

At the name, Geneva’s fingers stopped their drumbeat against the countertop. She’d never forget that name. Nor the way Captain Caleb had looked at its owner when he’d introduced her, as if she were an angel.

Annie was soft-spoken, and everything she said came out sounding tenderhearted. “I don’t know what I’d do if my Amos ever did anything dishonest like Captain Caleb.” She hugged herself. “But Amos would never dishonor his family name in such a despicable manner.”

“Of course not! Amos would never do any such thing,” his mother answered, aghast at the mere notion. “He hasn’t been brought up that way.”

Geneva could feel every fiber in her body poised to attack. What gave these biddies the right to pass judgment on Captain Caleb? She bit her lip, holding in her anger, when Mr. Watson set the nails down in front of her.

“These long enough?”

She glared at him, as if he, too, were guilty of blaspheming her sacred memory of the captain.

“Anything else?”

She shook her head, her reasons for being in his store pushed aside by the more pressing matter of Captain Caleb’s reputation.

“How could anybody be so foolish?” Mrs. Bidwell’s voice carried the clearest. Geneva knew she prided herself on her opinions, and she gave full voice to them now. “Embezzling company money! Didn’t he think he was going to get caught? He was Phelps’ heir. Had everything he could wish for. If anyone was ever born with a silver spoon in his mouth, it was Caleb Phelps III. To go and steal from his own father! Why, it’s wicked!”

The thudding between Geneva’s temples drowned out their voices. She was sick and tired of hearing the captain gossiped about. It seemed she couldn’t come into the village anymore without hearing the accusations hashed and rehashed. Didn’t people have anything else to talk about?

“He had to pay for that big, fancy cottage on the Point,” Mrs. Webb reminded the others. “The old farmhouse wasn’t good enough for him. Oh, no. He had to tear that down. He probably ran short of money to pay for it all.”

Mr. Watson looked toward the women and gave a chuckle. “I hear Phelps Senior’s a mite close to the bark. I figure he kept young Phelps on a tight leash with his salary. The young captain probably got impatient, wantin’ to give that pretty Miss Harding all that money can buy. After all, he had to fight off her other suitors. She was the belle of Boston, I hear.”

Geneva told herself to turn around and march out of the store, but her feet seemed stuck to the floor with spruce gum.

Mrs. Webb tapped the counter with a large knuckled forefinger. “That doesn’t excuse what he did. If he was short on money, he should have gone straight to his father. What did he do with all the money he earned as a captain? Look at our own captains—they live well on their shares the rest of their lives.”

Mrs. Bidwell sniffed. “They don’t squander their wealth on extravagant living. I saw the wagon-loads on their way to the Point to build that grand summer cottage of his. Cap’n Caleb only bought the best for his place. No hand-split shakes for his roof. Only slate all the way from Wales. And the glass! Enough panes you’d think he was going to live in a greenhouse. Mahogany shipped in from Santo Domingo. And that’s not sayin’ a thing about his residence in Boston. He overreached himself, all right!”

“I hear he up and left everything in Boston.” Mrs. Webb snapped her fingers. “Just like that. If anything’s proof of guilt, it’s running. Now he’s buried himself up in that mausoleum. Thinkin’ he can hide himself here.” She sniffed. “We’re honest, God-fearing folk. He’ll find that out in short order.”

Mr. Watson nodded. “What I always say is, money’s the root of all evil.” He wrapped up the nails in brown paper. “That’ll be twelve cents,” he told Geneva, then turned back to the ladies. “You know how rich folks think they can be above the law, but things have a way of catchin’ up with ’em.” He gave a final nod of emphasis.

Geneva slapped her coins onto the counter. Mrs. Bidwell opened her mouth to speak. Before she could draw breath, Geneva turned to the three women, hands on her hips, her back straight, her eyes narrowed.

“Poor folks seem to think they’re above mindin’ their own business. Guess they’ve never heard gossipin’s a sin just like stealin’. Nor ’bout hittin’ a man when he’s down, even though he’s never done nothing to them. I seem to recall just a while back, nothing but praise for Cap’n Caleb. Now he’s tarred and feathered with your tongues when no one knows what really went on down there in Boston. Why, he’s never treated any one of us but kindly and fairly, even some that don’t deserve it!”

She glared at each one in turn. They stared at her, their jaws slack. These women probably hadn’t ever heard her say so much all of a piece. Deciding the sooner she was away from these old harpies the better, she turned back to Mr. Watson.

Stifling the urge to tell him to wipe the smirk off his face, she picked up the parcel of nails. “Good day to you!”

She shoved away from the counter. It was then she noticed the silence. Not one of the women had said a word, not even the outspoken Mrs. Bidwell. In fact, they weren’t even looking at her. Everyone was staring at the door.

Slowly Geneva turned. There, his dark form silhouetted against the sunshine of the open doorway, stood Caleb Phelps. She couldn’t make out his features, but she could feel his gaze on her, as intense as it had been that day last summer.

Hugging the parcel to her chest as if it might conceal the workings of her heart, Geneva took a step forward, then another. The pounding of her heart was so loud, he must surely see the bib of her overalls flapping up and down clear across the store. She kept on marching until she reached the captain’s looming figure. She’d forgotten how tall he was, a good head above her, and she was as tall as several men of her acquaintance.

He moved aside just as she approached and tipped his hat to her as she passed. Touching her own hat briefly at the brim, she lunged through the doorway into the sunshine. She took the steps down two at a time, her boots clattering on the rickety wooden planks.

Why was it that every time she ran into the captain, she felt compelled to flee afterward, as if she were guilty of something?

Caleb Phelps turned toward the banging screen door, the only sound in the small village store. He watched the long strides of the overalled figure taking her rapidly away from the store and toward the wharf.

Only her voice gave her away as a woman.

In the couple of weeks he’d been back to Haven’s End, he’d felt a distinct chill every time he was in the presence of the villagers.

Funny how quickly bad news traveled. He had thought he’d become inured to suspicious looks—or worse, those self-righteous, smug expressions that said more clearly than words, Well, he got his just deserts! He’d certainly endured enough of them in Boston.

Somehow he’d thought this little village where he was scarcely known, but where he’d always had pleasant if superficial dealings with the residents, would welcome him differently.

The woman’s harsh words to the villagers rang in his ears. She’d expressed more clearly than he ever could exactly what he’d felt.

Strange, how belief in one’s integrity could come from the strangest quarters. What did she know of him or of events in Boston?

From her yard farther up the road from Ferguson Point, through the thin screen of hackmatack trees, Geneva watched her new neighbor with a frown. Ever since Captain Caleb had begun to turn the soil in a portion of his yard, she’d started to worry. When it became clear he was making a garden, her concern deepened. As she hoed her own young plants, she fretted that her neighbor wouldn’t have the same success, not knowing the land in these parts.

“If I was plantin’ a garden on the Point,” she told her black Labrador, Jake, “I’d make it on the other side. For one thing, it’d get sun there the whole day. I remember Pa telling me there used to be a chicken yard nearby, so the soil’ll be rich over yonder.”

She banged her buckets together. “Ain’t none o’ my business what he does. Even if nothin’ comes up, he won’t go hungry. Isn’t as if he depends on his garden to live, like most of us.”

But no matter how much she debated with Jake over the next few days, Geneva couldn’t help observing Captain Caleb each time she went outside. And the longer she watched him bent over his fork, the more she itched to offer her advice. He had helped her out of a mess once. She told herself she owed it to him.

Finally, making up her mind, she threw down the pump handle. “No, you stay here,” she told Jake. “Don’t need you scarin’ him before I can get a word out.” She wiped her hands down the sides of her trousers and headed for the dirt road. When she saw Jake at her heels, she stopped once again and shook a finger at him. “Now, do I have to chain you up, or are you going to obey?”

The dog whined, but after another stern look from Geneva, he stayed put. Her tone softened. “That’s a good fellow. I knew I could count on you.”

She walked down the sloping dirt road to the end of Ferguson Point, where a gate stood. The newly erected barrier, the lumber still raw and unpainted, matched the house beyond it. Together, house and gated fence stood out like intruders against the familiar landmarks of the Point. Geneva’s gaze swept the vista before her, never tiring of it. She’d always thought this the best location in all Haven’s End.

A large expanse of cleared land descended toward the sea. Below was a sheltered cove with dark, rocky cliffs curved around, protecting it from the open sea. Tall, ancient firs and spruce, their long, thin peaks looking black against the sky, grew down to the very edge of the cliffs, like multi-tiered sentinels standing guard against the sea.

Above the cove, where there had once been an old, abandoned house, now stood an imposing, new structure. Despite its freshness, there was something sad about it, Geneva thought as she observed the overgrown grass in the yard. It wouldn’t take long for the bright reddish-brown luster of the cedar shingles to take on the faded gray of her own shack. The curtainless windows stared back at her like empty eye sockets.

Shaking aside the morbid thought, Geneva opened the forbidding gate. Spying her target at the far side of the yard beyond the barn, she walked resolutely toward the new owner of Ferguson Point.

The captain squatted by the half-turned garden plot, a clod of dirt and grass held in one hand. He was studying this as if it held the answer to a mystery.

Already she regretted coming. What in the world was she going to say to him now? So she stood, not saying a word, until he raised his head. His initial glance was startled, but it quickly changed to one of suspicion.

He sat back on his heels, pushing his hat away from his eyes to observe her. The sun shone full on his face, and Geneva struggled to hide her shock. Was this the same gentleman who’d helped her last summer? It wasn’t just the absence of a smile, but the complete lack of welcome. His dark hair hung long and shaggy over his collar, his jaw shadowed with several days’ growth of beard. Sweat and dirt stained his shirt. Only the color of his eyes remained unchanged—the same hue of the ocean.

But now they were no longer crinkled at the corners with mirth, but narrowed in bitter distrust. They gave her no encouragement to proceed.

Well, she was in for it now. Best have her say and be done.

“Be lucky to get much of anything to grow here.” She kicked a clump of dirt with the toe of her boot.

After several seconds of silence in which Geneva wasn’t sure whether he was going to order her off his land or just plumb ignore her, he answered in a quiet voice, each word carefully modulated as if he was holding on to his patience with an effort. “Why is that?”

Geneva made an abrupt gesture with her hand. “Poor soil.” She jerked her head sideways. “Get half day’s shade from those trees.”

She watched him swallow as he digested her words. By the set of his unshaven jaw, she could tell he was having a hard time just being civil to her.

“Where do you propose I plant?”

She moved her chin forward. “Over yonder.”

The captain turned his head in the direction she indicated, his mouth a stern line.

“Why?”

“My pa used to tell o’ folks had a turnip patch there. Fine soil, full sun the whole day. Used to be a chicken yard right next to it. Lots o’ manure.” When he didn’t reply, she made another motion with her chin. “You’re late plantin’. Short growing season ’round here.”

He turned back to her, giving her a look that told her he welcomed her advice about as much as he would a skunk under a house.

“I’m certainly obliged to you for telling me at this late date that I should abandon one field for another that looks identical to it.” He threw aside the clump of turf he’d been holding and took a deep breath, as if continuing the conversation was an effort.

“I realize I’m nothing but a sailor who doesn’t know a spade from a hoe, but I didn’t have much choice about planting time.”

She’d been right—he didn’t know a thing about gardening. She kicked at the dirt again. “Awful shame. But ’twouldn’t take you long with two people. I’ve already planted my garden. Could come over here tomorrow morning and help you till up yonder.”

He let out a breath—whether in annoyance or amusement, she couldn’t tell. “Are you proposing to help me dig up a field of the toughest, most rock-ridden sod I’ve ever encountered in my life?”

She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “If we prepare the soil good, I can give you some o’ my seedlings. Have more’n I can use, anyway. That’ll make up for lost time.”

He paused as if considering. “That would be very generous of you.”

She hurried on, afraid he’d change his mind. “You can still plant carrots, taters, squash, beans, greens.” She nodded. “It’ll do you for the winter.”

“In that case, you’ll probably have to show me how to put them up as well,” he replied, the first hint of a twinkle beginning to thaw the chill in his eyes. Geneva felt something inside her begin to melt, too, and felt a profound relief that the man she remembered had not disappeared entirely.

A second later his eyes resumed their coldness. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to plant.” He stood and, once again, she was conscious of his height.

He picked up a fork. “By the looks of it, I have a few days of hard labor ahead, so if you’ll excuse me…” Without waiting for her reply, he began to walk toward the field she’d indicated.

“I’ll come by tomorrow to help you with the tilling,” she muttered to his back.

He heard her and turned around. “I will not have a woman wielding a fork alongside of me.” He enunciated like a teacher to a stubborn pupil.

“Suit yourself. If you want to be a fool, ain’t no concern o’ mine.”

“No?” His voice reached her. “Seems to have concerned you the other day.”

So, he had heard. She could feel the blood heating her face up to the roots of her hair. She kicked at the tough grass. “Folks should mind their own business.”

“What they ought to do and what they do are frequently two different things.” He tipped his hat to her. “I want to thank you for your kind if unnecessary defense of me.”

Wrestling with something inside herself, Geneva gave an abrupt nod and turned to begin her trek back to the gate.

She’d spent too many years protecting her own hide to know how to reach out to anyone. The captain would have to learn to sink or swim on his own. She’d help him with his garden. That was all. She owed him that much.

Caleb sat on the veranda, staring out at the silvery sea, the hot coffee cup enveloped by his hands. He couldn’t see the horizon this morning. It was obscured by the milky white fog that lay offshore and high overhead.

The sun was already visible, its strong yellow orb promising to burn through the white film shrouding but not obliterating it. He listened to the movement of sea against rock, its sucking, rushing sound ceaseless.

He’d been listening to it off and on all night.

Finally the nausea he had felt since rising began to ebb. He took a cautious sip of coffee, feeling as if he were just finding his sea legs.

In truth, he knew his physical condition was the result of more than rising too early and sleeping too little over several days.

He ventured another sip of the scalding coffee, needing something—anything—to wash out the vile taste in his mouth.

Lost in thought again, the knock didn’t penetrate his consciousness the first time. It was only at the second knock that it intruded like something at the periphery of his vision gradually taking shape.

He got up slowly at the third knock, his head shifting like sand, his body weak and wobbly like one who hasn’t eaten in a few days.

Caleb walked back inside, following the echo of the now silent knock. His footsteps reverberated against the polished wood floor as he walked through the wide living room, into the dining room, and finally reached the kitchen. He approached the door leading out into the shed and opened it a crack.

The tall woman wearing men’s attire—denim overalls and a straw hat—was just turning to leave.

He opened the door wider. “Good morning,” he said, immediately clearing his throat as he heard the raspy sound of the syllables emanating from it.

She nodded by way of greeting. “Brought you some loam.”

He frowned. “Loom?” He repeated the word the way she’d pronounced it.

“Topsoil. And dry manure,” she added.

“Oh.” Was this supposed to mean something to him?

The way she waited, just staring at him, made him conscious of his appearance. His fingers touched the collar of his shirt, and he realized the top buttons were undone.

She shifted in her boots. “I’ll bring the seedlings ’round as soon as we work in the loam. Thought you’d want to get started early with the planting.”

He finally nodded in understanding, remembering her offer of seedlings. Somehow it had slipped his mind amidst the backbreaking labor of the last two days.

“And so I do.” He yawned. “Excuse me. I didn’t get to sleep until late.” When she said nothing, he asked, “What time is it anyway?”

He saw her blink at his question. She was younger than he’d imagined. In her men’s getup and her clipped sentences, she had seemed ageless to him.

Not waiting for her to answer, he pulled out his watch. “Eight o’clock. It feels more like daybreak.” He looked at her questioningly. “Don’t you have your own work to do? I don’t want to keep you from it.”

She shook her head. “Already weeded and watered this mornin’.”

He nodded. “Of course.” If her speech was anything to go by, she wasn’t a person to waste time. “I suppose if I am to accept your generous gift, I should at least know your name. You seem to know mine.”

All he understood of the mumbled words was “Neeva Patterson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Patterson.” He took a last swallow of coffee. “Well, let’s be at it, then.”

He followed her out into the yard. The morning was still cool and he shivered slightly in his thin shirt. She marched ahead of him, straight toward the garden patch. Once there, she looked it over like a general reviewing his troops.

She turned to him. “What made you decide to turn your hand to gardening?”

“Sheer boredom.”

As if finding no response to that, she pointed to the wheelbarrow. “We’ve got to spread this over the garden and then use the fork to dig it in deep. I’ll empty it out and go bring some more. You’ll need to cover the garden good.”

As she reached for the handles of the barrow, Caleb came alive, realizing she’d meant what she’d said the other day about helping him. He got to the handles first and flipped the contraption over.

Then he turned toward the barn. “I’ll go get the shovel and fork,” he said over his shoulder.

It was after noon before Geneva judged the soil ready for planting. She stood back from where she had been working the manure into the soil with her fork. “Reckon we can rake it smooth now.”

The captain stopped his work at once, and she wondered whether he was as glad of the respite as she.

She hadn’t liked his pallor this morning. She’d kept telling herself it came only from lack of sleep, but being out in the sunshine hadn’t improved it. Now his paleness was overlaid with a sheen of perspiration.

The noonday sun burned down on their backs. They’d spent the morning carting manure and compost from her yard and forking it into his newly tilled garden. The captain hadn’t even stopped to drink a dipper of water. The back of his shirt was wet, and every so often he’d stop to swat at the blackflies that hovered around him in a cloud and remove his hat to wipe his brow with a handkerchief, or just straighten up, as if his back pained him.

He worked steadily, almost as if he was trying to prove something, but she couldn’t fathom what a gentleman like himself wanted to prove by bending over a garden patch.

Whatever the reason, she admired him for it. He had grit. Not like her pa, who’d bullied her ma all the time she was alive, but when she was gone, he’d just given up. Not all at once, but gradually, taking to the bottle until he was no longer fit to carry out the logging work that was his livelihood. One day they’d carried his body home after he’d slipped from a log into the rushing river on a spring log drive….

Geneva shook away the memories and sneaked another peek at the captain. She bit her lip to keep from voicing her concern. She’d had long years of practice keeping silent. The captain had made it clear this morning that he was not interested in chitchat.

Her own throat felt parched and her belly empty. She leaned against her rake. “I think we oughtta quit for dinner.” Before he could refuse, she added, “We can plant the seeds this afternoon, but it’s not a good idea to plant the seedlings in full sun. Best thing is to set them tomorrow morning, early.”

He considered a moment, looking over the neatly tilled plot. Finally he gave a short nod, and Geneva breathed her relief.

She gave a doubtful look at the seedlings. “I don’t like setting everything out all at once, but guess it can’t be helped, it being so late for your first planting.”

“What do you mean?”

“All your stem vegetables should be planted when there’s a moon, and all the root crops, ’cluding your taters, when it’s dark.”

He gave the little plants, which were already beginning to droop, an uninterested look. “I don’t think it’ll make much difference to these plants one way or another. They should be grateful just to be planted.” He gave one of the pots a kick.

Instead of showing outrage, Geneva smiled. The contrast between the sweat-stained man before her and the polished gentleman who’d helped her on the wharf was too great.

He caught her smiling at him and frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” She pinched her lips together. “I’m just glad those seedlings are hardy things.”

He looked at her for a second without reacting, then slowly he smiled. Her own lips relaxed in answer. Suddenly she felt like his partner in the garden.

“You’ve helped me more than I had any right to expect,” he said. “The least I can do is offer you some dinner.”

She stared at him, too startled by his invitation to answer.

“What’s the matter? Have I offended you?”

She shook her head. How could she explain it to him? To eat at someone’s table was truly to be accepted as his equal. He didn’t know what he was offering. Captain Caleb Phelps III, son of a Boston shipping magnate, dining with Salt Fish Ginny, pariah of Haven’s End? No, she’d spare him the humiliation. He was suffering enough at the hands of the villagers with his own troubles. She wouldn’t add to them.

With a heavy heart she said, “Much obliged, Cap’n, but I better be getting back. Got to feed Jake.”

“Jake?”

“My dog,” she added.

“Certainly. Well, perhaps another time.” He began picking up the tools, as if the invitation was already forgotten.

She hurried to help him, dumping the smaller items into the wheelbarrow. “I’ll just keep my things in your barn, if you don’t mind. That’ll save hauling everything back tomorrow.”

“You won’t need them yourself?”

She shook her head. “Not for a couple of days, anyhow.”

He pushed the wheelbarrow while she carried the long-handled implements toward the open barn door. He showed her a space inside where she could set the things, then went back to the garden for the remaining tools. Geneva took a turn about the barn while she waited for his return. She wanted to thank him again for the invitation.

She shook her head. No one in Haven’s End had ever invited her to eat. Even when her ma died, and then her pa, her nearest neighbor had brought a few covered dishes, but no one had invited her over.

They’d tried to force her to the Poor Farm when she’d been left with no living relatives, but she’d had none of that. She’d fended off the town do-gooders with the help of her pa’s rifle and hounds. Since then, she’d been pretty much left to herself.

Geneva kicked at the wisps of hay on the wooden floor, trying to understand how Captain Caleb could treat her the same as he would one of his own world.

She reached the doorway leading to the shed that connected the barn to the house. There in the dim corridor sat a wooden crate. Its yellow slats of new wood made it stand out.

Geneva stepped back when she saw what it contained.

The crate was filled with empty bottles, stacked every which way, right side up, upside down, sideways. The sickly sweet smell of liquor reached her nostrils. She knew that odor well. It had lingered for months in her own one-room house after her pa died. Geneva held her stomach, feeling as sick as if she’d drunk the contents herself.