Chapter Twenty-Seven

“I have something for you.”

Josie Grier peeked into the room where Dorothea Sinclair prepared for her wedding. The yellow room, filled with sunlight, matched Dorothea’s mood. All the windows stood open, admitting the warm sea breeze of a beautiful June afternoon.

A June bride—quite traditional, and not what Dorothea had ever imagined for herself. But Hare had agreed they should marry here, where they’d both been born, on the condition he could be well and truly on his feet first.

They’d stayed at the Griers’ home even though Lisbeth had offered them Dorothea’s old room. They’d stayed partly because Dorothea could see a relationship developing between Hare and his brother and partly because she still wasn’t sure how her mother would cope with having Hare underfoot morning, noon, and night.

Daniel, delighted with the situation, had gone a bit native, moving to the woods and relishing his independence.

The townsfolk—many of whom remembered Declan O’Shea all too well—had been slightly less accommodating. From their reaction to Hare, he had to be the image of his father. No wonder Lisbeth looked like she’d seen a ghost every time she encountered him. But Dorothea knew how hard Lisbeth tried, for her sake.

She turned now from the mirror and smiled at Josie. One advantage of staying here had been time spent in the company of her best friend.

“A gift?” she echoed.

“A wedding gift, sort of.” Josie slipped in through the door and extended her hands, in which lay…

“My hat!” Dorothea stared. “It’s the one that got ruined in Boston. How did you—?”

“It’s not the same hat. I recreated it, close as I could remember. I know how much that hat meant to you, seeing as how it brought you and Tim together.”

“Oh, Josie. It’s beautiful, and the perfect touch for my outfit.” Dorothea set the hat on top of her black hair, which Josie’s clever hands had swept up into a fancy series of waves.

Josie’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean for you to wear it today. What about your veil?”

“I don’t think I’m a ‘veil’ sort of bride. That’s one of the reasons I love Hare, Jo. He understands I’m not like other women, and it’s all right with him.”

Josie laughed softly, tears in her eyes. “And he’s able to endure those moments when your tongue comes unhinged and you talk and talk at him?”

Dorothea grinned. “Better than that, I think he actually likes it.”

“Then you better hang on to him, child, and don’t let go.”

“I mean to—just like you held on to Dougie. Well, how do I look?”

“Breathtaking. And you know that hat goes with the dress.” Dorothea’s mother had put everything else aside to stitch her daughter a simple gown of lace and satin—not white but palest blue, as suited Dorothea’s inner yen to be different.

“What do you think he’ll say when he sees me?”

“That man better be careful or he’ll fall right back down. Better hope his best man has a good grip on him.” Josie’s expression grew tender. “I can’t tell you what it’s meant to Dougie, being asked to serve as best man. And having the two of you here. I think it’s healed something inside him, getting to know his brother after all this time.”

“And Hare, too. They both needed that. And they’ve hit it off, haven’t they?”

“We’ll need to stay in touch after you go back to Boston. You sure you have to go back?”

Dorothea nodded solemnly. “We have work to do there. But I hope we can come home soon.” Dorothea blushed. “Maybe for the birth of our first child. Speaking of which, wise Mrs. Grier—do you have any advice for me?”

Josie laughed. “Just have fun. Oh, yes, and love him—love him so hard you can’t stand it and sharing yourself seems natural as breathing. Nothing to fear, then.”

“Can I tell you a secret, Jo?”

“Sure, honey.”

“I can’t wait.”

****

“Well, Mrs. Timothy Grier, I hope you’re not thinking of making all this into a story.”

“Hmm?” Dorothea replied to the smile she heard in her new husband’s voice rather than his words. She loved it when he spoke to her that way, with the affection spilling from him as if he couldn’t contain it all.

They lay in the bed in the yellow room with their fingers linked, just as their bodies had so recently been—not one but two times. Heaven had touched down in Dorothea’s soul, and she felt nearly too happy to speak.

He went on, musing, “I saw that look in your eye earlier today.”

“What look is that?”

“Like you were keeping track of everything and tucking it away till you could get to a pen and paper. How your brothers looked—like they were going to a hanging rather than a wedding. How the townspeople stared and whispered—how proud your father looked.”

“Proud and handsome.”

“And handsome. And your ma—no wonder you’re so pretty, Dorothea Grier.”

“What about Dougie? The only time I ever saw him cry before was the night Daniel was born. Today he just stood there beside you, all straight and tall with the tears rolling down his face.”

Hare shifted in the bed and turned to face her. His hand stole to her breast.

“You’re not going to mind leaving them all?”

“Of course I’ll mind.”

“Then…”

“My place is with you. And your place is in Boston. Like I told Jo, we’ve work to do. We need to get back and cook up a way to curtail the activities of those Wintons. Heck, I wouldn’t mind bringing down the whole Guardian.”

“You’re right. We can’t have that weasel Jeremy back on the streets.”

“He gives weasels a bad name. Besides, Ron’s probably missing you. Too bad he couldn’t leave the shop to be here. And Marielle—no doubt she’s showing by now. I hope—” She stopped speaking abruptly.

“What, angel?”

“I hope I’m showing soon. I can’t wait, I simply can’t wait to carry your child. Of course, that won’t keep me from working. I figure I can do feature articles for magazines till the folks at the Herald come to their senses, outlining the injustices that still need addressing in Boston. And—what do you think of this—I mean to start a new novel. It’s what I always truly wanted to do, you know—like Louisa May Alcott. Only in this book my heroine will be a woman of Boston, someone like Deirdre Gallagher. I’ll show her trials and strengths, and the unfairness of—”

“Hush.”

“What did you say to me?”

“Hush, Mrs. Grier.”

“Well! I just got done this afternoon telling Jo how much you like it when I natter on.”

“So I do. I like everything about you, including that sweet little freckle on your left breast.” He caressed the place in question with his thumb, and all Dorothea’s senses leaped to attention. “I just thought you might want to put in some work making sure of that baby you’ve requested. You see, Dora mine, I took a vow this day to give you everything I can. Everything—you—want.” He punctuated the last three words with kisses. “And I do believe I can provide that.”

“Well, but”—she seized him with both hands—“are you sure you’re fit for all this activity?” She caressed his cheekbone and his ribs. “Just think of your poor bones…”

He began to laugh softly. “Did I not seem fit a few minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

He directed her hand downward. “Don’t I seem fit now?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then, Mrs. Grier, you remember this: I love you beyond all reason, and I’m about to prove it. But don’t you dare write it down.”