Gritting his teeth and drawing his brows into a stern frown, Harris strove to concentrate on the column of figures before him. Robert Jardine hadn’t exaggerated when he claimed the firm’s ledgers were a mess. Though Harris hadn’t formally committed to a position with Jardine Brothers, he’d agreed to look over their accounts. It was the least he could do to repay their generosity in taking him in.
The hopeless muddle of the company ledger was not what made Harris scowl, however. It was the contradictory behavior of a certain bewitching damsel, and his own daft persistence in caring. After that endless, terrifying night in the river, he’d deluded himself into believing feelings had changed between him and Jenny. The way they’d held each other. The confidences they’d shared. How could it all have meant so much to him, without making a dent in her mercenary little heart?
If nothing else, he’d hoped it would make her have second thoughts about marrying Roderick Douglas. Instead, she appeared more determined than ever to get to Chatham and the waiting arms of her intended. Not for the life of him could he understand her hurry. Richibucto was a pleasant enough place, albeit somewhat unpolished. The town reminded Harris of an awkward but eager boy who would soon mature into his bright prospects. A fellow might do worse than settle here.
Except that Jenny would be forty miles up the coast in Chatham. Could he reconcile himself to the separation? Heaving a sigh of impatience with himself, Harris slammed the heavy ledger shut. Jardine Brothers’ tiny countinghouse at least boasted the amenity of a glazed window. Rising from the stool and stretching his long limbs, Harris wandered over to it.
The August sun blazed down on the harbor as it had every day since the storm that had wrecked the St. Bride. Gulls wheeled and dove in a cloudless sky, blue as cornflowers. Their shrill cries sounded like a chorus of derisive laughter.
Can you stay here and see her seldom? they seemed to shriek. Or go to Chatham and see her day after day with another man?
“Aye,” Harris muttered bitterly. “Ye have a point there.”
The songbirds seemed to warble a bittersweet love ballad in counterpoint to the baby’s sharp, fitful squalling, as Jenny watched Harris approach Glendennings’. Confident he hadn’t noticed her lingering on the fringe of the forest, she gazed at him to her heart’s content. Rationally she knew his looks had changed little from the day they’d departed Kirkcudbright.
He’d picked up a bit of a tan, which complemented the warm hues of his hair and eyes. And his face had lost its old haughty aspect, relaxing into an air of wry humor that was most becoming. His scars remained, though of late Jenny scarcely noticed them. Possibly because Harris himself seemed less self-conscious.
These subtle differences hardly accounted for the change in her response to him. Lately, whenever he came near, a pulse of warmth went through her, as though her entire body blushed. Her heart skipped from its steady, monotonous beat into a skittish dance. Often, some deft motion of his hands, or some quirk of his smile made her breath catch in her throat.
She’d begun to fancy him.
Though she hadn’t fully articulated the notion when they’d arrived in Richibucto a fortnight ago, Jenny had feared this would happen. She’d fought against every sign of it, but to no avail. It was as though the more she resisted her attraction for Harris, the stronger it grew. How long could she hold out against it? Another month?
Not likely.
Harris emerged from the cabin, squinting in her direction. Roderick Douglas’s intended bride wanted to turn and bound off into the woods, like the deer she had surprised one morning at dawn. Some irresistible force rooted her to the spot as Harris approached.
“Another fine day.” He glanced up, surveying the wide expanse of azure sky unmarred by a single cloud. “Say what ye will about this place, ye can’t find fault with the weather.”
The raging tempest of conflicting passions within her made Jenny reply sharply. “Easy enough for a man to say. Ye don’t have to lug water from the creek to keep the garden from dying.”
Harris looked at her as though she had slapped him.
“I ken it’s better than rain every day.” She softened her tone and smiled her apology. “At least a body can water the crops when it’s dry. There’s not much ye can do to keep them from rotting in the wet. What brings ye this way?”
He brightened at her question. “Mrs. Jardine sent me with an invitation. Would ye care to dine with us tonight?”
Jenny hesitated for only an instant. “Aye, I would. If I’m to wed a prosperous man and live in a fine house, I’ll need to polish my manners.”
“That’s fine then,” replied Harris. Something in his tone and look suggested disappointment with her answer. “I’ll come and fetch ye around seven.”
“Seven? That’s almost bedtime.”
“Folk of quality eat later,” Harris informed her. With a sour edge in his voice, he added, “Ye’d better get used to it.”
After he’d gone, Jenny hurried to finish as many of the chores as she could for Maizie Glendenning.
“Ye’ve been a godsend for me, Jenny, and no mistake. The chores’ll be there for us when we get to them. Right now, I’m going to dress yer hair. Ye might not think it, but back in the auld country, I was quite the gadabout. Now, what have ye got to wear for yer visit tonight?”
Jenny rummaged through her trunk, which had remained miraculously dry in spite of the shipwreck. As she pulled out each piece of her trousseau, purchased with gold sent by Roderick Douglas, Maizie reacted with raptures of admiration.
“Look at the color of it.”
“Just feel the weight of the cloth.”
When Jenny unearthed the last garment, her hostess was dumbstruck. “Will ye look at that now,” she managed to whisper.
With a self-conscious grin, Jenny held her badly wrinkled wedding dress in front of her. Silk, the color of heather, made up in the latest fashion. For as long as Jenny could recall, women’s dresses had fallen straight from beneath the bosom, but she’d seen pictures of older-style gowns. Gowns with tightly cinched waists and voluminous skirts—provocatively beautiful.
The mode of her wedding dress harkened back to those fashions, with a wide band of ribbon below the bust and a flared skirt supported by a rustle of laced petticoats. As she ran her hand wonderingly over the fine, smooth fabric, Jenny fought the urge to wear this gown to her dinner with the Jardines. She had several other good dresses, well suited to the occasion, though none quite so stylish as this. Besides, she felt a superstitious misgiving about wearing her wedding gown before the wedding. She’d spent Roderick’s gold on this special garment. She owed it to him to save it for their nuptials.
Yet, when she weighed all this in the balance against the look on Harris’s face when he first beheld her in this swath of heather silk, somehow it did not weigh as heavily as it ought.
Quashing her foolish inclination, Jenny briskly stuffed her wedding gown back into the trunk. With forced animation, she asked Maizie Glendenning how they should dress her hair.
By the time Harris arrived to escort her to Jardines’, Jenny felt certain she’d swallowed a colony of butterflies. Their delicate wings fluttered urgently within her stomach. She had to clasp her hands hard together to still the trembling that threatened to overtake them.
“Will ye look at that now?” The reverent catch in Harris’s breath and the admiration that glowed in his eyes threatened to intoxicate Jenny.
She couldn’t help wondering how he might have reacted if she’d worn the silk.
“I didn’t want ye ashamed to be seen with me.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but her voice came out high-pitched and breathless.
With courtly formality, he held out his arm to her. “Any man with sense would be proud to squire such a fine lady.”
Jenny placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Her demure smile twitched into a teasing grin. “So ye were paying me some mind when I tried to teach ye manners?”
Harris laughed heartily. “Aye, lass. Now and again. But let’s not dawdle here while the food gets cold. The Jardines set a good table.”
His recommendation proved true enough, but to Jenny the evening was as much a feast for the spirit as for the palate.
As they sat in the parlor awaiting dinner, Mrs. Jardine remarked, “Mr. Chisholm tells me ye admire the works of Walter Scott, Miss Lennox.”
“I’ve only read three,” admitted Jenny, failing to confess that Harris had done most of the reading. “I liked them fine, though. Mr. Scott tells a bonny tale.”
Their hostess nodded. “Mr. Chisholm was kind enough to lend me his copy of Ivanhoe. I’m enjoying it very much.”
Her husband added, “Quite a stroke of luck that yer books weren’t ruined in the wreck, Chisholm. I wish I could say the same for the rest of the St. Bride’s cargo.”
They enjoyed a congenial meal together, accompanied by the sparkling wine of good conversation. The discussion ranged widely, and thanks to her tutelage from Harris, Jenny was able to bear her part. After dinner, Mrs. Jardine played on the pianoforte. When Harris told their hosts about the impromptu concert on the forecastle of the St. Bride, they insisted Jenny favor them with a song.
As they strolled back to Glendennings’ in the warm twilight of that August eve, Jenny breathed a sigh of mingled contentment and yearning. “That’s the way I’ve always dreamed of living. Everything so polite and elegant. Folks so agreeable.”
Harris slowed the pace of his walk even further. As an owl hooted in the distance, he raised his left hand and covered Jenny’s, where it rested on his right arm. The euphoria of the evening swept all his misgivings before it.
“I had a grand time, too, Jenny. But it wasn’t on account of the food, or Mrs. Jardine’s china, or even the music. I’ve been to dine in Edinburgh and with the Robertsons in Dalbeattie, but I never enjoyed myself like I did tonight. Having ye there—that’s what made it special.”
She turned toward him, gulping a wee breath to speak. Harris knew what she meant to say, but he would not listen until she had heard him out. Swiftly, but with infinite gentleness, he pressed his fingers to her lips. His senses reeled as he felt their soft warmth and the featherlight caress of her breath.
“Rail at me later,” he whispered. “For now, just let me speak what’s in my heart. Ye make any time of the day or night special to me, lass. Even if it’s just reading a book together or wandering down a path in the woods at sunset.”
She stared up at him with those eyes, so full of dreams. Harris could scarcely find his voice to continue.
But continue he did, for he knew this might be his best and only chance. “Things like that cost nothing. It’s having ye to share them that gilds every minute of my day, Jenny.”
Her lip quivered beneath his touch and crystal tears quenched the dreams in her eyes. Was it a good sign, or bad? Harris wasn’t sure. Either way, a great choking lump rose in his own throat. Unable to restrain himself further, he gathered Jenny into his arms and clasped her to him as though he never meant to let go.
“Must ye go to Chatham, Jenny? Must ye wed Roderick Douglas? Couldn’t ye stay here with me? Mr. Jardine wants to take me on as his manager. I know we’d be starting with nothing, but I swear to ye I’d work hard and make a good life for us.”
Was his imagination playing tricks on him, or was Jenny burrowing deeper into his embrace? He could barely discern the words she murmured.
“Ye mustn’t say such things, Harris. Ye’ve no notion of how much I…Ye don’t understand. I’ve given my word. Besides, Mr. Douglas paid for my passage and my new clothes. How would I ever repay him?”
Was that all that stood in their way? Harris threw back his head and began to laugh in a hearty gust of relief. “I’d repay him, Jenny. I’d repay Mr. Douglas every penny of what he spent, supposing he wanted to charge a hundred percent interest.”
Fearing his voice might break, he dropped it to a hoarse whisper. “And I’d still think it the best bargain I ever struck in my life, lass.”
“There’s more to it than that, Harris.” Jenny tried to push out of his embrace, but only feebly. He sensed she didn’t really want him to release her.
So he didn’t.
“Don’t fret yerself, lass. I’m not asking ye to decide tonight. I only want ye to think on it for a while. Once the St. Bride’s ready to sail again, ye can give me yer answer then. If ye choose to marry Mr. Douglas, I’ll go with ye to Chatham like I promised, and we won’t speak of it again.”
The thought chilled him, even in the lazy warmth of a midsummer night. Resting his cheek against Jenny’s hair, he murmured, “I give ye fair warning, though. I’m going to spend every waking moment between now and then trying to tip the scales in my favor.”
Before Jenny could reply, Harris heard a rustling on the path ahead, and the rapid slap of bare feet hitting the ground. An instant later, a small form barreled into them. In the gathering darkness, Harris could not make out the child’s features.
“There now, lad. Who are ye and where are ye tearing off to at this time of night?”
“Mr. Chisholm?” the child gasped. “Miss Lennox? It’s me. John. Father sent me to fetch Grannie Girvan. The baby’s in a bad way.”
“I’ll go along with ye to Girvan’s, lad,” said Harris. “Ye shouldn’t be out on yer own this time of night.”
“Thank ye, Harris.” Jenny fumbled for his hand in the darkness and squeezed it. “I’ll go to Maizie and see if I can help.”
As Harris and the boy set off toward the river, Jenny found herself perversely grateful for this distraction. The feel of his arms about her and the siren song of his entreaty had been almost too powerful an enchantment to resist. Worst of all, she could not decide for certain if she wanted to resist.
Remembering the Glendennings’ sick baby, she chided herself for welcoming the diversion. True, she wanted time to collect her wits, but not at this cost. Willing herself to concentrate on the situation at hand, Jenny hurried along the path to Glendennings.
She found the cottage in an uproar.
Tears streaming down her face, eyes wide with panic, Maizie held the baby as its tiny body jerked in alarming spasms. In the throes of its fit, the infant appeared to have no breath to cry.
The other children made up for that.
From their beds in the loft at one end of the cabin, they stared down, howling in distress at what was taking place below. Captain Glendenning paced the floor helplessly, his face drawn with worry. The stoic calm with which he’d braved the pirates and the wreck had evaporated in the face of this domestic crisis.
“It’ll be all right, Maizie.” Jenny tried to sound convinced of it. “Harris has gone with John for Grannie Girvan. They’ll be here directly.”
Mrs. Glendenning seemed scarcely to hear her. Gazing anxiously at the twitching baby, she spoke by dull rote. “He was no worse than usual, today. Then, when I went to feed him after supper, he was burning up.”
Jenny had nursed her younger brothers through a number of fevers and fluxes, but she’d seen nothing like this. Better to leave doctoring the child to Mrs. Girvan. Yet, she could not bring herself to stand about idle.
“Is the baby going to die?” Nellie wailed from the loft.
The other children.
It was a small thing, but worthwhile, to quiet them. Maizie might take heart without their plaintive keening in her ears. And Mrs. Girvan would surely work better without the distraction of a racket. Giving the frantic mother an encouraging pat on the arm, Jenny moved to the ladder and began to climb.
“Grannie Girvan’s on her way,” she told the children in a soft, soothing voice. She could not bring herself to assure them their brother would live, for she had grave doubts. “Now come back here and lie down. Here’s my handkerchief to wipe yer eyes, Nellie. Ye must help yer ma by being as quiet as wee mice. If ye’ll hush, I’ll tell ye a story to put ye to sleep. Things’ll look better in the morning, ye’ll see.”
Sniffling and wiping noses on the sleeves of their nightshirts, the children drew back from the lip of the loft and crowded around Jenny. Anxious thoughts and grim foreboding tightened her throat, but she fought down her own feelings to concentrate on calming the wee ones.
“What good lads and lassies ye are.” She smoothed back a lock of hair on one, patted another on the shoulder and smiled sympathetic encouragement to a third.
Keeping her voice low and comforting, she began to spin them a tale borrowed from Walter Scott. “Once upon a time, there was a brave knight, named Wilfred of Ivanhoe. Now Ivanhoe was in love with his father’s ward, the fair lady Rowena, but…”
The story proved a potent diversion for the children, who seemed to forget what was happening in the rest of the house. Even the sound of the door opening and the muted urgency of voices below failed to rouse their interest.
While she concentrated on lulling the children with her story, Jenny kept an ear cocked to hear what was going on. She overheard Maizie sigh. “At least he’s still now.”
Old Mrs. Girvan clucked her tongue with the sound of hollow pessimism.
From the foot of the ladder, Jenny heard Harris quietly advise young John, “Why don’t ye get off to yer rest, lad? Ye’ve done a man’s work tonight.”
The sound of his voice made Jenny long to scramble down the ladder and throw herself into his arms. Suddenly aware of the children’s expectant gazes, she cleared her throat and continued with the story. When John joined them, his brother and sisters allowed as how Jenny might begin it again for his benefit.
None of them managed to stay awake until the end of the tale. Jenny was hoarse and stiff by the time the last one nodded off. She still picked up the sound of hushed voices and faint movement below. While there was activity, there must be hope.
A while later, the hiccup of a sob wakened her from a light doze. She heard Mrs. Girvan’s weary voice. “I’m sorry, lass. There was naught I could do for the poor wee thing. Get yer rest now. The other children’ll be needing you.”
Jenny shivered. Even a decent interval to grieve was a luxury in this unforgiving land.
“I’m sorry for yer loss, Angus,” said Harris. Jenny had not realized he was still there. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing to do now but build a coffin and dig a grave,” replied the captain in a tight, husky voice. “Ye can see Mrs. Girvan home, Harris, if ye’d be so good. Thanks for yer help tonight.”
“I wish I could have done more. I’ll be by in the morning with some wood from the yard.”
After a soft shuffling of footsteps, the cabin door opened and closed.
Captain Glendenning cleared his throat.
Jenny wished to heaven she was asleep. Or a thousand miles away.
“Don’t fret yerself, Maizie. There’ll be others.”
The reply was a quiet sound, something like a chuckle, but entirely devoid of mirth. It sounded more like a rasp biting against a knot of hard wood.
“Don’t expect me to take comfort in that, Angus. I never wanted this one.”
“Now, now lass. Ye don’t mean that. Ye’re worn-out.”
“Aye, I’m all of that. But I mean it just the same.” Maizie Glendenning sniffled loudly. “It’s indecent for a mother not to grieve her child. All I can think is how glad I am to be clear of his caterwauling from noon to night.”
The captain did not reply for a while. Then he said, “I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll go make the box.”
“Ye do that. And while ye’re at it, make one for me. I envy the dead their rest.”
Her stomach seething, Jenny glanced around at the children to make sure they were all asleep and had not overheard. Captain Glendenning might dismiss his wife’s words on the grounds of her exhaustion and grief. The children might not understand.
Or perhaps they might understand too well.
The way fourteen-year-old Jenny had understood her mother’s dying whisper. “Don’t fret for me, Jenny. I’ll be glad for a rest. Light out of here the minute ye get a chance, lass. But mind ye wed well, or not at all.”
Looking back, Jenny could now imagine Mother at her age. Starry-eyed because Alec Lennox had asked leave to walk her home from kirk. Full of romantic daydreams of the life they might share. She had seen a hint of it in Maizie Glendenning that very afternoon as she’d exclaimed over the dresses and plaited Jenny’s hair. Once upon a time, Maizie had primped and prettied herself for a call from a ruggedly handsome sailor. Felt her heart beat faster and her knees wobble like jelly.
And what did it come to in the end?
Exhaustion overcame Jenny again, and for a time she slept. The children began to stir when cock crowed.
“I didn’t hear the last of yer story, Jenny.”
“Is the baby going to get better?”
Jenny yawned and stretched out her kinks. Better to let the children hear the news from their parents. “Hush, now. I ken yer ma’s asleep and she needs her rest. Let’s see who can be the quietest getting yer clothes on and sneaking out of the house? If ye don’t make a sound, I promise I’ll boil ye up some porritch and finish telling ye what happened to Ivanhoe.”
Her offer proved a powerful inducement, for the children pulled on their clothes and stole out of the cabin with scarcely a sound. Maizie had gone to bed at last. Despite the bitter words Jenny had heard her speak in the night, she’d taken the baby with her, cradling the small, still form in her arms. The sight brought a queer ache to Jenny’s stomach.
There was no sign of Captain Glendenning outside, but from off in the forest, Jenny could hear the bleak sound of a plane shaving wood smooth. As she prepared the children’s breakfast and finished the story of Ivanhoe for them, her thoughts churned.
After what had happened last night, there could be no question of her remaining in Richibucto and sharing the fate of Mrs. Glendenning and her mother. However, she remembered the magical feel of Harris’s arms about her, and the compelling sorcery of his words. Could she risk staying here another month? Was her resolve strong enough to withstand his subtle blandishments day after day? Even when she knew he was casting a spell that would hold her captive and ultimately bring them both nothing but disillusionment and heartbreak?
“So Sir Wilfred regained his father’s favor and wed the lady Rowena and they lived happily ever after,” she concluded hastily. “John, do ye know how far it is to Chatham, by land?”
“But what happened to Rebecca?” the children demanded.
“Oh, she left the country with her father.” Seeing this did not satisfy her audience, Jenny added her own postscript to the story. “Later she married a rich merchant of her own faith and lived like a queen.”
“Chatham?” said John, as if her question had just registered with him. “I’ve heard Pa say it’s forty mile or more. Ye take the road to Aldouane and go on from there. Nobody much goes overland, Miss Lennox. It’s much quicker and easier by boat.”
“I see,” said Jenny. “Thank ye for telling me.”
Forty miles. After the hundreds and hundreds she’d come, it seemed like so trifling a distance. Only twice the way from Dalbeattie to Kirkcudbright, and she had walked that before in less than a day. If she needed to take lodging at an inn or a house, no matter. She still had several coins left over from what Roderick Douglas had sent.
Dispatching the children to pick more berries, Jenny marched resolutely to the shed where her trunk sat. Quickly she changed into a plain, serviceable dress for walking and put on a pair of stout shoes. When the St. Bride finally weighed anchor for Chatham, surely Captain Glendenning would think to bring her trunk. The only items she really needed to take along were her wedding dress and slippers and her money.
Securing the former into a fat but light parcel, she tucked the coins into her apron pocket and tied on her bonnet. She hoped Harris would not be too upset when he learned that she’d gone. With a qualm of guilt she recalled the painful story of his mother’s desertion.
How could she make him understand? She was doing this as much for his future happiness as for her own.