When Caroline awoke the next morning, she at first could not place where she was. The fire had nearly gone out and the room was chill. There were curtains on the windows but they were thin and let in most of the light—as well as a cold draft.
Shivering, she slipped out of the bed, sitting on the edge to pull on a warm woolen dress and thick socks.
John was still asleep, curled up on the floor by the fire, covered with a pile of blankets, his long lean legs tucked under him.
She walked closer, quietly. In his sleep, his face was boyish. In the dim shadows, his hair was dark. She could not pick out a single white strand. It was as if the night had turned back time. She smiled, amused by the thought.
The truth was that there was still plenty of time ahead of them both, however. It was what to do with it all that confounded her. With Gracie gone, there suddenly seemed so much more of it than there had been before.
Well, this little girl they were on their way to see would fill up some of that, she was sure.
There was no point feeling sorry for herself.
Lifting her chin, she stepped over to where she had placed her outerwear and began to dress. The wood pile in the cottage was depleted but there was plenty more out back. She would bring in an armful, make up the fire, and surprise John as he woke up, toasty and warm.
Yes, that was an excellent plan.
John’s eyes flew open to the sound of a woman screaming.
He had slept by the fire in his trousers and now was on his feet in an instant, pausing only to snatch his shirt off the table where he had left it folded the night before, and to shove his feet into his boots—stockingless—before dashing through the door.
There was thick heavy snow falling. A hazy, grey morning.
He spun about, looking and listening for the direction of the screams.
There. The woman screamed again. From behind the house.
He turned, plunging through snow at least two feet thick on the ground, feeling the wetness seeping into his unlaced boots as he charged around the corner of the house, heading for the back which bordered the forest tree line.
Of course, the screams were Caroline’s.
There were no other people about—most having had the good sense to stay in their homes on this stormy dreary morning.
John had to admit Mrs. Gardner was one of the last women he would ever have expected to hear screaming for help—but as he took in the scene, he quite sympathized.
She had come out back to gather wood, it seemed, and while doing so the most desperate and feral looking canine John had ever seen had snuck up on her, cornering her between the end of the house and the wood pile, snarling and slathering.
Now she was backing around the pile, never taking her eyes from the dog, the wood she had gathered littered around her.
The dog snarled loudly, its lips curled back exposing its teeth.
John could see the animal’s ribs clear through its ragged coat.
Uncared for. Abandoned perhaps. His heart clenched in anger, but the dog was not his main concern at the moment.
“Get back,” he heard her whisper to the animal. “Get back.”
Another woman might have picked up the wood—tried to hit the dog or thrown it. But evidently, she had not considered this option—or if she had, she had discarded it.
“Caroline,” he called, softly, catching her attention.
He saw her eyes light up, filling with hope. She was afraid, he saw, and trapped. Now she had hope—because he had arrived.
“Oh, John, thank goodness,” she breathed. “I believe I am about to become this dog’s late Christmas dinner.”
The dog growled in response to that—a deep, rasping sound that reminded John the creature was starved and thus capable of anything.
Caroline had edged nearly around the woodpile now. Soon she would be clear and could run for the cottage while he distracted the dog.
Only a few second had passed, yet he was trying to recall something from the night before. Something the innkeeper’s husband had briefly mentioned to him about Murphy’s yard. It had not been the dog. Whatever it was, it had slipped his mind.
“I’m nearly there,” Caroline was breathing, her hands behind her as she felt the pile of wood and edged around it.
“Just a few more steps
It was rather remarkable that the dog had not already lunged, John thought. Perhaps the creature had more self-possession than it would seem.
Then two things happened in quick succession: John saw the rope tying the dog to the shed and he remembered there was a pond. Completely covered with snow, he could not pick it out, yet he doubted it had been cold enough that winter for it to have frozen over.
“Caroline,” he said, speaking up sharply. “Stop.”
But she was paying him no mind. Her focus was on her freedom.
She took another step back—then another. How close was the dratted pond, anyhow? John thought.
“Caroline,” he called. “Stop. The dog is tied.”
“I’m clear,” she called, softly, not seeming to understand. “I’ll turn now and make for the house.”
She took another step back.
There was a loud crack.
“Caroline,” John shouted, his voice panicked this time. “Stop! Watch out for the…”
“Who on earth puts a pond in their back yard so close to the house?” Caroline said, a half hour later, and rather crankily.
John found himself smiling. She was wrapped up in blankets, holding a hot mug of tea, and with her bright red cheeks and dark hair around her shoulders, looked quite fetching. She was also alive and hale and in good enough spirits to complain. He felt ludicrously cheered.
He took a careful sip of his tea to cover his smile. “I suspect you have things turned about. The pond was there first, then the house. And after all, perhaps Murphy chose the place because of the pond. It may be a lovely spot in the springtime. A lily pond, with flowers bordering it.”
“A lily pond.” Caroline hmphed. She considered a moment, then sighed. “I suppose with a bench out back, it might be a rather nice spot.”
She looked at John. “Though this Murphy does not sound as if he was the sort to stare contemplatively at a pond or to invite friends over to join him to enjoy the picturesque.”
John shrugged, and gave her a mischievous smile. “You never know. Perhaps they underestimated him.”
She wagged a finger sharply. “You are forgetting the poor dog.”
“Ah, yes,” he admitted. “A man who cares so poorly for his own dog is not a man I’d care to know.”
The dog’s ill-treatment preceded Murphy’s own demise, as John had quickly found. Though it had been horribly exacerbated after Murphy’s passing, though fully unintentionally. Indeed, when John had explained the situation to Mr. and Mrs. Wren, the poor innkeeper was nearly in tears. She had completely forgotten Murphy kept a dog and the animal had never made his presence known the few times she had been at the cottage to clean in the last week.
John speculated that the animal had managed to fend for itself—perhaps there had been a little food left for it, or it had caught a squirrel or some such, before finally running out completely and losing strength. And after being accustomed to such an ill-tempered owner as Murphy, the dog may have been too afraid of Mr. and Mrs. Wren to venture out to greet them.
Mrs. Wren had immediately offered to send her husband over to take the dog back with him, but as it was evident that they were overwhelmed with enough work to do, John had politely declined—instead opting to return with food for the animal.
Any man or beast would go mad from neglect. It was understandable. Now there was only to see if the creature could come back from the cusp of its violent attack. What sort of animal would it be once fed and cared for?
As if reading his thoughts, Caroline spoke up hesitantly, “Are you sure we cannot bring the poor thing inside? If it has been well-fed now, perhaps…”
John shook his head stubbornly. “Not yet. Not until we have a sense of its temperament. We know it was not only starved but roughly treated.” He hesitated. “Let us see if it has any wish to come near us in friendship.”
He saw her disappointment and thought for a moment. “I will check on the animal now, if you wish. If he reacts well to me then, we shall see.”
He rose to gather his things, though not anxious to slip dry stockinged feet inside his still damp boots.
She did not argue, merely nodded and gave him a small smile as if to say she would defer to him in this regard.
As if she were his wife, he realized, his heart beating faster. Not that he would ever expect a woman to defer to him by virtue of her sex. Of course not. And certainly not a Gardner woman. He nearly let out a chuckle then, thinking of what he knew of Rosalind and Gracie from their time spent aboard his ship.
But Caroline looked at him and acquiesced in a different way—as if she felt cared for. As if she trusted him to protect her. As if she believed in his judgement. If she believed him to be wrong, he knew in his heart already that she would challenge him—as was her right.
That was somewhat heart-warming. Similar and yet different from the relationship between a captain and his crew.
A wife, he saw now, might be one’s true partner. That was never possible with sailors who needed to always see their captain as the ultimate authority.
He slipped outside and found the dog, dozing under the lean-to shed in the back. The bowl of food he had set before it was not completely gone. The animal had willpower enough not to gorge itself to sickness.
“Here, boy,” John said, gently, holding out a hand.
The dog was an indistinguishable mix of breeds, but might have been a handsome animal when fed and tended, its coat a dark rusty red. Right now, that coat was lacking the gleam a dog’s fur should have. And those pitiful ribs… It was enough to make John cringe, looking at the bones protruding through the skin.
The dog lifted its head and made a little keening noise, then rose slowly, and walked towards his outstretched hand.
When the dog reached John, he looked up first, meeting the man’s gaze, as if to offer his silent regrets for his earlier behavior. They looked at one another like that a moment, in silence, and then the dog licked his hand.
There seemed to be nothing wrong with the animal’s temperament, John concluded, rubbing the dog’s head gently. He was an older fellow—perhaps ten or more, from the look of his teeth. Two peas in a pod then, John thought, ironically.
“A warm bed by the fire awaits you, my boy,” John said, gently. “If you’d care to step this way.”
Caroline was overjoyed to have the dog brought in. She was clearly not one to hold a grudge or to hang onto her fears. Now that the dog’s reasons had been made clear, she was willing to forgive and forget, and soon lady and dog were sitting companionably—Caroline up on the sofa, still bundled up, and the dog lying heavily on her feet, every now and then glancing up at the woman and then at the warm crackling fire—as if he could not believe his good luck.
John quite understood.
It was turning out to be a pleasant day despite having been nearly mauled by this poor starving animal and then falling into a pond, Caroline thought, drowsily, looking into the flames.
If she had had to fall into a freezing pond, at least it had been a shallow one.
She snuck a glance across the little sitting area at where John sat, legs crossed, a book propped up on his knee.
And at least there had been a strong pair of arms to lift her out of said pond.
Captain Merriweather had carried her all the way to the house, in fact. She had not bothered to protest; her teeth had been chattering far too violently for that.
No, she had simply nestled against him, too shocked with cold from her dunking.
And then, inside, he had gently begun to help her undress, before blushing, stopping, and turning away chivalrously once he had seen she could manage.
Which she could—until she had pulled herself out of the last layer of sodden garments and begun to shake so forcefully that she could not even pull the dry chemise she had taken out of her valise over her head.
She had paused then, unsure of what to do. Considering whether to simply fold a blanket around her nakedness before she keeled over completely.
But as if sensing her predicament, John had cleared his throat and offered assistance once more. Then, with his eyes closed valiantly, he had—very gently and carefully; those large strong lean hands were so surprisingly gentle –helped her to slide the chemise over her head and down.
Feeling those hands skimming against her body would have made her shiver if she had not already been trembling head to toe. Her entire body felt as if it were coming alive with those accidental brushes of knuckles and fingertips against her naked skin.
Places where, she thought, forlornly, she had not been touched in so very long.
And suddenly, in that moment, Caroline had a very naughty idea.
Her daughters had all proven themselves daring in love—and desire.
Such desires did not simply die. Though Caroline had pushed them off and ignored them by choice for many years, Captain John Merriweather had somehow—and quite by accident, she knew—stirred them.
She was stirred and could not be unstirred—like a churn of butter, she thought, suppressing a giggle.
Perhaps John sensed her sudden restlessness for he had put his book down and was sitting up.
“Mrs. Wren said she would have a hot meal ready for us. I believe it is about that time. I’ll fetch it and be back in no time,” he said, rising, and smiling down at her.
She smiled back. It seemed they were always smiling at one another—a little with trepidation, but mostly in pleasant companionability. John was an easygoing, pleasant man. She could imagine many days just like this one—spent inside by the fire on cold winter days, reading and working. Talking when they chose.
And of course, caring for the little one they still had yet to meet.
It was a pleasant dream, though foolish and unrealistic.
The journey to fetch the girl would continue—perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Soon she and the little Bennet baby would be back at Orchard Hill and Captain Merriweather would be on his way back to the sea.
But, Caroline reflected, in the meantime, they still had tonight.