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Grasping hold of her cheeks, Gerritt firmed his grip, his voice deepening. “Where was he?”
Maire didn’t respond, but shut her eyes, her long, blonde lashes resting on now crimson cheeks. It was several minutes before she spoke. “He brought you the menu.”
Gerritt lifted his gaze, scanning the crowd, but didn’t find the waiter. He returned his eyes to hers. “You’re sure?” he asked.
She nodded weakly. “Y-yes. His name is Daniel Boon.”
“I’ll find him,” he said.
She seemed to strengthen then. “And do what? We’re trapped on this ship together. What exactly will you do?”
He exhaled loud. “We can’t just let it go, Maire. I can’t let it go, not after what he did to you.”
“Gerritt Finnegan, lower your voice,” she snapped. “The entire ship is watching.”
He hushed. The quiet in the dining room extended from one side to the other, all heads turned their direction. Unspeaking, he helped her back to her seat. They held a wary silence until the noise in the room returned and people looked away.
A white-haired gentleman in a black suit approached, giving a formal bow. “Good sir,” he began. “I’m Dr. Franklin Best. I was told the lady was ill. If I might be of any help ...”
Maire brushed her hand across her cheek. “You are the ship’s doctor?”
He smiled at her, his mustache quivering. “No, ma’am, simply a traveler, but I overheard the commotion.”
She faced away. “I appreciate your concern, Dr. Best. However, I’m much better now.”
Gerritt frowned. She was not much better. She was paler than usual and unable to stand. “Perhaps it would be wise to let him look at you,” he said.
Maire tensed. “I said I was fine. I’m sure the doctor would like to enjoy his meal.”
“Doctor, please,” Gerritt said, ignoring Maire’s words. “My wife is expecting.” The fact he shouldn’t have spoken of that arose clear on her face. Her eyes moistening, her lip quivering, she ducked her gaze. All this time, they hadn’t talked about the child, but now, surely, they had to. They couldn’t continue to live in a dream.
“Indeed,” the doctor replied. “I’d be glad to do a simple examination.”
Maire motioned outward, dismissive. “Nonsense. I was simply frightened for the moment. With some rest, I’ll be fine.”
Dr. Best eyed her, his manner curious, then he inhaled. “I’ll tell you what. I’m staying in the room at the end of the east companionway.” He pointed into the distance. “If you feel any illness at all, please come fetch me.”
She nodded, curtly. “Thank you so much. I will do that.”
He retreated across the dining room, and Gerritt returned his gaze to her face. Did she want to pretend the fellow, Daniel, never existed? All this time, the image of him had tormented her and here they were. Here he was. Seemed like this was the time to call him to justice for it.
Gerritt fastened a stern look on his face. “I will find him, Maire. I am not leaving this ship until I have turned him in.”
She crumpled in the chair. “I’m no longer hungry. I’d really just like to lie down.”
Maire rolled over in bed, her stomach in a knot. Though she understood why Gerritt had spoken, his worry clouded the truth. What Daniel had done had, in a warped way, given her Gerritt, and she would do nothing to destroy that. Nothing. Somehow, she’d forget what happened to her and be his wife.
An ache formed in her abdomen, and she curled herself into a ball.
It made her ill, positively ill, to think Daniel was so close, walking about this ship as if things were normal. She’d seen the look in his eye. Pride. He was proud of what he had done. Proud that he reduced her life to ruins.
Shutting her eyes, she attempted to sleep, an hour passing, but the pain inside wouldn’t cease, and fear arose, a moan on her lips. Something was wrong, very wrong. She shouldn’t still be in so much discomfort.
Pushing herself to a sitting position, she tried to rise. She’d find Gerritt, ask him to get Dr. Best. But lightheaded, she fell back on the bed. A sob left her throat. “Gerritt,” she called to the walls. Her voice echoed back in her ears, plaintive, desperate. “Gerritt,” she tried again, this time raw, hopeless. Maire mashed one hand to her waist, her thighs growing damp. “Gerritt, the baby ...”
But he didn’t come, didn’t even know she needed him, and now, it was too late.
One hand firmly implanted in his hair, Gerritt stared, incredulous, at the doctor, his chest tight, breaths coming hard. “It can’t be ... She was three weeks late,” he said.
Dr. Best’s face became sympathetic, which only served to upset Gerritt further.
“You say she’s been under a lot of pressure?” Dr. Best asked, his voice soft.
Gerritt squeezed his head tighter, willing the persistent throb away. “Yes.”
“And is this related to the incident earlier today?”
Gerritt didn’t answer. “How will I tell her?” he asked instead. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. According to Dr. Best, Maire had never been pregnant at all.
“The female body reacts differently in times of extreme pressure,” the doctor continued. “Any illness can delay the natural processes. I’ve explained all this to your wife and offer again, my sympathy. Disappointment is sometimes hard to swallow.” He fixed a gentle smile on his face. “I can assure you she’s healthy, however. You can certainly try again.”
Try again. Gerritt winced. There was no trying again because there was no trying in the first place. He’d married her to save her reputation and protect the child. That was his entire reason, and now that was gone.
Everything was gone—his freedom, his chance at a writing career. He was locked into this ... this ... sham marriage. For what? A dead-end job with no hope of promotion, and rent to pay and food to buy. Worse, day after day he would have to look at her, talk to her. Want her in his bed. God, help him, he wanted her still.
It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t asked for this. Nevertheless, his anger pushed upward, a muffled grunt in his throat.
He took his leave of the doctor. But, not going toward Maire, he lost himself in the maze of the ship instead. He climbed to the upper deck and followed the promenade around to a service area on the starboard side. The orange glow of a cigarette slowed his movements. Unwilling to disturb whoever it was and unwilling to talk, he stilled.
The glow of the tip swung from hip height to arm’s length and then upward toward someone’s face. The gleam outlined the features of a man his age or younger, a man with wavy, brown hair.
Knowing instantly who it was, Gerritt dashed forward and grasped Daniel by the collar. His cigarette flew outward and rolled across the deck.
“I know what you did to my wife ....”
No sooner had the words left his lips, than Daniel pulled free. He leapt toward the rail, and swinging one leg over, appeared ready to jump.
Gerritt came to a halt.
“She was sweet,” Daniel said. The breeze of the ship’s movement ruffled his hair. “The sweetest piece of flesh I’ve ever had. I’d do her again if I had the chance.”
Gerritt exploded, surging several steps, but stopped when Daniel followed with his other leg.
“Too bad you didn’t get her first,” Daniel continued. “The first time’s always the best and ...”
“Shut up!” Gerritt lunged for him, but Daniel leaped from the rail. At that moment, Gerritt caught hold of his wrist and yanked his fall short. Dangling over the side, his weight dragging at Gerritt’s arms, Daniel kicked wildly.
Gerritt tightened his grip. “I picked up the pieces,” he said. “I sat with her while she cried. I held her hand when she couldn’t sleep. You will pay for this.”
Voices rose from behind. “What’s going on there?”
Gerritt tried to pull Daniel upward, but Daniel twisted in his hands.
“You can’t run from this,” Gerritt said. His grip slipped with his weariness.
Daniel glanced downward. “That’s just it ... I figure I can make the bank. I’m a fair swimmer, and you’ll be long gone before anyone can send help.” He flicked his gaze upward again. “But before I do, you should know ...” He paused, his gaze growing dark. “I enjoyed every tasty inch of her.”
Shocked, Gerritt’s gaze moved to the dark waters of the river churning beneath the ship. It’d be easy to let go, easy to let him die. But that’d make him no better than he was. That’d disappoint his father, who’d loved him despite who he was ... despite the fact the man who’d given him life had tried to kill him. Most of all it’d be wrong in God’s eyes.
“Hey, you ...” called a voice again. Footsteps approached.
Daniel yanked at his hand, and Gerritt’s fingers loosened. “No ...” He leaned over the rail, his feet planted, and tried to firm his grip, but Daniel, in one forceful yank, at last pulled himself free. He tumbled downward, his head smacking the side of the ship, and eyes glazed, disappeared in an instant.
People pressed in beside Gerritt, shipmen and passengers, firing questions.
“Who was that?”
“Did he jump?”
“He looked familiar ...”
Trembling, Gerritt retreated, fading through the curious crowd. Maire should know what just happened. Maire, who’d needed him to save her. Maire, whose beauty tormented him. Maire, his wife.
Gerritt changed and his odd behavior left Maire wondering if anything remained of their marriage. He refused to return to their room, pleading instead that she was unwell and would sleep better left alone. She couldn’t see how that was true.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
He shuffled his feet. “To the social hall. I’ll be fine, Maire.”
He curled up on one of the divans for two nights and on the third slept in a berth offered him by the doctor. During the day, he accompanied her to meals and onto the promenade. He even attempted conversation, but the distance she recalled from their youth had returned. They were once again two people living across the hall from each other.
Except ... something in his eyes gave her hope. He looked at her sometimes, deep and dark, as if she was there before him completely exposed. She met his gaze each time with one of her own, a gentle reminder that she loved him.
They caught the train back to Lakesville, and he sat beside her silent and brooding. She left him be, though she desperately wanted to know what worked in his brain. He made only one remark, a trivial comment about the landscape that told her nothing.
Her father greeted them at the depot. “Hello, princess,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Papa.” She returned his affection, happy to see him, but noted his stiffness in response.
Concern rose in his eyes. “Is everything well?”
She gave the answer she’d prepared on the train. “I came down with something on the ship. I’m afraid it spoiled the trip for us both.”
“You should see the doctor,” he replied.
She shook her head. “There was one on board, and he assured me I only need to rest.”
Her dad turned then to Gerritt, and it was as if some unspoken message passed between them. However, no words were exchanged.
The ride through town was awkward, Gerritt seating himself a fair distance from her, unspeaking. Her dad clearly wanted to know what was wrong, but she offered him no comfort, only making a promise to visit her mother soon.
Maire stood on the stoop of their new home, listening to her father’s wagon leave, and resolved herself to somehow fix things.
Gerritt moved ahead of her, dragging the trunk inside, and she followed, breath held. He proceeded to move the trunk through the living room into the largest of three bedrooms at the end of a short hallway. Here, he pushed the trunk against the wall.
“This is your room,” he said.
A flood of emotions welled in her throat. “M-my room?” What had happened to their room, to their nights together, to the feel of him lying behind her?
“I think it’s best if we sleep separate.”
“But Gerritt, I don’t want to sleep separate.”
His gaze never changing, his expression lifeless, he spoke only two words. “I do.”
Crying over it was pointless. She knew that. But come nightfall when she climbed beneath the cold sheets and stretched into the space where he should have been, the tears came just the same, and she wondered if he heard them through the wall and if he had any regrets. Why ... why must they live like this?
Monday he went to work, saying not a word that evening of what he did or how it was. In fact, he didn’t return to eat dinner with her, and she sat at the table alone, the food growing cold before her.
When he finally arrived, he said to not wait for him. From now on, he’d grab a bite on his way home. He retreated immediately, entering his bedroom, his notebook in hand, and shut the door.
Over the next few days, boredom set in. She had nothing to do and no one to talk to. She made the promised visit to her mother, who stared at her sharp as she was wont to do, and her mother’s previous words returned to plague her. He is not a Savior, Maire, so don’t put that responsibility on him.
Is that what she’d done? Had the responsibility of rescuing her proved too much for him? Or was it that now with no expectation of a child, he felt there was no need for him?
If that was the case, he was very, very wrong. Her need for Gerritt Finnegan was greater than ever before. But as the days moved by and the weekend approached, it became harder and harder to break through the barrier he erected. Saturday morning, she figured they would spend some time together. She planned it out, what she would say and what they would do, and rose from bed all prepared to tackle the problem, only to stare into his empty room. He was gone.
She sank down onto his bed, gathering the pillow into her lap, and breathed in the smell of where he’d been. Then, she lay down to pretend he was there beside her ... as he had been ... as he should be. But the expanse of the bed stretched out interminable. He wasn’t there now, and even when he was, he was isolated from her, somewhere distant and far removed.
She consumed him. Even sleeping in his own bed, even avoiding conversations with her and any time together, she was everywhere he went. She probably thought differently, but she was wrong. He had never forgotten her, not the feel of her next to him, not the curve of her hip, not the sweetness of her mouth, or the taste of her breath. If anything, those images had grown within him and become irreplaceable.
The only way he could express it was in his writing. He wrote about her. Poems, silly, juvenile stuff full of heartache and longing. He read them afterward and tore them up in disgust. What was he becoming? A sap. A teenage boy with a crush on a girl who he didn’t deserve and would never have.
But he wasn’t a teenage boy, and this wasn’t a crush. She was his wife, and his vivid memories returned to him day and night over and over again until the torment of them was as much a pleasure as seeing her face.
She thought he wasn’t watching her, when all along he noticed her every move. The flex of her fingers, the pulse in her throat, the stretch of fabric over her rounded breasts. She came out one morning clothed in only her night dress, her hair mussed about her face, and it took him a moment to recover. The now commonplace ache in his gut returned, and he retreated to his room to overcome it.
He asked himself then how he could stoop so low, how he could be no better than the man who had taken her virginity away. Because that was at the heart of his problem. As her husband, he had a right to be with her, and he knew she would allow it. But in performing the act, he would become the very thing he detested. He wouldn’t use her like that. He wouldn’t have her think of him in the same terms she had thought of her attacker, and so this was how it had to be.
This was better than never seeing her at all. This was tantalizing, a continual teasing of his mind, yet it was something. And something was better than nothing.
“Gerritt, please don’t run out again. I have to talk to you.”
Maire posed in front of the door to prevent his departure, and his gaze became inky black. After a moment, he nodded and reversed. “Talk,” he said, seating himself.
She stood overhead, her hands on her hips, suddenly unsure of herself. “I ...”
“You what? Do you need me to pick up something for you? I can do that while I’m out.”
She shook her head lightly. “No. That’s not it.”
“Then what is it, Maire? I would like to spend some time writing this afternoon.”
Writing. He was always writing.
“P-papa wants to see us tonight for dinner. H-he has a big announcement to make and says we’re all involved.” She couldn’t stop her stutter.
This changed Gerritt’s gaze to a lighter one, one more comfortable. He brushed his fingers through his hair. “What time?”
“Seven.”
He nodded and returned to his feet. “I’ll be back at six.”
“Six?” The word screeched out. Six was ten hours from now, and this was Sunday. Where would he go on a Sunday? Did he expect her to attend church alone?
“Is that too late?” he asked, his tone casual.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “I thought we would go to church. I can’t show up alone, not when we’ve been wed only one week. What will people say?”
He picked up his notebook and tucked it beneath his arm, rising to his feet. “So don’t go.”
But that wouldn’t look any better.
“Tell them you are unwell.”
She chewed on her lip. “How long will that excuse work, Gerritt? How unwell am I?”
Unresponsive, he pushed past her, his hand closing over the door handle, but she grabbed hold of his arm and forced him to stop. He whirled, grasping her shoulders, and pressed her to the wall. Her heart beat slammed in her chest, and her breaths became shallow.
Freeing his hands, he brushed his fingers up her neck and entangled them in her hair. He tilted her face upwards. “It isn’t you that’s unwell, Maire, it’s me.”
“How?” she whispered. “How are you unwell?”
He hesitated, his mouth nearing hers, then just as quick as he put her there, he backed away. He pulled the door open. “Six,” he said, and he was gone.
Overwhelmed, Maire slid down the wall, the emptiness of the room shaking a sob from her throat.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t continue to live beside her and never touch her. In just those few moments, he had almost lost control. She was so close, so close to him, and curved to him and willing. But only because she didn’t know how very deep this ran. She didn’t know what she was getting into with him, the thoughts he held of their being together. If she knew, she’d be frightened, and it was his job to protect her from that.
Gerritt raced away from the house as fast as he could go, his long stride taking him someplace unplanned. His thoughts in a thousand directions, words speeding through his mind, he traveled hard and fast, compelled to escape. He stopped at last in an empty field far at the edge of town and made his way beneath a pine tree. One side deformed by the loss of several branches, it seemed ready to topple, yet too proud to do so.
He took a seat on the dry ground, his notebook in his lap, and removed the pencil from behind his ear. The Lord’s Day, he wrote, and I think not of creation or any gratitude for life and praise for the Creator, but of sexuality, and eroticism, and lechery. I think of my wife, a beautiful creature, a dove. Even now, I am so close to her. I lick my lips and taste her there. I flex my fingers and her skin kisses my palms. She is everything to me. Breathing, waking, and going to sleep. She is the sky and the birds and the warm earth. And her eyes are the green of the trees in the springtime. I long for her and for the things we cannot have.
He paused his pencil over the page. What was it his father had said? Noble deeds only carry a man so far before he needs more than that to stand on. And his caution before that ... something about walking blind and seeking a clear path.
Gerritt’s hands fell slack. Where was his path now? He was as blind as he had ever been. Probably more blind because instead of finding additional light, he had shuttered what little light he had and could no longer see his way. Where was the path? Where was the path back to Maire? Back to becoming the man he wanted to be and not the demonized one he saw in the mirror.
He reread his words, and for once, decided to leave them and remind himself of this day of this moment and of the woman who captured his heart.