“Hello there, Geneva. You must be pleased about somepin’.”
Geneva jumped at the sound of Lucius Tucker’s low drawl. Her knife nearly sliced off her finger as it slid through a stalk of rhubarb. She scowled up at the red-bearded man, annoyed that he’d caught her kneeling.
Despite his new suit and starched shirt, something about Lucius Tucker reminded her of her father. Ever since he’d been appointed overseer of the poor at the last town meeting, he thought he was somebody.
She placed the stalk of rhubarb in the basket at her side but kept the open jackknife in her hand as she stood. Meeting him at eye level, she no longer felt at a disadvantage.
She’d been so wrapped up in thinking about the captain, she hadn’t heard Lucius approach. Where had Jake gone off to? She made out her dog’s bark off in the meadow, but didn’t take her gaze off Lucius.
She glared at him. “What do you want? I got work needs doing.”
Lucius just smiled and pushed back his hat. “Sure sounded pretty what you were hummin’.”
Her scowl deepened as she felt the heat rise up to the roots of her hair. She’d been humming to herself, anticipating the captain’s pleasure when he saw how well she’d learned her lessons over the past week. “Ain’t none o’ your business what I was doing.”
“You gotta learn to curb that tongue o’ yours.” He pushed his hat farther back on his head. “If I told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, I jus’ want to help you out.”
“You don’t have a charitable bone in your body, Lucius.”
“Now, there you go again, lettin’ that tongue o’ yours loose.”
Lucius eyed her up and down, his pale blue gaze coming to rest on her chest. “Look at you. Grubbin’ around in the dirt. Coverin’ yourself up so a body can’t hardly tell whether you’re a man or a woman. But ol’ Lucius can tell. You’re all woman, Geneva. It’s time you began showin’ off your assets ’stead o’ hiding behind those clothes o’ your pa’s.”
“You better watch your mouth,” she answered shortly, keeping her knife poised.
Lucius ignored it. “Look at you slavin’ away here. I been offering to take care of you since your poor pa passed away. He’d be grateful to me, I know, if he knew my intentions.”
“Your intentions! There’s nothing decent about your intentions.”
“Now, Ginny, just because I don’t offer you a wedding band don’t mean I wouldn’t if I could. You know how it is—”
“Quit your whinin’ around me. You got a wife and three kids. She’s doing her duty to you. I’m sick of your pestering me with your filthy offers. Callin’ yourself an upstanding member of the community.”
“I don’t call it filthy, offerin’ you a snug little cabin up on Whittier’s Lake. I’d come up to see you when I was huntin’. No one’d know a thing.”
“I’ve told you before, no. You deaf as well as stupid? No means no.”
Lucius just rocked back on his heels, his smile never wavering. He removed his hat and scratched his head with a thumbnail. His pale red hair was combed back in wet strands, revealing a pink scalp beneath.
“The selectmen voted at last night’s meetin’ to set aside the money raised at the Fourth o’ July celebrations for the widows and orphans of this town.” He chuckled, continuing to scratch his head. “Widows and orphans.” He paused and let the significance of the words sink in. “I have sole discretion over those funds.” He winked at her. “Seems to me you’re an orphan.”
Geneva looked at him in disgust. “You better get off my property.”
“Now, Geneva, simmer down. You know I only want to help you out. You don’t have no man to lean on. It breaks my heart thinkin’ of you holed up here all winter. Up to the cabin, I’d see you every day when I’d come up to cut timber. You could cook me dinner then.” He sidled up closer.
“We’d cozy up in the afternoon. I could ease your toil if you’d jus’ let me. The ride’s much pleasanter if two enjoy it.”
She brought the knife up to chest level. “You step back. I don’t need no man to lean on, least of all the likes o’ you.”
His blue eyes hardened. “I told you, you better watch that tongue o’ yours. I’m a patient man, but…” His finger snaked out to grab hold of the buckle of her overalls.
Geneva pushed the knife against his hand, but before she could free herself, he’d twisted her wrist and sent her knife spinning away from her.
“Careful you don’t push me to my limits.” His breath was hot against her face. “You might jus’ find yourself on the losin’ end.” He considered her. “You’re about tall as I am. I wouldn’t mind puttin’ your strength to the test. I think I might just enjoy a contest with you.”
His eyes challenged her. “I hear tell some women like a man who can beat them.” He smirked. “Maybe your ma was one of ’em—”
“Why, you low-down skunk!” Geneva lunged at him. Lucius took advantage of the moment to grab her around the waist and pull her to him. For a while, she held her own, but then he did a fancy move with his foot and had her on the ground. He lay on top of her and grabbed one of her breasts. She yelped at the pain.
The next thing she knew, Lucius was being hauled up by the collar and pitched on the ground like a forkful of hay. Geneva pushed herself up on her elbows and stared at Captain Caleb, towering over her.
“What are…you…doin’ here?” she gasped out. At the same instant, she heard Jake’s barking as her dog bounded over the fields.
The captain didn’t look at her. “Mister, if you ever show your face around here again, you’ll wish you hadn’t. I can promise you that.”
The fallen man pulled himself up, dusting himself off in the process. “Me an’ Geneva wuz havin’ a private conversation. I’ll thank you, Captain—” he spit the title out “—to keep outta what don’t concern you.”
Jake stood growling at Lucius.
Lucius turned back to Geneva. “You think about my offer. It’s more’n generous. It’s downright magnanimous.” He said the word as if he’d just learned to say it and enjoyed the exercise it gave his mouth. His eyes narrowed at the threatening dog.
“Call off your cur.” Lucius took a step closer to her. At the captain’s menacing look, he said, “I’m goin’. I’m goin’. Just remember, Geneva, one word, one word, to the selectmen is all it takes and you might find your taxes raised. They might be raised so high you can’t pay ’em anymore. And you know what that means. Goodbye to your pa’s land.”
“You raise Miss Patterson’s taxes, and I’ll see you never sell another cord of lumber on Phelps’ Wharf.” Captain Caleb’s words were spoken low.
“Don’t get all bent outta shape, Cap’n Phelps.” Under the pretense of picking up his hat and dusting it off, Lucius bent close enough to Geneva to say, for her ears only, “You keep your captain away from me. Or next time you’re out fishin’, you might come home to find your precious cur has eaten some poison meat. I don’t take kindly to a common thief—” he glanced at the captain “—come tellin’ me who I can and can’t speak to.”
Lucius straightened, and with one final thump of his hat against his leg, he set it back on his head with all the dignity of a parson leaving a congregant’s house.
Jake barked after his retreating back but didn’t leave Geneva’s side.
Geneva took a deep breath, feeling a trembling begin within her. She felt like bursting into tears. To quell the impulse, she knelt beside Jake, taking hold of his fur. His body felt warm, his panting steady. “Where did you go off to?” She remembered Lucius’ threat and squeezed Jake harder. No one was going to harm him, even if it meant taking him with her everywhere she went.
“Are you all right?”
The captain’s impatient voice broke into her worries and she turned to him, still afraid to speak, for fear her voice would tremble. She nodded.
“What were you thinking of to entertain that man alone?”
She could only stare at the captain as if he’d gone mad. “Entertain him! I didn’t invite him here.”
“Where in thunder was Jake?”
“How should I know? Off chasin’ some rabbit.”
“How long has that man been pestering you?”
Geneva gave a bitter laugh. “If it wasn’t him, it’d be another one. This town is so full of worthless men that think jus’ ’cause I live alone it means I want company.”
“If that’s the case, you shouldn’t live alone. Can’t you live with some woman or family in the village?”
Geneva looked up at him, dumbfounded. There she sat on the ground, and he hadn’t even given her a hand up yet, which wasn’t like him at all. He sounded angry at her, as if it were all her fault! What had gotten into him?
“Why should I live with some family?” She raised her voice to match his. “This is my house, my land. No one has any right to come around telling me how I should live.”
“You’d rather be here at the mercy of any man who wants to molest you? You have no protection—”
“I got Jake. And my shotgun.”
It was his turn to laugh. “A lot of good they did you just now.”
Geneva was beginning to get angry herself. “I been taking care of myself just fine plenty long enough.”
He gave her an exasperated look. “If I hadn’t come when I did, what would have happened? I’ll tell you exactly what would have happened. That man would have had his way with you, and there’s nothing you could have done about it.”
She refused to let him see that his words had any effect on her. She looked around the grass for her jackknife and snatched it up. “I had a knife.”
Captain Caleb gave another strangled laugh and turned away, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know why I bother with you. You won’t listen to reason.”
Geneva shot to her feet, alerting Jake, who gave a bark. “Why you bother with me? Why you bother with me?” she repeated, her voice rising. “I should ask why I bother with you! I was just fine ’til you came along. I been living here by myself since Pa died. ’Fore then, I was as good as on my own most o’ the time. Then you come along, pretendin’ to be a farmer.”
Even as she said the words, she was ashamed of them, knowing they were untrue. But she wanted to hurt him before he hurt her. “Farmer!” She gave a scornful laugh. “You didn’t know how to do nothing. Running away from your troubles. Look at you, sittin’ all alone in that great big house, not even bothering to furnish it! You don’t mean to stay here. You’re all set to pull up stakes whenever things get rough! You, the son of a big important ship owner. You don’t belong here! Why don’t you go back to your riches and easy life and save us all some trouble?”
Geneva was horrified with herself. She stood staring at him, telling herself, good riddance, she’d never see him again, and that was what she wanted.
The captain just looked at her for a moment, then he bent down and picked up a few books and a slate off the ground. She hadn’t noticed them until that moment. He must have dropped them when he grabbed Lucius. Geneva swallowed, wondering what they were and why he’d brought them to her place.
“I beg your pardon for intruding into your well-ordered life. I should have known better than to try to help someone who clearly needs no help.” His lips stretched in a bitter parody of a smile. “I’ve made the mistake countless times before. I don’t know why I’m so pigheaded.”
He looked down at the books, as if uncertain what to do with them. Then he gave a shrug. “You can do what you like with these. I have no use for them. Give them away, for all I care.” He placed them back down on the grass.
“Goodbye, Geneva.”
Geneva watched him leave. Her whole being ached to call him back, but her vocal cords refused to move. She heard Jake give a couple of uncertain barks, clearly confused as to what had just transpired. He took a few steps forward, then turned back to his mistress, but she ignored him. She couldn’t help herself, much less him, at that moment.
“Look!” Mrs. Bradford pointed upward with her finger. She was gazing through her binoculars, but Geneva didn’t need the glasses to see the eagle soaring through the sky. Not even the bird’s majestic flight could break through Geneva’s melancholy since Captain Caleb had left her yard a couple of days ago.
The two women watched the bird’s flight until it disappeared out of sight, across the straits and over the tall firs outlining the coast. Mrs. Bradford lowered the binoculars and smiled at Geneva.
“My morning is complete. Thank you for bringing me here, my dear.”
They stood on the edge of a rocky cliff of an island across from the mainland. Geneva and Mrs. Bradford had spent the morning on the small, uninhabited island, hiking the trails Geneva was familiar with and sitting to watch the birds.
“Shall we have some lunch?” asked Mrs. Bradford.
“Sure. I’ll go fetch the basket.” Geneva turned and made her way back down to the beach where her peapod lay. From under a tarpaulin she retrieved her satchel and the larger wicker hamper Mrs. Bradford had provided. She climbed more slowly back up the pebbly beach to the larger rocks edging the shoreline, then up the needle-covered earth, using the tree roots as her stepping-stones.
The summer smells of sun-warmed vegetation reached her nostrils—ferns, bunchberries, and carpets of damp moss—all growing silently in the patches of sunlight that reached the forest floor. The delicate pink-white blossoms of the ground-hugging cranberry plants contrasted with its dark green, waxy leaves. Geneva’s footsteps stirred up the scent of balsam needles drying on the ground. Usually these scents—scents she had known since childhood—soothed her. Today they could not ease her troubled spirit.
“Oh, there you are,” Mrs. Bradford exclaimed when Geneva emerged from the forest. “I’ve found a good spot to spread our lunch. Maybe we’ll spot another eagle.”
“They’ve got their nests somewhere around here.” She reached the edge of the land again, where the granite and slate ledges formed a natural barrier against the assaults of the tides below.
Mrs. Bradford sat on a nice flat ledge. She patted the place beside her. Geneva let the hamper fall with a thud. She could hear the jangle of cutlery inside.
“The stone is nice and warm here,” said Mrs. Bradford. “And we have a magnificent view of the shore opposite.” She reached toward the hamper and unclasped its lid. Geneva couldn’t help glancing inside before retrieving her own lunch. Mrs. Bradford removed a neatly folded red-checked tablecloth, which she shook out. She spread it between them, smiling gratefully as Geneva caught two corners and pulled them toward herself. Then came the cutlery and glassware, which Geneva had heard rattling. Heavy-handled silver knives and forks and snowy linen napkins, rolled up like sausages. When Mrs. Bradford handed one to Geneva, she accepted it without thinking. The napkin was large enough to cover her lap from waist to knee, although it seemed ludicrous to cover her dirty overalls with such a spotless cloth. It seemed more appropriate that her pants should protect the napkin.
There was enough food for twice their party. Another linen napkin was rolled up around a jar of ice-cold lemonade. Last came the plates of white china.
Geneva turned back to her own satchel. With a sigh, she undid the string clasp and retrieved her lunch: two slices of old bread spread with lard, a piece of dried salt-cod sandwiched in between, and a handful of her first radishes, which she’d dug out that morning and washed at the pump. For the rest, she’d planned on picking up some goose grass on the beach, and any wild strawberries she spotted.
“I hope you don’t expect me to eat all this by myself,” came Mrs. Bradford’s soft voice. “I should have told you not to worry yourself about packing your lunch. I’ll be responsible on all our excursions. After all, I have more time on my hands than you, as well as Beacon Hill’s finest cook, according to her own words.”
Geneva hesitated.
The older woman smiled. “Now, come, if you’ll share your radishes with me, I’ll pass you some of this cold chicken salad.”
“Thank you, ma’am. The gulls will appreciate this,” Geneva said as she tore a piece of her bread off and flung it toward the ocean. It didn’t take long for the sharp-eyed scavengers to circle and dive. Geneva finished breaking up the bread and throwing it out to them before she gave her attention back to Mrs. Bradford. The older woman had already prepared a plate for her and set it beside her.
Geneva took it gingerly, conscious of her stained fingers against the gleaming china plate. She laid it on her lap, and then took the glass Mrs. Bradford held out to her. It was already damp from the cold drink in it. Geneva set the glass down beside her, afraid it would tip over and crack at any moment. She fingered the knife and fork in each hand, watching Mrs. Bradford’s every move.
Before she began eating, the older lady bowed her head. “We thank You, Lord, for the meal we are about to enjoy. Bless it, Lord, for our bodies’ use, and multiply it for those who haven’t any. Amen.”
Not until Mrs. Bradford had stuck the tines of the fork into her food did Geneva dare begin eating. She took a forkful of chicken into her mouth.
When Mrs. Bradford continued eating and regarding the scene before her, Geneva finally relaxed and began enjoying the exquisite flavor of the food. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had chicken. This one was tasty, coated in some kind of tangy sauce and mixed with celery.
Besides that, there were rolls so soft Geneva supposed you could chew them even if you had no teeth. And different kinds of pickles, and deviled eggs, and the lemonade—just the right combination of sweet and acid, and icy cold.
Halfway through the meal, Geneva had the sudden urge to laugh out loud. Who would’ve thought a month ago, she’d be sitting atop of Seal Island, eating a meal fit for a queen, off real china with real silverware? What would Pa say if he could see her now? Or Ma?
She sobered. Ma had probably seen real china at the convent, perhaps even silver. Geneva knew her ma would smile and be happy for her today.
All in all it had been a pleasant morning. After the awful things she’d said to Captain Caleb, she never thought to find peace again. She felt a terrible sadness inside her, a terrible ache when she thought about him, but for some reason Mrs. Bradford’s presence soothed her. This expedition had been an escape for Geneva. Soon she’d have to return and pick up where she’d left off, carrying out her daily chores as if she’d never known the existence of Captain Caleb Phelps. She looked down at the remains of chicken on her plate. She didn’t think she could swallow anything more past the lump in her throat.
After the captain had left, Geneva finally pulled herself together enough to pick up the books he’d brought. Leafing through the first one, she immediately saw they were reading books. They resembled the books she’d had only a short time to use at the schoolhouse, except these looked so much finer. Brand-new, for one thing—and the pictures inside! Beautiful drawings, some in rich colors.
Geneva put her plate down. Mrs. Bradford had already finished and was brushing the crumbs from her skirt. “How nice to eat with genuine hunger and have one’s appetite satisfied.”
“I didn’t know there was any other way to eat.”
Mrs. Bradford chuckled. “Oh, yes. Where there is plenty, people eat for different reasons. As part of one’s entertainment or to ease sorrow or simply to overcome boredom.”
Geneva looked down at the food she’d left on her plate. Mrs. Bradford had heaped it with more than she was used to consuming. But not knowing when she’d ever have such a tasty combination again, she took up her plate once again and didn’t pause until every last morsel had been tucked into her mouth.
By then Mrs. Bradford was putting some of the things back in the hamper. “May I offer you anything else? I’ve left out the fruit for dessert.”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I couldn’t eat a speck more. It was delicious, though. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Although, I mustn’t take the credit. My cook, Bessie, did the work, and you carried it up here, so there’s very little to thank me for.”
“Well, thank your cook for me. And thank you just the same for providing it. It was worth the hauling up here.” Geneva collected the two plates. “I know a little brook close by. Would you like me to rinse off the dishes?”
“That would be excellent. Bessie would appreciate that.” She handed Geneva the cutlery.
When Geneva returned with the rinsed things, Mrs. Bradford took them from her and wrapped them in one of the linen napkins. “There, now have a peach and let’s enjoy this beautiful spot before it’s time to return.”
Geneva took the peach. Not bothering to peel it and cut off a section as she saw Mrs. Bradford do, she simply bit into its juiciness.
As she ate, she thought it was now or never. If she didn’t speak up now, she’d have no further opportunity. She sucked on the peach pit, then tossed it out over the ocean. She wiped her hands and mouth on her napkin and then refolded it and tucked it inside the hamper. Rubbing her hands up and down her trouser legs, Geneva rehearsed her question.
Mrs. Bradford was sitting, calmly gazing out to sea. Geneva had never known such a peaceful presence. Not that she’d been close to enough people to form a valid basis for comparison. But instinctively she felt Mrs. Bradford would steer her right.
“Ma’am?”
Mrs. Bradford turned to her with a smile. “Yes, dear?”
Geneva cleared her throat. “If—” She began again. “If you’ve wronged somebody, what do you do?” There, she’d said it out in the open.
Mrs. Bradford looked at her. “Why, you make it right as soon as you can.”
“How can you make something terrible right again? I mean, if you’ve said things—if the person won’t ever speak to you again…And you deserve it,” she added immediately.
The older woman smiled. “First, you go to your Father.”
“Ain’t got no father. He died a few years back.”
“Not your earthly father. I was referring to your heavenly Father.”
“Don’t know if Pa ever made it as far as heaven,” Geneva mumbled.
“Your heavenly Father is God, the Father, our Creator. You must first tell Him of your wrong and ask His forgiveness. Then ask His help in making it right with the one you wronged.”
“That’ll work?” Geneva asked doubtfully. It sounded too easy. “Don’t think God pays too much attention to the likes o’ me.”
“You’d be surprised. You know what Jesus tells us about the Father?”
Geneva shook her head.
“He says He’s numbered the very hairs on our head. And that not even a sparrow shall fall on the ground without His knowing it. Best of all, He tells us not to be afraid, because we are of more value to Him than many sparrows.”
It sounded too good to be true. “He said that?”
Mrs. Bradford smiled. “Truly.”
“Jesus. Ma used to mention him a lot. ’Cept she called Him Jesu.”
“She was French?”
“Canadian French.”
“Ah, Québécoise.”
Geneva came back to the subject of Jesus. “Ma used to talk about Jesus. But I didn’t understand too much about it all. I know He died on some cross. Ma had a wooden cross at the head of her bed. She used to take it down and hold on to it when—when she got worse.”
Mrs. Bradford patted her hand. “I’m sure Jesus was there with your mother at the end, showing her the way.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Didn’t seem like there was nobody there. We sure did need someone. I hope Ma was able to see her Jesus and that He showed her the way.”
“Jesus promised us, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.’” Mrs. Bradford’s eyes took on a light as she recited the words. “‘Yet a little while, and the world seeth me no more; but ye see me: because I live, ye shall live also.’”
She smiled at Geneva, a smile that reached down into Geneva, comforting her more than anything had since Ma had been taken away.
“You don’t have to worry about your mother. Jesus took her to be with our heavenly Father. He promised not only to show us the way, but that He is the way.”
“Your words are the best ones I’ve heard.” Geneva tried to explain what they meant to her, but couldn’t articulate exactly what they made her feel. “I still don’t rightly understand it all, but it sure sounds nice.”
Mrs. Bradford gave her hand a final pat. “That’s all right. I’ll tell you more about Jesus the next time we’re together. In the meantime, when you go home you pray to God to soften that person’s heart that you hurt. And pray in Jesus’ name. Say something like, ‘Father, I’ve injured somebody, but I’m sorry, and I ask Your forgiveness. But I need that person’s forgiveness, too. Help me make it right with that person. I pray this in Your dear son, Jesus’, name.’ Remember, Jesus is up there in heaven, pleading your case with the Father.”
Geneva had been following the words closely, trying to engrave them on her memory, afraid she’d forget them by the evening. Instinctively she felt that the most crucial part came at the end, so she mouthed those words to herself as soon as Mrs. Bradford had stopped speaking. In Your dear son, Jesus’, name.
“You’ll see. It will prepare you to go to the person and ask her forgiveness.”
“It was a man I wronged.”
“Oh. Well, then, when you go to him.”
“I don’t know how God can change this person’s heart, as you say. I said some pretty mean things. Things I wish I could take back.”
Mrs. Bradford laid her hand back on Geneva’s. “No matter how that person receives you, it’s still up to you to ask forgiveness. Because it’s really between you and God. If you’ve acted wrongly and don’t try to fix it, it creates a separation between you and God. And He can’t help you, then. That’s the problem with so many people. They’ve let so many things come between themselves and God, they’re not even capable of hearing His voice.
“Come on.” Mrs. Bradford rose to her feet. “Let’s enjoy this day that the Lord has made before it’s time to go back.”
“Thanks to you, I can enjoy it. You’ve eased my mind greatly, ma’am.”
“Then I’m doubly thankful to the Lord.” She chuckled. “I’m curious to see how your dog has made out with Bessie while we’ve been away.”
“I’m grateful I could leave Jake tied up in your yard. He gets lonely when I’m away for so long,” she said, knowing it was only a half truth.
“That’s quite understandable. My cat stays inside, and she’ll ignore me for a little while when I first return, to let me know she’s cross.”
As they were making their way down the path, back to the beach, Geneva ventured one last request. “Ma’am? There’s one other thing I’d like to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“Can you stop me every time I say somethin’ I ain’t supposed to?”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Bradford stopped and faced Geneva along the sun-dappled path.
“When I don’t talk the way you do. Grammar and suchlike.”
“Oh, I see, you’d like to learn to speak correctly. How about if I begin by correcting the big things, and later on, when you’ve mastered those, we’ll work on the small things?” She smiled. “That’s the way the Lord works in our lives. He needs to remove the biggest stumbling blocks first before tackling the lesser faults.”
Caleb walked up the road, the sea to his left, pastures to his right. Beyond them loomed the ever-present dark fir forest. He passed Geneva’s house, wondering at the absence of Jake’s bark. She didn’t usually take him with her when she went out fishing. Then he heard it, barking coming from the bay. Shading his eyes against the hazy sun, Caleb made out Geneva’s peapod, leg-o’-mutton sail hoisted, a dog seated forward. Caleb marveled; it was almost as if the dog spotted him all the way up there from the boat.
He shook his head, continuing on his way. Geneva had made it clear more than a week ago that she didn’t want him interfering in her life anymore. He walked past a white clapboard farmhouse up the hill past Geneva’s fields. A woman stood on the porch, sweeping. She stopped her broom to watch him. He gave her a nod, and after a second, she nodded back. Caleb wondered once again how much of his reputation had preceded him from Boston. A fair amount, he suspected.
The road dipped and then climbed upward once again. At the juncture of the peninsula to the mainland, the road curved eastward, past a schoolhouse. Caleb’s thoughts flitted to his erstwhile pupil, trying to picture her as a little girl in pigtails, walking to and from school until her father pulled her out.
He determined to put Geneva out of his mind. He had to get over this habit of sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. He’d done it with Ellery, and look where that had got him. The image of Ellery, his young cousin, as the little boy who’d been brought to live in his home after being orphaned, rose to his mind. He’d seemed so weak and pitiful, Caleb hadn’t been able to help feeling sorry for him. He felt so hale and hearty, fresh from his sea voyages, beside his pale cousin.
So, whenever Caleb was home from the sea, he had taken little Ellery under his wing. Caleb had always found it easy to make friends. He smiled sardonically now. Whatever else the price of being Phelps Senior’s son, it also meant that every social door had opened on well-oiled hinges.
But he’d learned firsthand how quickly those doors closed, how quickly those friends vanished.
Caleb’s thoughts came back to Geneva. His anger had long since evaporated, her hurtful words ceasing to rankle. He couldn’t really blame her for them. He realized now that he’d treated her pretty roughly. And she was the type of person who came back fighting.
It was just that when he’d seen that animal, Lucius Tucker, on top of Geneva, he’d felt a sudden, blinding fury. He couldn’t stand seeing a woman ill-treated. But his anger had turned as quickly to Geneva for forcing him to come to her rescue. He was through playing white knight. He’d come to Haven’s End to get away from people. Noble and gentlemanly behavior was a waste of time. Ellery and Arabella had made that abundantly clear.
He’d known them practically his entire life. And in a matter of a few weeks they’d shown him he’d never known them at all.
Caleb was sorry he’d lashed out at Geneva. She’d had enough knocks in her young life to warrant her touchy pride. But he was also sorry he would no longer be able to help her to read. Perhaps she would find someone in the village who would do a better job. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew her stubborn pride would never permit her to go to anyone there. The fact he was an outsider was the only reason, he guessed, that she’d ventured to ask him for help.
The road wound through a stretch of balsam and spruce forest on either side, brightened by the white trunk of an occasional paper birch. The scent of evergreen was carried along the breeze. Along the edges of the dirt road daisies, clover and buttercups bobbed up and down. Blackberry bushes, covered in a cascade of white blossoms, grew thickly in any patch of sunlight they could find.
About a mile farther on, the trees cleared and dwellings began to reappear along the edges of the next bay. The tide was out, leaving its upper reaches mudflats and drained salt marshes. Caleb walked past the white, steepled church and a few houses at the head of the bay, until he reached the boatyard.
Even from the head of the bay, a ship’s hull was visible. Standing in the stocks, looking like a skeleton with vertical ribs, the new schooner dwarfed the men busy along the lumber-strewn beach.
Caleb made his way to the shingled building marked Winslow’s Shipyard, which sat above the beach on pilings. Before entering it, his eye was drawn to the activity along the beach. He loved the atmosphere of a boatyard. Full-length logs, the height of the trees they’d been cut from, lay everywhere. Along the embankment they were piled up, but along the sand, they lay spread out in disarray. The rest of the beach was covered with pieces of lumber, cut in all sizes and shapes. Men worked on the stocks of the ship, shouting to each other and to the men below them, as they walked up and down the ramps leading to the top of the hull. The sound of the caulkers’ mallets pounding against the wood echoed the length of the beach.
Caleb observed the scene. What in the world was he doing shut away on Ferguson Point, tending a garden? The feeling of impotent rage at the events in his life welled up inside him. It pressed against his rib cage, finding no outlet. He clenched his fists in frustration.
The feeling lasted only a few seconds. With a quick shake of his head, as if to drive away the thoughts trapped inside, he turned away from the sights and sounds of activity.
He gave his attention to the building before him. The door stood open. Holding on to the doorjamb, he leaned into the cluttered but airy workshop. “Excuse me. Is there someone named Silas around here?”
A man turned from the long table strewn with drawings. “Silas? Who’s looking for Silas?” As he spoke, the man came forward, placing the pencil he’d been holding behind an ear and peering sharply over half-moon spectacles. He was in his shirtsleeves and wore a leather apron.
Caleb recognized him as Mr. Winslow, the proprietor, a man in his early fifties, though his full head of dark hair showed only a few strands of white. Caleb’s father had had dealings with him. He remembered Geneva’s words of dismissal about him.
“I am. Caleb Phelps.” Wondering whether he should stick his hand out, he decided against it. If the farm woman’s curt nod were any indication, this man probably wouldn’t even take it.
“Phelps? Young Caleb Phelps?” As Winslow looked closely at him in the light coming in from the doorway, his whole manner altered from sharp inquisition to hearty welcome. “Come in, come in, my boy. I knew you were here, but I haven’t had a chance to drive down to the Point to pay my respects. I just received a note from your father with several news clippings.” As he spoke he dusted the sawdust off a chair and motioned Caleb to it. Caleb shook his head to signal that he preferred to stand.
“I must say I’m relieved to hear everything’s sorted itself out in Boston.” He shook his head. “Awful business. I was sorry to hear about it all, but now it’s behind you. I hope it doesn’t mean we’ll be losing you to Boston?”
Caleb ignored the question. “May I see the clippings? I haven’t received the papers from Boston.”
“Sure, sure. Let me see where I put them.” He went over to a desk and rummaged around the top. After a few minutes, he came back carrying a large envelope, and slipped out the clippings.
Caleb recognized his father’s strong handwriting on the company’s stationery clipped to the top of them. “Thank you,” he murmured, taking the papers toward the window. “Shipping Heir Cleared of all Charges,” “Caleb Phelps III Found Innocent,” “Phelps Senior, Vehement in Defense of His Only Son.” Despite the bold headlines, the articles were scant in their reporting of how Caleb Phelps could have been under suspicion in the first place. As far as Caleb was concerned, as many unanswered questions remained for the public to unravel as before.
The only difference was that now the entire firm of Phelps Shipping & Co. stood solidly behind him, declaring his innocence without giving a clear explanation of what had actually occurred, except that “officials” were hard at work to bring the real criminal to justice.
If his father believed this to be the way to exonerate his son’s name, Caleb thought he’d only succeeded in resurrecting the whole sordid business over again.
Mr. Winslow’s next words confirmed Caleb’s fears. “You may be sure I’ll spread the word in the village of your innocence. It will come as a relief to everyone to know the truth.”
Understanding Winslow’s friendliness more clearly now, Caleb lifted an eyebrow. “The truth? What truth?”
The older man looked confused for a second. “Why, your innocence! We’ve always had the highest regard around here for both your father and yourself. Your father and I go back quite a ways—”
“I was told you had a young man working for you named Silas.”
Once again he’d succeeded in catching the shipwright off guard. “Silas? Why, he’s just a hand. What would you want with him?”
“I’d like to have him build me a boat.”
Mr. Winslow smiled in relief. “A boat. Why, certainly. We’ll build you the best you could wish for. We’ve got the best reputation around here.”
“May I speak to this Silas about my requirements?”
Mr. Winslow cleared his throat. “Oh, no, you’ll need to speak with me. Silas has no knowledge of naval architecture. He’s just involved in the carpentry end of things.”
“Very well. Here’s a rough plan of what I’d like.” Caleb took a rolled-up paper from his trousers pocket.
“What exactly are you looking at?” Winslow asked as he accepted the paper from Caleb and motioned him to one of the drafting tables.
“A small-size sloop, about eighteen feet at the waterline.”
“I’ll draw up the necessary lines plan. Silas, of course, can assist in the building of it, but he knows nothing of design.”
They discussed the details of Caleb’s plan a little further, then Caleb told Winslow he was heading down to the yard to have a look around.
“Good enough. Young Silas’ll be down there—a fair-haired young fella, but as I said, he knows nothing of the design end of things. I’ll go over this drawing in detail and draw up the plan and contract and have them sent around to the Point. How’s that?”
“Fine.” Replacing his hat on his head, Caleb ducked back out the doorway. The wind had picked up and felt cool on his arms. Farther down, the mouth of the bay was cloaked in fog. Wisps of it were already wafting toward the head of the harbor.
He eyed the boats in the stocks below him, feeling again the yearning to be on the sea, or at least involved with things of the sea.
Spotting a young man with dark blond hair, Caleb walked down the grassy embankment to the beach, fixing his thoughts firmly on the goal before him. He’d made his choices. He’d better learn to live with them.
An older man was speaking with the young man, who was perhaps in his early twenties. It was clear, after listening to just a few words of their conversation, who was consulting whom. The design was clearly the young man’s, and the older man was seeking clarification. When he left satisfied, the young man looked questioningly at Caleb.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Yes. Are you Silas?”
He nodded.
“I’m told you’re good at your craft.”
“Who told you that?”
“Geneva Patterson.”
The young man smiled. “I just helped her with her little boat. Nothing any farmer or fisherman around here couldn’t do.”
“I’ve given my plans to Winslow inside. I’d like you to take a look at them when you get a chance and tell me what you think.”
“Sure.”
“You have a nice boatyard here.”
The young man shrugged. “It’s not mine. I merely work here.”
“So Winslow told me. You ever thought of designing a craft?”
The young man pointed to his temple. “I already have. Up here.”
Caleb smiled. “Maybe we could go over your designs one day.”
“I’d be glad to.”
“You’ve been with Winslow long?”
“Since I was a lad. I apprenticed under him. Winslow’s is the biggest shipyard around here.”
“There are opportunities elsewhere. Know anything about building yachts?” Caleb wasn’t sure why he was pursuing the topic, but something about the young man appealed to him, especially after Geneva’s recommendations and Winslow’s behavior.
Silas looked interested. “No, sir, but I’ve seen some at anchor here. I wouldn’t mind working on one.”
“Maybe you will. Do you have time to show me around?”
“Sure.” The young man, who had been so serious up until now, smiled and gestured for Caleb to accompany him. Caleb thought of the people he could recommend the youth to, people who wouldn’t hold him back the way Winslow was clearly doing.
Stop it, he told himself.
Wasn’t one failed project—Miss Geneva Samantha Patterson—enough for his first month at Haven’s End?