The Marriage Masquerade

by Erica Vetsch

  “Get below and help Clyde time the light. We’ll worry about the birds.”

  Annie turned and hurried down the steps, wincing at each impact of a feathered body with glass or metal or brick. Why would geese do this?

  Clyde continued to turn, trying to crank with one hand while holding the stopwatch in the other.

  She took the watch and held it for him so he could see while he turned. “It’s geese. They’re flying into the light. One broke a windowpane. Nick went out onto the catwalk. I think he had a broom with him. What would make birds fly into the tower?”

  Clyde kept his eyes on the watch. “I’ve heard of it before. Something goes sideways with them. They act like moths around a candle.” Concentration lined his youthful face, his red hair darkening and sticking to his forehead with sweat. “Count for me.”

  Nick’s and Ezra’s muffled voices came from overhead. The thudding went on.

  Annie took up counting again, huddled on her chair, wondering if the next bird through the window would disable the light completely.

  After what seemed like hours—though Annie’s watch indicated twenty minutes—the bombardment ceased. Clyde continued to turn the gears and Annie kept on counting, but she strained to hear what was happening upstairs.

  At last, feet sounded on the stairs. Ezra came first, his face ashen. Nick followed, shoulders slumped, a smear of blood standing out boldly on his white shirt.

  Annie thrust the watch into Ezra’s hands and hurried to Nick. “Are you hurt? What happened up there? Is it over?” She touched the red patch, worry over his safety making her hands jerk with small, fluttery movements.

  He looked down at her, puzzlement quirking his eyebrows. “I’m fine. The blood isn’t mine.” His hand covered hers and he brought it down to his side. He didn’t let go. Instead he twined their fingers together. With his other hand, he brushed the hair back from her forehead.

  A shaken-up feeling jangled through her, like a quarter in a tin can. His handclasp tightened, his palm pressed warmly to hers. She stared into his eyes, wondering what he was thinking, wondering if he knew what affect his presence, his kindness, had on her.

  Ezra cleared his throat. “I think you and I, Nick, should stay on watch. Bird barrages are strange things, and quite often they happen in bunches. It wouldn’t surprise me if we got another one tonight. Annie, can you handle the timing duties with Clyde?” He held up the silver stopwatch.

  Annie nodded. With reluctance, she released Nick’s hand. Her shawl had fallen off one shoulder. She groped for it, numbness stealing over her. Please, God, don’t let it happen again. I couldn’t stand it. Watch over Nick and Ezra. The catwalk is so small. Don’t let them fall.

  “One, two, three …”

  ten

  Nick rubbed his hand across his forehead. Lack of sleep burned his eyes. Only once had he spent a more miserable night, that aboard the freezing, grounded Bethany in the teeth of a November gale. This night of battling birds bent on self-destruction, though bad enough, paled in comparison to those nightmare hours.

  Stiffness clung stubbornly to his back and shoulders. He rolled his neck. Sleep would be a long way off. They still had to find out why the light was running slow, and they had to clean up the mess. His shoulder ached from the kick of the shotgun. Ezra had brought them each a shotgun from the house when the second attack came. Nick fired so many shells, the barrel of his gun bent from the heat.

  Three times the birds came. Several windows in the lantern room were cracked and broken, but the prisms of the lens remained intact. The precious curved glass bore the marks of battle, blood-smeared and smudged, but none had broken. Several dead birds lay on the catwalk and lantern deck. Below, they counted sixteen feathered corpses. Many others had dropped into the lake far below.

  Nick doused the beacon and followed Ezra down the stairs into the base of the tower.

  Annie sat on the straight-backed chair, her bright hair slipping from its knot. She leaned back, resting her head against the slick, enameled tile on the wall, her face pale, lashes dark against her cheeks. The stopwatch lay in her lap, her fingers curled around it.

  Clyde sat along the wall opposite her, arms propped on his upraised knees, wrists limp, hands hanging. He, too, rested his head against the wall, eyes shut. The poor lad had cranked the light for more than five hours straight. He’d probably sleep the clock around.

  Ezra went through into the watch room, his shoulders bent. His hair seemed to have whitened overnight, the lines deepening on his face, his eyes growing more sober and haggard as the night wore on.

  Soft sunlight crept through the small windows, marching in a spiral around the tower and following the curve of the stairs.

  Nick lifted the stopwatch from Annie’s relaxed fingers and slipped it into his pocket. He put her arms around his neck and slipped one hand under her knees, the other behind her back. She weighed next to nothing. Her eyelashes fluttered for a moment before falling again, and her head rested against his shoulder. He breathed in the scent of lilacs from her hair.

  His heart bumped crazily against his ribs. She felt right in his arms. He recalled how she’d rushed to him, checking to make sure he was all right after his first battle with the birds and how he’d enjoyed her concern, her attention.

  That thought brought him up short. What was he thinking? He had no right to court her, to stake a claim. Not only was he unworthy of her after the fiasco with the Bethany, but he was also sort of engaged thanks to his grandfather’s machination. Unless or until he was released from that engagement, he had no business entertaining thoughts of another woman. Though none of these thoughts kept him from enjoying the feel of her in his arms as he carried her across the grass toward the house.

  Imogen met him at the porch door, her face pallid. Her hand shielded the sunlight from her face. She must be in the grips of another headache. “Bring her through here,” Imogen whispered and motioned for him to follow her into the parlor.

  Nick entered the parlor and knelt to lay Annie on the sofa. Imogen held a bright crocheted blanket to cover her. He found himself strangely reluctant to let Annie go. He finally withdrew his arms, gently easing her head onto the pillow.

  She opened her eyes for a brief instant, her brown gaze looking right into his soul. He blinked, and her eyes closed. A small sigh escaped her. She snuggled into the pillow and slept.

  Imogen tucked the blanket around her, edging Nick back. He went into the kitchen, trying to sort out his jumbled feelings.

  Imogen met him there. “Poor lass. What a dreadful night for you all. I’ve got coffee on.”

  He took a steaming mug from her, blowing across the top to cool the fragrant liquid. “You look done in yourself. Maybe you should lie down for a while, too.” The gentle way she eased herself down into a chair, as if her head might come off if she jarred it, caused him concern.

  “It’s nothing. Just one of my headaches. I took some powders.” She rested her cheek on her hand. “Anyway, I got more sleep than anyone on the island last night. The least I can do is keep the coffee hot and get you some breakfast when you’re ready.”

  Nick took a long swallow of coffee, feeling it wash his middle, warming him from the inside out. Though she tried to hide it, he knew her headaches were more than “nothing.”

  “We won’t need breakfast anytime soon, I shouldn’t think. Clyde’s sleeping like the dead in the tower. Ezra and I have to figure out what’s wrong with the light, and we have to reglaze a few windows. We can rustle up some grub when the time comes.”

  She looked at him shrewdly. “I doubt you’ve ever cooked for yourself in your life. You have no more notion what goes on in a kitchen than Annie does.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What would make you say that?”

  “I’ve been watching you, Nick. You have the best manners and the most cultivated speech of any assistant lightkeeper I’ve ever come across. I have a notion you were brought up privileged. You know everything there is to know about
the lake and the ships on it, but you’re no ordinary deckhand. You have the air of a naval officer about you. You’re not hiding something from us that we need to know, are you?”

  Nick tried not to squirm under her scrutiny, nor show just how close her evaluation had come to unmasking him. “No, ma’am. I’m not hiding anything from you that you need to know.”

  Even through the pain in her eyes he could see her brain working. “And I notice how you look at our Annie. You’re not planning on breaking her heart, are you? She’s a sweet, naive thing, head in the clouds half the time. I won’t have you misleading her.” Imogen pointed her finger at his chest. “You’re a handsome man, Nick Kennedy. Annie’s been watching you, too. It wouldn’t take much of an effort from you to make her fall in love. Unless your intentions are honorable, I don’t think you should trifle with her affections.”

  Heat curled through Nick’s ears and raced up his neck. Not since his grandmother had passed away had he been lectured in such a manner. Imogen reminded him of his grandmother: tiny, energetic, frustrated when her health kept her from living life at a gallop, caring and concerned for those in her charge. “Ma’am, I assure you, I have no intention of dallying with Miss Fairfax. I have other commitments back in Duluth that make a romantic liaison impossible. My fiancée would frown upon such doings.” There, that should set Imogen’s mind at rest.

  Lines formed between her brows. “You’re betrothed? I had no idea.”

  “It’s not been publicly announced yet.” He was getting in deeper and deeper. “And I’d just as soon keep it quiet around here, too, if you don’t mind.”

  Imogen nodded, though her face bore skepticism.

  Nick finished his coffee and headed back to the lighthouse.

  “We’ve been over every inch of the mechanism. I can’t find anything wrong. The gears mesh perfectly, the springs are tight, no screws are loose.” Nick wiped his hands on a rag and stuffed it into his pocket. “That just leaves one thing.”

  Ezra and Clyde groaned in unison. “The float.”

  The lens mechanism “floated” on two hundred fifty ounces of mercury. At a pound per fluid ounce, that meant two hundred fifty pounds of liquid metal to drain and purify.

  “Do we have any extra?” Nick eased his tired muscles down until he sat on the floor. He stared out at the lake, listening to the sound of waves gently slapping the rocks at the cliff base that drifted up through the broken windows. Window repair was next on the list of things to do after fixing the light.

  “We have one eight-ounce bottle for emergencies.” Ezra smoothed his mustache. Earlier he’d put forth the idea that the mercury under the lens had somehow gotten contaminated. It had happened to him once before. Rust flakes had fouled the mercury so the lens wouldn’t turn smoothly. They’d kicked around the idea for a while but decided to leave it as a last resort.

  Nick turned to Clyde, whose bloodshot eyes bespoke his lack of sleep. “Get two clean buckets and bring a fuel can of kerosene.”

  “I’ll go get the extra mercury should we need it.” Ezra started down the stairs after Clyde.

  Ezra’s hypothesis proved correct. They washed the mercury with kerosene, letting the heavy metal fall through several inches of the oily fuel in the bottom of a bucket. Impurities and rust flakes floated atop the kerosene, easily picked out with a newspaper. The entire operation took about two hours to complete.

  When they finished refilling the tank under the lens, Clyde swirled the few drops of mercury left in the bottom of the bucket. “Stuff’s amazing.” Bright quicksilver beads raced and collided, merged and separated in the bucket.

  Nick smiled at how young Clyde looked. The boy had done well. Responsible, polite, conscientious. A good candidate for a ship’s officer, given some seasoning.

  Nick pulled himself up. How easy it was to slip back into that old frame of mind.

  They tested the lamp. With the mercury purified, the beacon rotated with precision.

  Nick sighed with relief and clapped Ezra on the back. “Why don’t you and Clyde get some shut-eye? The window repair is a one-man job. I can take care of it. Then I’ll come in for some food and a nap.” He swallowed a yawn. A nap sounded like heaven at the moment.

  Glass, glazing points, putty. How thankful Nick was for the supplies. That, at least, he owed to Jasper Dillon. The man kept his lighthouses stocked and ready. Carrying the tools up the stairs, Nick grimaced at how he’d let the little man get under his skin. Henpecked at home. The idea made Nick grin. That explained a lot. Guess he could give the inspector a little leeway.

  As he worked, Nick marveled again at the beauty of God’s creation. The vista before him couldn’t be more spectacular. Aquamarine water, white-tipped waves creaming over, brilliant white-blue sky, snowy clouds, and the north shoreline a faint, dark ribbon in the west. Gulls keened and hovered on the breeze, squawking and bickering.

  An ore boat chugged into view. Nick swept up the glasses and held them to his eyes, toying with the focus until the image became clear. The Kennebrae Cana, with the Galilee in tow.

  A lump lodged in his throat. The Bethany had been towing the Galilee the night the storm hit. Like a fool, he’d cut the Galilee loose just outside the harbor to ride out the storm at anchor in the basin. Why hadn’t he done the same? Why had he tried to enter the harbor? The listing and water intake on the Bethany hadn’t been that bad, had it? The crew might have been able to shift the load and pump out the water if only he’d just dropped anchor like the Galilee had. He’d acted in haste and the cost had been high.

  His hands ached, and he realized he was gripping the binoculars hard enough to break them. He set the glasses down on the ledge and picked up the putty knife. The glazer’s points pricked his fingers, but he welcomed the distraction. Anything to take his mind off his past.

  Regular maintenance on the light took him the rest of the morning. He washed every pane and prism. He scrubbed the lantern deck, sweeping up feathers and debris from the repair efforts. Then he trimmed the lamp, setting everything ready for sundown.

  He pushed aside thoughts of his old life, of his family, of how things used to be. And he tried without success to ignore the fact that his heart wasn’t in the lighthouse. His heart rode the waves racing to catch up with the Kennebrae ships just disappearing over the horizon.

  eleven

  Life fell into an easy pattern over the next few weeks.

  Annie, under Imogen’s tutelage, discovered an aptitude for baking, hitherto unknown. She continued to burn, over-season, and otherwise ruin all attempts at stovetop cooking, but she was a marvel with the oven. Her desserts and breads were such a success, the men forgave much in the way of culinary disasters.

  Annie managed to secret the Duluth paper out of her bedroom and into the firebox, breathing a sigh of relief as the pages curled and blackened, obliterating news of her escape. She pushed thoughts of her life in Duluth into the back of her mind and concentrated on the here and now, enjoying a freedom she’d never known, blossoming, gaining confidence, deepening her relationships, and finding new facets of her character to explore and strengthen.

  Imogen spoke often of spiritual things, teaching Annie through her gentle ways of a deeper, more satisfying relationship with God, one where God wasn’t a vengeful or indifferent parent but a loving Father who cared for His children. Annie’s faith grew, day by day.

  Evenings were her favorite times, especially those evenings when Nick didn’t have the early watch. Everyone gathered in the parlor. Imogen would crochet or tat, her rocker creaking softly. Nick would play checkers with Clyde or Ezra. And Annie would read. Though she detested Jasper Dillon, she fell gratefully upon the wooden cupboard of books he’d left, part of the lighthouse library. Each lighthouse on his route received one of the crates of books, to be exchanged at the next inspection.

  One night she picked up King Solomon’s Mines—a choice that would’ve sent her father into a tirade—and settled herself into a corner of the davenport. Allan Qua
termain was such an interesting hero. So stalwart and fearless, and so sad and introspective at times. Annie caressed the cloth cover of the book, her fingers tracing the indentations of vines and leaves, of gold lettering on the spine.

  “Since you’re starting that book over again, why don’t you read it aloud, dear?” Imogen’s hook flew in her fingers, poking in and out of the yarn. The ball of wool at her feet tumbled in the basket when she pulled some slack.

  Annie cast a glance in the direction of the checkers players. Clyde’s bright eyes and grin encouraged her. Nick’s darker blue eyes set her breath crowding into the top of her lungs. No matter how she tried to dissuade her heart, she couldn’t make herself see sense. He was everything she wanted in a man. It took much discipline on her part to avoid letting her growing feelings for him show.

  She opened the book to the dedication and cleared her throat. She had read aloud to Hazel nearly every night while Hazel rocked and knitted or mended. Tears pricked Annie’s eyes as she wondered where Hazel was now and if she missed Annie at all. A wave of homesickness rushed over her, receded, then returned to lap about her heart like combers on the beach.

  Clyde shifted in his chair, his boots scraping the floor.

  The sound brought Annie back, and she began to read.

  Nick lost all interest in checkers the moment Annie spoke. Did she know how her voice took on the various characters, each one sounding different?

  Clyde, too, ignored the game, wrapped up in the story. Imogen’s crochet hook moved slower and slower until it stilled in her hands.

  Lamplight raced along Annie’s bright curls, her cheeks flushed slightly. Slender hands held the book, tilting it toward the table lamp next to her.

  Nick couldn’t help but notice the delicate curve of her neck and the gentle slope of her shoulders. Her shoes stood side by side in front of the sofa, her feet tucked up. He remembered the feel of her in his arms when he carried her in to place her on that very sofa. She had never mentioned it. Neither had he, but he cherished the memory. Even now he imagined he could smell the faint scent of lilacs on her hair.