The White Gull

by Laura Strickland

  “I’d go and talk to her, gladly, but—” Frannie gestured helplessly, encompassing the room and the children. “I’ll try and make it out there in the next few days—I can ask Ed’s mother to look after these two for a few hours. I’ll take Lisbeth one of my seed cakes. She used to love them.”

  “I would appreciate it. She may listen to you better than me.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I offered to leave Kelpie there with her, the place seemed so lonely. She would no’ hear of it.”

  “A shame she and Declan never had a child, something of him she might keep.” Fran sighed. “Anyway, you’d make a strange sight without Kelpie at your side. Where is he now?”

  “Just outside the door,” Rab admitted. “Frannie, when you go to visit, try and persuade her away out of that place for the winter.”

  “I promise to do my best. Now you had better get off. You’ve a forge to run.”

  “Aye, and half a dozen jobs waiting.”

  Yet he hesitated. “You do no’ suppose grief truly has unsettled her mind?”

  Frannie looked concerned. “If it has you this worried, I’ll go out and see her tomorrow. I’ll let you know what I think then.”

  “Aye,” he murmured, but he went away little comforted.

  ****

  Beating on glowing iron and sweating over the forge usually brought Rab a measure of peace, but not today. Stripped down to his trousers, protected by only a leather apron, he enjoyed exercising muscles built over time and using skill combined with intention to accomplish a job. Hot iron might be mutable; fire was not. A living substance, it required accommodation, tending, and consideration if it were to cooperate with him. Over the past years at work in this place, he and fire had come to terms. He respected it and it consented to do his bidding—most of the time.

  Tip Howard, who had liked to talk while he worked and especially liked to talk to the young Scots lad who remained mostly silent, used to say that in ancient times blacksmiths were considered wizards, wreakers of magic. They controlled the fire and caused iron to obey them. Not many men could survive the forge, a truth Rab learned in the most personal way as he grew. It took a certain kind of man.

  “Either the fire chooses you or it doesn’t,” Tip told him at the beginning. “Let’s see, lad, if it will heed you.”

  It had, but persuading it required an enormous amount of work, sweat, and more singed skin than Rab could measure. He knew, now, the fire took its price.

  As did the sea, he supposed.

  In the old days, the magician smiths had wrought swords and other weapons that, if strong enough, brought victory in battle. Now Rab made plows and other farm implements, horse shoes, and fancy fenders for women’s hearths.

  He tossed the black hair out of his eyes and wiped his perspiring forehead with an equally sweaty forearm. Today the work brought him very little contentment. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from the cottage up the shore.

  Aye, well, he would finish up a few jobs, go to Beatty’s, and see could he run some things back out there before the light died.

  He pumped up the fire and began making a list in his mind: she would need flour, lard, eggs, some dried peas, and butter if he could get it. Vegetables would be fine if Beatty had any—carrots and potatoes. And he should take something to tempt Lisbeth’s appetite, just in case Frannie did not make it out there with the seed cake. But what?

  Upon the thought, he heard Kelpie’s tail thump. The dog lay just outside the door in the pale sunshine; a wag was his usual greeting to visitors.

  Rab looked up and saw a woman enter. Women usually sent their men to the forge; this woman, though, had never married.

  The teacher at the schoolhouse, Emily Cooper must be a year or two older than Rab. Plain to look at, she had a lively, intelligent mind and a droll sense of humor Rab enjoyed. Lately she had made any excuse possible to come to the shop, bringing broken implements for the school and her home. He had just completed the latest, a handle for the classroom woodstove.

  “Never say it has grown so late,” he greeted her. “School over already?”

  “I just dismissed the children.”

  Ah, and he would need to get to Beatty’s and up the shore before it got much later.

  “I have your handle all ready.” He swung away, picked up the piece from the bench, and turned back to catch Miss Cooper staring at his nether regions.

  Not used to women looking at him that way, he felt a stab of surprise at the speculation in her eyes.

  Miss Cooper, apparently not a bit discomfited, smiled at him. “I can always rely on you, Mr. Sinclair, to take care of my little projects.” She swung her purse up by its strings. “What do I owe you?”

  “Only our agreed price.”

  She came closer, and he considered her; tall and slender, she wore her soft, brown hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She might be a fine woman, but she was no Lisbeth.

  She placed the coin in his palm, being sure to let her fingers linger. “Thank you. You do such fine work. I keep saying I should bring the children down here one nice afternoon, let the lads see a man’s work.”

  Rab mopped his forehead again, but not from the heat this time. “That’s an interesting idea.”

  “Will you be taking an apprentice?”

  “I hadn’t thought on it.” He’d hoped for a son of his own, but that did not look likely in the near future.

  “I have a student—Dougie Grier. You know him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Born on the wrong side of the blanket, you understand. Just like his younger brother.”

  Rab blinked. Most woman of his acquaintance didn’t speak of such things. Dougie’s mother, Maggie, worked selling ale at the Hogshead and occasionally, so it was rumored, sold or gave away her favors, as well. He’d heard her sons had two different fathers.

  “Dougie’s a good lad,” Miss Cooper went on, “big for his age. He struggles with his letters and numbers, but he listens and tries hard. I think he’d do better with his hands than his head.”

  “This job takes both.” Rab shrugged. “But send him round. Not today—I have an errand to run.”

  “I will. You’re a good man, Rab Sinclair.”

  “I was given a chance at his age.” And he’d always been grateful. “Why can’t I offer the same?”

  “His mother’s no better than she should be, but at least she’s sent him to school. And we can’t hold her behavior against him.”

  “Certainly not. If I do decide to take him on, I would want him to keep attending school, as well.” That was something upon which Tip had insisted, for him.

  “Just because you earn your living by your brawn doesn’t mean you have to be an ignoramus, lad,” he’d said in his understated Yankee way. “Get your letters and your sums, so you’ll know when a man’s trying to cheat you. Learn to read books, and you’ll never pass a lonely night.”

  That last was a lie: Rab had spent a boatload of lonely nights with a book in his hands.

  Miss Cooper nodded as if satisfied and turned away to the door. At the last minute she looked back. “Will you be attending the autumn dance, Mr. Sinclair?”

  He made a rueful gesture. “Can you see me dancing?”

  “As a matter of fact, I can.” To his increased shock, she winked at him before she went out the door and left him staring.

  Chapter Five

  Lisbeth heard the rattle of the pony trap before it came in sight and knew who approached without looking. Only one person in Lobster Cove brought a pony along the coast road; for most folks, travel by foot proved good enough.

  She gathered up the gown on which she’d been stitching and hurried to peer out the door. As expected, she saw Mignon La Marche’s cart come into view and halt at the rise. Even Mignon would have to walk from there.

  And what had brought the fine widow La Marche all the way out from Lobster Cove? Granted it was a pleasant day, all sunlight dancing off a sea gone calm and fluffy clouds
sailing the blue sky. Yet even that should not bestir Mignon from the comfort of her mansion.

  Lisbeth smoothed her hands down her crumpled apron and straightened her spine. Mignon invariably made her feel inadequate—always had, even when they were at school together. Mignon, daughter of the man who had once owned the lumberyard, wore an air of privilege like she wore her stylish gowns, ordered straight from London. Mignon had put her hair up before any of the other girls, wore fine stockings and button-up shoes, and real topaz stones at her ears.

  No surprise that when Claude La Marche, a shipping baron who had made his fortune in Boston, moved to Lobster Cove and built the big house on the bluff, Mignon accepted his proposal of marriage even though he was thrice her age. That had been right after Lisbeth and Declan wed, as a matter of fact. Right up till then, Mignon had chased Declan with all her intent.

  He’d chosen Lisbeth in the end, the only time Lisbeth had ever won out over her rival. But Mignon had done well for herself, netting a wealthy husband who passed away not six months later, leaving her his fortune.

  And Mignon did not seem to harbor any ill feelings toward Lisbeth. She always behaved pleasantly when they met and went out of her way to give Lisbeth her sewing trade.

  She came down the path now moving like a queen, her auburn hair shining in the sun. She wore it coiffed in braids that coiled around her head, and when she drew near enough Lisbeth saw that the stones in her ears today were diamonds.

  “Good afternoon, Lisbeth,” she called.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “I have come to see about my gown. I thought I might need a second fitting.”

  Lisbeth pictured the shabby, barren room behind her and hesitated to ask Mignon in. But she could hardly be rude when the woman offered her custom. Anyway, they were friends of a sort, weren’t they? Or at the very least, close acquaintances.

  “It is very nearly finished. I intended to bring it to town when it was done.”

  Mignon paused on the path and gave Lisbeth a lively look from eyes nearly the same color as her hair. “You do know I need it by Saturday. That’s the dance.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Mignon tipped up her chin and asked with a hint of challenge, “Are you going to ask me in?”

  Wordlessly, Lisbeth stepped aside. Mignon swept by, trailing scent that matched her name.

  “Ah, you have been working on it,” Mignon said, catching sight of the pile of fabric Lisbeth had just laid aside on the bench in the good light. “Let me see.”

  Lisbeth hastened to catch up the gown and hold it for display. Peacock blue, the fabric must have cost enough to feed Lisbeth for a year. She’d taken pleasure in just touching it while she cut and sewed. The gown seemed an indecent extravagance for a town dance, but who was she to judge?

  “I’ve only to finish the hem,” she said. “There’s a great deal of it.” Yards and yards of the gorgeous brocade had gone into the skirt, and Lisbeth’s tiny stitches did not progress quickly.

  “Hmm,” Mignon said. “I am not sure I like the color after all.”

  “Really? I think it’s wonderful.”

  “Do you?” Mignon tipped her head. “But then, it would look better on you than me. Is it really my shade?”

  “I should think this would look splendid on anyone.”

  “Never mind. I will try it on, and you can make sure it needs no further alteration. I want it tight, remember, across here.” She indicated her generous bosom. “Shall I go into your bedroom?”

  Lisbeth’s heart rebelled; she did not want Mignon in her room where she had lain with Declan. “Use the spare room.” She walked to the door of it. “Neater.”

  Mignon went in but left the door open. She called out, “What reason do you have to be less than neat? No one to mess up the place—you’re just like me, a woman living alone. I rattle around in that big house until sometimes I think I will go mad.”

  “Will you have a cup of tea and a biscuit?” Lisbeth asked, suddenly grateful Rab had stopped back out last night with the promised groceries. If Mignon paid her today, she could repay him. But Mignon would likely not pay till the dress was completed.

  “I think we have a problem,” Mignon called. “The waist is too tight.”

  She appeared in the doorway wearing the gown, and Lisbeth was impressed by her own skill. The gown looked stunning, the color bright against Mignon’s pale skin, the bodice tight, low, and daring.

  “I cannot button it,” Mignon admitted ruefully.

  “Truly? But I measured most carefully.”

  “No doubt my fault rather than yours, Lisbeth. I have been comforting myself in my loneliness with crème cakes and puddings.”

  She turned about. Lisbeth saw a gap of nearly an inch where the back of the gown refused to meet.

  “Can you fix it?”

  “I can let out the side seams.”

  “By Saturday? I have my heart set on wearing it, despite the color.”

  “I am sure I can get it done.”

  “You are such a diligent soul—always were, even back in school.” Mignon let the gown drop and stood unashamed in her chemise, which was embroidered all over and far finer than anything Lisbeth had ever owned.

  “Will you be going to the dance?” Mignon asked as she stepped from the skirt.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Never mean to say you’re still in mourning! It’s been over a year, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “We widows must stick together. Say you’ll attend with me.”

  Should Lisbeth admit she had nothing to wear? She didn’t want to go anyway. So she merely shook her head and gathered the gown up from the floor.

  “You know,” Mignon said, “that truly would look so much better on you than me. Tell you what—why don’t I give it to you after the dance, in payment? You can alter it to fit.”

  Lisbeth’s cheeks flamed. “That’s a kind thought…”

  “It’s worth more than I promised to pay you, you know.”

  “I do not doubt it. But the truth is,” Lisbeth swallowed her anger and humiliation at having to admit it, “I need the money instead. I owe quite a bit at Beatty’s, and to Rab Sinclair, as well.”

  Mignon immediately looked stricken. “I should have thought. Payment in full it shall be, and perhaps a bit extra, eh, for the work to which my waistline is putting you?”

  “I would appreciate that.” Suddenly, Lisbeth felt very like a servant standing before her mistress. The feeling further heated her cheeks.

  “You know, I’m pleased with that,” Mignon said thoughtfully. “I’ve never before trusted you with an entire gown, have I? Just mending and alterations. But I’m impressed. You have some talent. Just as well.” Something gleamed in Mignon’s eyes, a flash too swift for Lisbeth to identify. “Since you now need to make your own way in the world.”

  Lisbeth had worked, and hard, while Declan was alive. But she said, “I’m grateful for all the business you send my way.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll make the tea.”

  “I really shouldn’t stay. I have a man coming out from Augusta to fit new carpets.”

  Mignon disappeared back into the spare bedroom. Lisbeth stood wishing she might ask for an advance on the gown so she could put something down at Beatty’s. Then she wouldn’t need to rely on Rabbie’s generosity to eat.

  How had Declan managed to run up such a steep bill at Beatty’s, anyway? She had always given him a little money from her sewing to put down on their account. Things never should have got so out of hand.

  Mignon emerged from the spare bedroom dressed in her stylish walking suit, setting her hat on her head.

  “Say you’ll come to the dance with me,” she urged again. “You can’t carry the torch for Declan forever. Surely you want to marry again?”

  Lisbeth blanched at the very thought. “Do you?”

  “Of course. Not that I expect to find anyone s
uitable. Pickings are lean in this God-forsaken place.”

  “Why don’t you move away, if you’re not happy here? You have the money.”

  “I’ve thought about it—thought about Boston or even Montreal. But I can’t say I’m not happy here. And who knows?” One side of Mignon’s mouth curled up in a wry smile. “A man—the perfect man—could turn up at any time, one with flaming red hair, perhaps, and tawny eyes.”

  Lisbeth gasped; Mignon had just described Declan.

  Chapter Six

  “Rab sent you, didn’t he?” Lisbeth looked her best friend, Frannie Becker, full in the eyes. “Do not lie to me.”

  Frannie squirmed and shifted in her chair at the table upon which she had proudly set the seed cake she’d baked. “Why should I need Rab to send me? I’m finally smaller than a woodshed and only too glad to leave the children with Ed’s mother for a walk up the shore.”

  “How is little Bess?”

  “Fussy, but not near the handful Eddie was—still is, truth be known. I told Ed if he comes near me again before a year has passed, I shall level him with an oar. Still, they’re a blessing.”

  She sighed and, not giving Lisbeth a chance to reply, chatted on. “A shame you and Declan never had a child—part of him for you to keep, like.” Immediately the words were out she looked stricken. “Oh, I am sorry—I did not mean to remind you.”

  “Do you think I need reminding?” Lisbeth had wanted Declan’s child and couldn’t imagine why she had not conceived. Not for lack of trying on Declan’s part. “Hard to raise a child without its father, anyway.”

  “That’s true. Perhaps it wasn’t God’s will for you to have a child. The good Lord must have known you’d be widowed so soon.” Wildly, Frannie cast about for something else to say. Her gaze fell on the pile of blue fabric on the bench. “Do you have a commission? Who’s it for?”

  “Mignon La Marche.”

  “Oh, her.” Frannie sniffed. “Remember what a trial she used to be to us in school? Always acting better and wealthier than the rest of us and tattling when we did something wrong. And oh, how she set herself at Declan!”