by Lorri Dudley
Until the letter arrived.
Her gaze flitted to Mr. Wells, and her smile quickly faded. He watched Rousseau’s retreating form with a black scowl. Shaking her head, she let out a sigh. There was predictable, and then there was Mr. Wells. With a shrug, she turned toward the wagon.
His hands encircled her waist and tossed her up onto the bench seat. Her lips pinched together at his rough handling, but she didn’t bother to comment on it.
He climbed aboard and snapped the reins. The horses lurched forward, and Georgia grabbed the side of the bench to steady herself.
“Tell me the price of the dress.”
Georgia snapped her head to the side.
“I will reimburse you.” He didn’t look at her as he bit the words out through clenched teeth.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The cost of the dress.”
“I presume you mean my gift to Booker?”
Harrison snorted and shook his head. “I won’t have you holding anything over that poor boy’s head. He will not be your personal servant. Name your price.”
A wave of fury dripped over her like the ever-present humidity. “I already have. It was one conch shell, and it is paid in full.” She turned her entire body to face him. “You don’t believe I’m capable of doing something out of the kindness of my heart, do you?”
His jaw tightened. “I know your type. That poor boy is watching his mother die a slow painful death. I won’t have you adding to his misery.”
“What do you mean, my type?”
He fixed her a sideways glance. “Pampered, spoiled, and only out for yourself, flashing a pretty smile here and there to get what you want. I saw you try to manipulate Rousseau with your feminine wiles.”
She hadn’t done anything that wouldn’t be seen at any party hosted by the ton. “I don’t know what I’ve done to give you such a poor opinion of me, but considering you’ve known me for only a day, it’s difficult to see how you could make such swift judgments.” She turned forward and crossed her arms. “I thought the Bible says it isn’t for us to judge. We are to leave that to God. But then again, maybe God doesn’t come to this forsaken island.”
A large gust of wind blasted the two of them as if God himself had put an exclamation point on her sentence. Harrison felt the nudge of the Holy Spirit convicting him.
She is my daughter, and I love her, just as you love your son.
He didn’t want to admit it, but Georgia was right. It was for God to judge. The words from Matthew seven stuck in his head. Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.
Harrison let the reins fall slack. He had to release his anger from the encounter with Rousseau. The man tried his patience, but Harrison’s toes had curled when she smiled back at the snake. Watching their casual exchange had made his skin crawl as if he’d stepped into a nest of fire ants. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know that the man publicly flogged his slaves within an inch of their lives.
“You’re right.” He released a breath and gentled his voice. “I judged you unfairly. I apologize.”
Silence hung between them for a moment, but he caught her peeking at him. “Don’t do it again.”
His mouth tugged into a half smile at the haughty way she commanded him. The woman was unbelievable. He’d never met another human being, man or woman, as stubborn as this stiff-backed slip of a thing.
A splatter of rain slapped him on the cheek, and he peered into the ominous clouds above. They appeared so dark, they almost held a greenish hue. Not good. He was miles from home, wasting his time on some fool errand for an ungrateful woman. He’d hoped the storm would hold off, but it appeared they were about to get doused.
He shrugged out of his jacket. “Here.” He draped the coat over Georgia’s shoulders. “It will afford you some protection.”
For a brief second, she hesitated. The stubborn woman was going to balk. Harrison’s jaw tightened. But instead of refusing it, she curled her fingers around his lapel and drew it tighter. A sense of smug victory lifted the corners of his mouth, but he wiped the smile away with the back of his hand.
With a nod of her head, she replied, “Thank you.”
The dark clouds didn’t merely shower, sheets of rain torrentially soaked. The wind whipped up and pelted them with water from all directions. Harrison strained to keep the horses under control with one hand and used his other to wipe the runoff out of his eyes, which dripped from his hair, eyelashes, and off the tip of his nose.
Despite the warm temperature, the lashing wind chilled his bones and caused his clothes to stick to his skin. A shiver ran through his body. He peered at Georgia. Her teeth chattered as she huddled under the jacket he’d given to her when the deluge began. His coat shook as she trembled from head to toe. He had to give the woman credit. She hadn’t whined or complained. Without caring about appearances, he reached out and wrapped an arm around her, drawing her up against his side.
Georgia let out a gasp as a vise grip hauled her up against the beast of a man. She protested and pulled away, but he held fast.
Soon the warmth of his skin against her own convinced her to relent. Tears stung her eyes. What had she done to deserve this sort of punishment? Banished to this barbaric island and saddled to this infuriating man, a man who believed he could control her every move. God, what did I do to deserve…? She couldn’t finish the thought.
Gone was the content little girl, the daughter whose biggest delight was to sit by her father’s side. That child disappeared when her papa sailed to Nevis. Maybe Mr. Wells was right. Maybe she was only out for herself. Her father was terminally ill, and all she could think about were her ruined dresses and returning to London.
Hot tears brimmed over and slipped down her cheeks, mixing with the raindrops. She turned toward his chest so he wouldn’t see her face. In the protection of his arms, she let her silent tears flow. The warmth of his skin permeated her wet gown. Her breath clouded hot and humid against his chest.
She inhaled his exotic aroma of spiced coconut, and she couldn’t think of anything in London that smelled this good. Her fingers rested against the sinewy tautness of his muscles, the thin, wet, layer of his shirt doing little to conceal the powerful man beneath. She trembled, but this time it was not from the cold.
As she lay wrapped in his warm strength, drowsiness weighed down her eyelids, increased by the lull of the rocking wagon. It reminded her of when papa rocked her to sleep in his arms. Back in her early years when she was welcomed and loved. This was what she craved—to be held and protected.
Chapter 9
…The storms shake the rafters. I’ve never seen the like...
—From Lady Pickering to Lady Nora Lennox.
Georgia awoke with a start as a gust of wind and a spray of water hit her square in the face. She jerked upright, bumping her forehead into something pointy and hard.
“Ouch. Hold still.”
Reality sank in as the warm arms tightened around her. Harrison. Her forehead must have collided with his chin. They weren’t in the wagon any longer, but instead, he was carrying her.
She eyed her surroundings to gain her bearings, but the rain blurred her vision. They were moving upwards. Georgia blinked away the raindrops and recognized the steps to her father’s bungalow.
“Let me down.” She wiggled to get free. “I can walk just fine.” A powerful blast of wind assaulted them, and she muffled her voice into his chest. Thunder boomed loud enough to shake the ground, and Georgia’s grip on his shirt tightened.
“I’ll let you down when we’re inside. I can move faster without having to aid you up these treacherous steps.”
Harrison ducked his head and turned his back against the wind, pinning her tighter to his chest. She’d seen her share of storms growing up, but nothing compared to the tempest that raged around them. During a small lull between gusts, her protector bounded up the res
t of the stairs. She closed her eyes and clung to him like a helpless, scared animal.
The door swung wide as they reached the front entryway, and he barreled through it.
“Thank the Lord. You’re back.” Papa turned and yelled down the hall, “Hattie and Max, you can get off your knees now. God heard your prayers. They’re home safe.”
A floppy-haired bullet rushed into the room and wrapped his arms around Harrison’s knees, almost knocking the three of them over. Harrison leaned against the doorframe to steady himself.
“It’s all right, Max. I’m here now.”
Rainwater dripped from their hair and clothing, forming a puddle on the floor.
Harrison straightened. “Step back a second so I can put Miss Lennox down.”
Max reluctantly let go and stepped away.
Harrison lessened his hold, and she slid out of his warm grasp. Her legs, still a little numb, wobbled, but he steadied her with his hands. His amber gaze held hers, and she couldn’t miss the concern there. To her mortification, heat warmed her body and settled into her cheeks. As the residual warmth from his body dissipated, a shiver ran over her skin, followed by a queer sense of loss.
She cleared her throat, and his hands released her. He stooped down and opened his arms wide and his son jumped into his embrace. Max held on tight and wouldn’t let go. Harrison returned the squeeze and kissed the boy on the top of his head. The loving exchange hit a twinge of jealousy, and Georgia’s gaze flicked to her papa.
“I’m so glad you’re back.” Papa smiled and opened his own arms to her. “The storm hit quickly. We were worried.”
She hesitated and glanced at Harrison, who watched her over the top of Max’s head. Pushing one foot forward, she stepped into her father’s enveloping arms. Her own hands remained awkwardly at her side, as though they didn’t know what to do. Mama didn’t show affection in such a manner, and she only had a vague memory of being in her father’s arms. Even that seemed more dream than reality. He squeezed her tight and rocked lightly side to side, not letting go. She raised one arm and patted him on the back.
He pulled back with a glistening of tears in his eyes, then crushed her to him once again. With a chuckle, he said, “These storms are a tad wilder than the ones in London. Eh?”
Georgia smiled and timidly snaked her other hand around to rest on his back. She used to sit in Papa’s lap on a rocking chair in the portico. They would listen to rain tap on the roof and thunder crackle in the distance. She’d always been excited when the lightning flashed across the sky, knowing she was safe next to her papa. Here she was once again in her father’s arms, but her security felt artificial, like throwing a rug over a hole in the floorboards.
After a long moment, he released her and shooed her upstairs. “You need to get out of those wet clothes and near the fire.”
She nodded and headed toward her room. A warm fire did sound wonderful.
Even better was the steamy bath that awaited Georgia, and Jenneigh hung her dress to dry.
“I fear you won’t be able to wear this gown again today, Miss.”
Georgia frowned as it dawned on her that she had nothing at all to wear.
Jenneigh folded her hands in front of her and stared at the floor. “I have my Sunday dress. You could wear it… ah …. Seein’ as you don’t have nothin’ else.”
Georgia sat up straighter in the tub, eyeing the girl to see if she was serious. In London, someone like her wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a servant’s clothing. If the ladies’ maids were lucky, they could hope to receive the cast-off gowns of their employers. But she wasn’t in London, and she didn’t have a single thing in which to clothe herself. She could either accept Jenneigh’s offer or stay in the tub for the rest of the night.
“Thank you, Jenneigh. You’re very kind. I would appreciate it.”
Jenneigh beamed a broad white smile and disappeared down the hall. When she returned, she carried a Pomona green cotton dress with capped sleeves. The hem was a trifle worn, but other than that, it was a beautiful dress and probably the girl’s most treasured possession.
Georgia tried it on, and Jenneigh held out a small hand mirror for her to see. This was the first time in a long while she’d seen herself in a color other than pink.
She fingered the soft material. “It’s beautiful, Jenneigh, and though you are of smaller frame, it surprisingly fits.” She and Jenneigh were the same height, but the bust was a tad snug. Fortunately, the high waist allowed the rest. “Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”
As Jenneigh pinned Georgia’s hair into a top knot and pulled loose curls to frame her face, Georgia’s mind raced with unanswered questions.
“Tell me, Jenneigh. How is my father’s health—really? Since I’ve arrived, he hasn’t appeared ill.”
“Oh, praise the Lord, Miss Lennox. It’s been a good week. I think yer arrival has lifted his spirits.”
“What is a bad week like?”
“When da fever hits, he takes to his bed and hardly eats nothin’. His sweat soaks the sheets, and sometimes he don’t know what he’s say’n.”
Georgia wrinkled her forehead and pulled her mouth into a frown. “It’s hard to picture him that way. He seems so full of life right now.”
“God willing, he stays dat way.”
She tilted her chin up and viewed Jenneigh in the mirror. “Tell me about Mr. Wells.”
“God bless ‘im. He’s a good man.”
Georgia waited for her to continue, but only silence pervaded. Jenneigh apparently needed more encouragement, so she asked, “How did he get involved with my father?”
Her voice grew quiet as if she realized she shouldn’t be gossiping about her employer. “From what I know, dey met on the ship comin’ to Nevis. Took to each other right away. Especially, Mista Fredrick to lil’ Max. The boy looks up ta him like a grandpa.”
Georgia’s jaw tensed, but she hid her annoyance behind a smile. “And what about the child’s mother? Where is she?”
“God rest her soul. She went to be with the Lord when Max was nothin’ but two.”
“Was she sick?”
“Naw, ain’t like tat.” Jenneigh glanced at the door, then whispered into Georgia’s ear. “She wuz killed.”
Georgia gasped.
“Mr. Wells don’t talk about it much. All I know is he brought his son here to get away from da London riffraff. He didn’t want nothin’ to happen like that to his boy.”
A sprout of sympathy for Max rooted itself in Georgia’s heart. The boy had never known his mother. Yes, her mama and she had their differences, but underneath all the layers of disappointment, she knew her mother loved her. Many a night, Georgia had awakened to find her mother standing by her bed whispering a prayer for her soul. It drove Georgia all the more to marry well, to prove she was worth all those prayers.
A large gust of wind banged the shutters against the house. Georgia jumped, and a jolt of panic surged through her body. The candles flickered and danced in their holders as if laughing at her.
Jenneigh closed her eyes and whispered a short prayer under her breath.
“Does the island get storms like this often?” Georgia fought to keep her growing concern out of her voice.
“We get a few in the fall, but usually not dis time of year. Spring is quiet. I hope it’s not a sign of more to come.”
Me too. The wind shook the house, causing the boards and windows to moan with displeasure. Would the structure even hold?
“It looks like we might all be sleeping on da ground floor tonight.”
“Why? What could happen to the second floor?”
“Yer papa built his house outa stone on the bottom. It’s less likely to get broke by the wind and by tings flying around. The second floor … Well, there ain’t nuttin’ dat can be done for da second floors whetha dey be made of stone or wood. We islanders know tat wood is easier to rebuild den stone.”
A cannon of thunder boomed through the house and shook the rafters. Geo
rgia squeezed the arms of the chair, her voice a mere squeak. “The whole second floor could be destroyed?”
“We pray for da good Lord’s protection.”
“Could you pray for us both?”
Jenneigh prayed out loud while she calmly pinned each curl. She paid no heed to the howling of the wind and roars of thunder, merely spoke to God as if He sat right beside them.
Georgia hadn’t prayed in years. When she had, it was only quietly in church, and she would throw in as many thous and doths as possible to sound official. Now, she silently pleaded with God for His protection.
Jenneigh concluded with an “Amen” and Georgia echoed it.
“All finished. Yer lookin’ mighty beautiful. Yer hair shines like gold.” Jenneigh passed her the mirror.
As Georgia inspected her hair, her spirits lifted. Her knees may be quaking, but her coiffeur looked lovely.
The raging storm didn’t keep Hattie from preparing a hearty meal to fill their stomachs. At dinner, Georgia sat to her father’s left, across from Mr. Wells and next to her aunt. The colorful walls were illuminated by candles, their flames flickering each time the wind blew. The light refracted off the crystal goblets, scattering small rainbows about the table.
She spent most of the meal listening with interest to the back-and-forth exchange between Mr. Wells and her father regarding topics ranging from different planting methods to Napoleon Bonaparte’s capture and its effect on trade. Often, they paused to get her view or that of Aunt Tessa’s. Georgia wasn’t used to men valuing her opinion, but she quickly became comfortable and enjoyed offering suggestions. Her father’s eyes sparkled, and he beamed his approval of her ideas.
Typically in England, the ladies would retire to another room as to not be bothered by such taxing topics, but her papa asked for them to remain. He refused to be bereft of their company, claiming time spent with his lovely daughter was good for his well-being.
As the evening grew long, Georgia felt herself sitting up a little straighter and adding in a comment or two without prompting. How easy it was to relax and enjoy being herself, respected for her mind and not as some beautiful trinket draped on a man’s arm.
