by Deborah Hale
As Jenny lifted the whimpering infant from his cradle and set him in his mother’s arms, a sudden wave of doubt engulfed her. What of Roderick’s claims of prosperity? Was he as rich as his letter had made him sound—or only rich on the meager scale of his neighbors?
Gathering the crockery for the midday meal from a high shelf, she mused, “Does everyone in the colony live like this?”
Only when Mrs. Glendenning answered did Jenny realize she’d spoken aloud.
“Nay, lass.” The woman’s voice held no resentment—at least not of the question. “Mrs. Jardine has a fine big house and all the hired help she needs to keep it. I hear tell there’s folk in Chatham with proper houses built of stone. I’ve been after Angus for us to have a stone house by and by. He says it’s daft to build with stone when wood’s so plentiful.”
As she set the table, Jenny glanced toward the open cabin door. “Aye,” she breathed. “Wood’s plentiful enough.”
And strange it seemed. The Scottish lowlands and border counties had long been denuded of any great tracts of forest. In this new land, forests hovered around the tiny communities that had been carved out on their fringes. Greedy to reclaim the land and push the invading immigrants back into the sea. How could anything tender hope to survive, much less thrive, in such a place?
Jenny followed the smell of meat and onions to the Glendennings’ summer kitchen. In the cramped lean-to, she hoisted a heavy iron kettle off the fire and replaced it with another, half-full of water and assorted greens.
Pondering Mrs. Glendenning’s words about servants and stone houses, she knew she should be awash with relief. That did not describe the seething stew of emotions that curdled in her belly. It felt more like uncertainty and fear, seasoned with a dash of some nameless longing.
The distant whoops and shrieks of the children reminded Jenny that their mother wanted the berries for a pudding. She picked her way through the dense brush, drawn by their exuberant noise. At last, she found them, clustered around a patch of raspberry nettles—Nellie, her two older brothers and small sister. The red stains around their mouths told tales of many berries that had never made it into their baskets of woven bark.
“What’s all the racket?” she asked. “They’ll be able to hear your noise clear to Chatham.”
“There was a squirrel up that tree.” Nellie pointed toward a towering old pine. “John was pelting him with acorns, and one bounced off and hit me on the head.”
“It was an accident!” young John protested. “No call for her to throw stones at me, the wee telltale.”
For a moment, Jenny had the welcome sensation of being back home again in the midst of her brothers’ squabbles. Evidently some aspects of life didn’t change, no matter how many oceans a body crossed.
“I’m no justice of the peace,” she said. “Ye’ll have to settle this yerselves—without letting more missiles fly, I hope. In the meantime, do ye ken ye’ve left any room in yer stomachs for dinner? Yer ma’s looking to have those berries for a pudding.”
“Hurrah! Bang-belly!” Forgetting their quarrel, the Glendenning fry snatched up their baskets and headed for home at top speed.
With an indulgent chuckle, Jenny set off after them.
She nearly jolted a foot in the air when a warm whisper sounded directly in her ear.
“Ye’ve quite a way with young ones. Ye’ll make a fine mother someday.”
The innocent remark struck at Jenny’s deepest fears. Part of her longed for motherhood. Yet, how could she properly nurture children under conditions like these?
When she spun about to deliver a stinging retort, Jenny landed in the waiting arms of Harris Chisholm. Part of her meant to struggle and pull away from him. Another part, powerful beyond all proportion to its size, longed to lose herself in his eager embrace. Conflicting emotions grappled onto her heart and waged a fierce tug-of-war. Thank heaven, she’d soon be in Chatham, rediscovering her love for Roderick Douglas!
“I was none too certain I’d see ye again, this side of heaven, lass.” Heedless of all propriety, Harris held her close. “Ye gave me quite a turn, at the last. Should ye be up and bossing the wee Glendennings about so soon?”
Reason reasserted itself. Harris had saved her life. He’d come to mean a great deal to her. That didn’t alter the fact that she’d journeyed to New Brunswick to marry Roderick Douglas. After what she’d seen and heard of pioneer life, that marriage was more imperative than ever.
Fighting her inclination to linger against him, Jenny drew back from Harris and tried to answer coolly. “I couldn’t loll in bed all day when poor Mrs. Glendenning has so much to do. Ye don’t look any the worse for our shipwreck adventure. What brings ye here?”
Harris jerked his thumb back toward the homestead. “I brought yer trunk. I can’t vouch for the condition of the contents.”
“My trunk!” exclaimed Jenny. “I reckoned it’d be at the bottom of the channel along with the wreck of the St. Bride.”
“Did the captain not tell ye? The wreck’s in dry dock. She may not be up to crossing the Atlantic again, but Mr. Jardine figures she’ll fare well enough with a Caribbean run.”
“Captain Glendenning’s been busy getting his hay in for winter,” explained Jenny as they ambled back to the cabin. “He’s never said a word about the St. Bride. How soon will it be fit to sail to Chatham?”
“Mr. Jardine says she ought to be ready in six weeks.” Harris made it sound like a marvel of speed.
To Jenny the time stretched ahead indefinitely. “Six weeks!” she wailed. “I can’t cool my heels here for six weeks when Roderick Douglas is expecting me in Chatham. Isn’t there another boat I can take?”
Even as she asked, her neck pricked with gooseflesh at the thought of another sea voyage, however brief. One intimate experience with the dangers of seafaring was quite enough to last her a lifetime. Yet, with a curious flash of insight, Jenny recognized that a greater danger to her lifelong dream lay in the seemingly benign prospect of six more weeks with Harris Chisholm.
“There may be.” Harris shrugged. “And there may not. Mr. Jardine says we oughtn’t count on one. What’s yer hurry anyhow? After what ye said the other night, I minded ye might be having second thoughts about the wedding.”
Jenny rounded on him. “I said nothing of the kind Harris Chisholm and I’ll thank ye not to go putting words in my mouth. If I did say something, it was only because I was off my head with cold and fear we were going to die.”
So fiercely was she concentrating on her vehement protest, Jenny did not see the tree root snaked out on the path before her. She pitched forward, arms swinging wildly, trying in vain to regain her balance. Harris dove to catch her but only succeeded in softening her fall. Together they sprawled onto a bed of moss and ferns.
The vital fragrance of the forest overwhelmed Jenny, as did her body’s vexing reaction to Harris. Her heart galloped almost painfully and her breath came in short, sharp spasms. She felt light-headed and giddy. An alarming, though not unpleasant, warmth spread through her.
It emanated from every point where his person touched hers. His upper arm wedged tight against her bosom. The gentler, but no less intoxicating, pressure of his thigh on hers. The momentary brush of his cheek against her ear. They made her long for all sorts of things she had no business wanting. Least of all from this man, when she was promised to another.
Though her body yearned to lie there, pressing against Harris in even more intimate ways, Jenny’s deep-seated practicality won out.
For this time.
“Get off me now, ye great oaf!” Like a scalded cat, she sprang to her feet and began to pick stray fronds of greenery from her hair.
His face a furious red, Harris got to his feet. “I tried to save ye from braining yerself on the ground, and this is the thanks I get?” Brushing off his vest and breeches, he kept his back turned to her.
I tried to save ye. The words sliced through Jenny like a saber of ice. How often had Harris come to her
aid, only to be repaid with insults and ingratitude? He’d saved her life the night of the wreck and she hadn’t so much as acknowledged it. Though he might assume it was because she cared nothing for him, Jenny knew it was because she cared far too much. And feared to care still more.
“Oh, Harris, I’m sorry.” Though she recognized the inherent danger, Jenny could not resist reaching for him. “Ye saved me from far worse than a wee fall, and I haven’t said a word about it. Ye must think me a proper shrew.”
When her hand came to rest on his arm, Harris jerked away, as if her touch burned him. “Think nothing of it,” he muttered. “I gave my word I’d see ye safe to Miramichi.”
“And ye’re a man of yer word.” That and so much more.
Perhaps thinking her comment merited no reply, Harris stalked off toward the Glendenning farm, where the raucous clang of a dinner bell summoned the family to their midday meal.
Jenny hesitated for a moment to wipe the unaccountable tears that had sprung to her eyes. Why did it gall her so, to learn that Harris’s concern sprang from nothing more than a compulsion to honor his word? Surely she didn’t want him motivated by more tender feelings.
Or did she?
Chapter Eight
Gritting his teeth and drawing his brows into a stern frown, Harris strove to concentrate on the column of figures before him. Robert Jardine hadn’t exaggerated when he claimed the firm’s ledgers were a mess. Though Harris hadn’t formally committed to a position with Jardine Brothers, he’d agreed to look over their accounts. It was the least he could do to repay their generosity in taking him in.
The hopeless muddle of the company ledger was not what made Harris scowl, however. It was the contradictory behavior of a certain bewitching damsel, and his own daft persistence in caring. After that endless, terrifying night in the river, he’d deluded himself into believing feelings had changed between him and Jenny. The way they’d held each other. The confidences they’d shared. How could it all have meant so much to him, without making a dent in her mercenary little heart?
If nothing else, he’d hoped it would make her have second thoughts about marrying Roderick Douglas. Instead, she appeared more determined than ever to get to Chatham and the waiting arms of her intended. Not for the life of him could he understand her hurry. Richibucto was a pleasant enough place, albeit somewhat unpolished. The town reminded Harris of an awkward but eager boy who would soon mature into his bright prospects. A fellow might do worse than settle here.
Except that Jenny would be forty miles up the coast in Chatham. Could he reconcile himself to the separation? Heaving a sigh of impatience with himself, Harris slammed the heavy ledger shut. Jardine Brothers’ tiny countinghouse at least boasted the amenity of a glazed window. Rising from the stool and stretching his long limbs, Harris wandered over to it.
The August sun blazed down on the harbor as it had every day since the storm that had wrecked the St. Bride. Gulls wheeled and dove in a cloudless sky, blue as cornflowers. Their shrill cries sounded like a chorus of derisive laughter.
Can you stay here and see her seldom? they seemed to shriek. Or go to Chatham and see her day after day with another man?
“Aye,” Harris muttered bitterly. “Ye have a point there.”
The songbirds seemed to warble a bittersweet love ballad in counterpoint to the baby’s sharp, fitful squalling, as Jenny watched Harris approach Glendennings’. Confident he hadn’t noticed her lingering on the fringe of the forest, she gazed at him to her heart’s content. Rationally she knew his looks had changed little from the day they’d departed Kirkcudbright.
He’d picked up a bit of a tan, which complemented the warm hues of his hair and eyes. And his face had lost its old haughty aspect, relaxing into an air of wry humor that was most becoming. His scars remained, though of late Jenny scarcely noticed them. Possibly because Harris himself seemed less self-conscious.
These subtle differences hardly accounted for the change in her response to him. Lately, whenever he came near, a pulse of warmth went through her, as though her entire body blushed. Her heart skipped from its steady, monotonous beat into a skittish dance. Often, some deft motion of his hands, or some quirk of his smile made her breath catch in her throat.
She’d begun to fancy him.
Though she hadn’t fully articulated the notion when they’d arrived in Richibucto a fortnight ago, Jenny had feared this would happen. She’d fought against every sign of it, but to no avail. It was as though the more she resisted her attraction for Harris, the stronger it grew. How long could she hold out against it? Another month?
Not likely.
Harris emerged from the cabin, squinting in her direction. Roderick Douglas’s intended bride wanted to turn and bound off into the woods, like the deer she had surprised one morning at dawn. Some irresistible force rooted her to the spot as Harris approached.
“Another fine day.” He glanced up, surveying the wide expanse of azure sky unmarred by a single cloud. “Say what ye will about this place, ye can’t find fault with the weather.”
The raging tempest of conflicting passions within her made Jenny reply sharply. “Easy enough for a man to say. Ye don’t have to lug water from the creek to keep the garden from dying.”
Harris looked at her as though she had slapped him.
“I ken it’s better than rain every day.” She softened her tone and smiled her apology. “At least a body can water the crops when it’s dry. There’s not much ye can do to keep them from rotting in the wet. What brings ye this way?”
He brightened at her question. “Mrs. Jardine sent me with an invitation. Would ye care to dine with us tonight?”
Jenny hesitated for only an instant. “Aye, I would. If I’m to wed a prosperous man and live in a fine house, I’ll need to polish my manners.”
“That’s fine then,” replied Harris. Something in his tone and look suggested disappointment with her answer. “I’ll come and fetch ye around seven.”
“Seven? That’s almost bedtime.”
“Folk of quality eat later,” Harris informed her. With a sour edge in his voice, he added, “Ye’d better get used to it.”
After he’d gone, Jenny hurried to finish as many of the chores as she could for Maizie Glendenning.
“Ye’ve been a godsend for me, Jenny, and no mistake. The chores’ll be there for us when we get to them. Right now, I’m going to dress yer hair. Ye might not think it, but back in the auld country, I was quite the gadabout. Now, what have ye got to wear for yer visit tonight?”
Jenny rummaged through her trunk, which had remained miraculously dry in spite of the shipwreck. As she pulled out each piece of her trousseau, purchased with gold sent by Roderick Douglas, Maizie reacted with raptures of admiration.
“Look at the color of it.”
“Just feel the weight of the cloth.”
When Jenny unearthed the last garment, her hostess was dumbstruck. “Will ye look at that now,” she managed to whisper.
With a self-conscious grin, Jenny held her badly wrinkled wedding dress in front of her. Silk, the color of heather, made up in the latest fashion. For as long as Jenny could recall, women’s dresses had fallen straight from beneath the bosom, but she’d seen pictures of older-style gowns. Gowns with tightly cinched waists and voluminous skirts—provocatively beautiful.
The mode of her wedding dress harkened back to those fashions, with a wide band of ribbon below the bust and a flared skirt supported by a rustle of laced petticoats. As she ran her hand wonderingly over the fine, smooth fabric, Jenny fought the urge to wear this gown to her dinner with the Jardines. She had several other good dresses, well suited to the occasion, though none quite so stylish as this. Besides, she felt a superstitious misgiving about wearing her wedding gown before the wedding. She’d spent Roderick’s gold on this special garment. She owed it to him to save it for their nuptials.
Yet, when she weighed all this in the balance against the look on Harris’s face when he first beheld
her in this swath of heather silk, somehow it did not weigh as heavily as it ought.
Quashing her foolish inclination, Jenny briskly stuffed her wedding gown back into the trunk. With forced animation, she asked Maizie Glendenning how they should dress her hair.
By the time Harris arrived to escort her to Jardines’, Jenny felt certain she’d swallowed a colony of butterflies. Their delicate wings fluttered urgently within her stomach. She had to clasp her hands hard together to still the trembling that threatened to overtake them.
“Will ye look at that now?” The reverent catch in Harris’s breath and the admiration that glowed in his eyes threatened to intoxicate Jenny.
She couldn’t help wondering how he might have reacted if she’d worn the silk.
“I didn’t want ye ashamed to be seen with me.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but her voice came out high-pitched and breathless.
With courtly formality, he held out his arm to her. “Any man with sense would be proud to squire such a fine lady.”
Jenny placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Her demure smile twitched into a teasing grin. “So ye were paying me some mind when I tried to teach ye manners?”
Harris laughed heartily. “Aye, lass. Now and again. But let’s not dawdle here while the food gets cold. The Jardines set a good table.”
His recommendation proved true enough, but to Jenny the evening was as much a feast for the spirit as for the palate.
As they sat in the parlor awaiting dinner, Mrs. Jardine remarked, “Mr. Chisholm tells me ye admire the works of Walter Scott, Miss Lennox.”
“I’ve only read three,” admitted Jenny, failing to confess that Harris had done most of the reading. “I liked them fine, though. Mr. Scott tells a bonny tale.”
Their hostess nodded. “Mr. Chisholm was kind enough to lend me his copy of Ivanhoe. I’m enjoying it very much.”
