The Bonny Bride

by Deborah Hale

  It was not the words themselves as much as the dire urgency of her tone that vaulted Harris to his feet and sent him pursuing Jenny Lennox yet again. That, and his burden of guilt, and his own vexing, daft devotion to her.

  With a furtive glance over her shoulder, as if she feared pursuit, Jenny tapped on the door of Roderick Douglas’s house. At least, this imposing fieldstone structure was the one to which folks had pointed her. Queer looks they’d given her, too, when she stopped them to ask directions. Likely they wondered what such an unkempt creature wanted with a prosperous pillar of their community. Perhaps they’d questioned why her eyes were all red and swollen.

  Jenny tried to swallow an enormous lump in her throat. When Harris had caught up with her, she’d almost been ready to abandon her dream of marrying Roderick Douglas and risk her whole future by staying with him. Only he’d made it clear he didn’t want her after all. He hadn’t even tried to understand that she feared as much for his prospects as for her own. Hadn’t he come to North America to make something of himself? How would he ever accomplish that with a wife and family to keep?

  The door jerked inward, just then, and a tall, angular woman stared out at Jenny. She was dressed from head to toe in a shade of rusty black that matched her severely pinned hair. She had a sharp, narrow beak of a nose and dark eyebrows so dense they appeared to be one unrelieved line of bristling disapproval.

  “Don’t just stand there, girl.” Even her voice shared a harsh quality with that of the crow who’d wakened Jenny. “State your business.”

  “Please.” Jenny tamped down the lump in her throat and tried again. “Please. Is this the house of Mr. Douglas?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Roderick Douglas?”

  “Didn’t I just say so? What do you want with Mr. Douglas, girl?”

  Jenny tried to still her trembling knees. If the house did belong to Roderick Douglas, this woman must be his servant. She would soon serve Jenny, as well.

  “I’m afraid that’s private between Mr. Douglas and myself. Is he in?”

  The woman looked Jenny slowly up and down, distaste plainly written on her features. She appeared to be weighing the decision whether to vouch that information.

  “No,” she announced at last.

  Jenny sensed the woman took pleasure in her own look of disappointment.

  “No, and not likely to come home until supper—if then.”

  “Where might I find him in the meantime?” Though she tried not to let the woman cow her, it was hard work.

  Again a pause, and a hard stare. Finally she said, “He may be down at the yard, if you’ve a mind to go there looking for him.”

  “Thank—” Before Jenny could get the word out, the massive door with its brass fittings shut in her face.

  As she turned away, Jenny muttered, “Ye need charm lessons worse than Harris Chisholm, ye old crow.”

  It took some little while, and more queer looks before Jenny found her way to the shipyard. The place was deserted, though the pungent scents of sawdust and tar mingled in the air, imparting a vision of busier days past and those soon to come.

  From his short tenure at Jardine Brothers, Harris had taught her something about the business. How it often slowed in the summer while the colony’s labor force tended to their farming and haying. Come autumn there would be a short frenzy to get another ship fitted and under sail before winter ice closed in the river. Once the ground had frozen, lumbermen would take to the forests, looking for big old trees to fell for keels and masts. As March ice rotted in the tide head, shipyards up and down the coast would hum with activity, preparing their first vessels of the New Year for an Atlantic baptism.

  Jenny inhaled a deep breath. This was the odor of prosperity.

  Hearing men’s voices, she looked up to see Roderick Douglas walking from a large warehouse, arguing with a smaller man about something written or drawn on a large sheet of paper.

  “I tell you…” There was no mistaking his voice, as he gestured toward a skeleton of wooden scaffolding. His Lowland brogue had muted, though. “A barque like that will ride too low in the water for…”

  As he caught sight of Jenny, his sleek dark brows drew together in an inquisitive gaze. His aquiline nose wrinkled ever so slightly. “Can I help you, miss?”

  For a moment she stood, dumbstruck to see him again after five long years. If anything, he had grown handsomer in the interval. His mid-height frame had filled out most agreeably, complemented by his well-tailored clothes. The North American sun had bronzed his face to a perfect complement for his dark hair. The air of promise he’d worn as a youth had ripened into one of success and accomplishment. And the hint of his smile could still set Jenny quivering like a jelly.

  Her mouth worked open and closed several times, but no sound emerged….Lord, she must look like a walleyed codfish!

  At last, in a desperate rush, she gasped, “I’m Jenny Lennox, remember? I’ve come from Dalbeattie to be yer bride.”

  The hesitation in his eyes struck her like a blow. She was not what he’d expected. She was a disappointment to him.

  “Bride?” As he moved toward her, his expression brightened and a smile of singular charm lit his fine features. “Janet—of course! But where have you come from? There haven’t been any ships that docked today.”

  He clasped her hand warmly. To Jenny it felt as if dark clouds had parted and the sun had finally begun to shine. If anything could have crowned that blissful moment, it was Roderick’s heartfelt avowal. “You were so long in coming. I was beside myself, thinking what might have happened to you.”

  Jenny gathered her breath to explain that something had happened, and how she had come to be in Chatham when there was no new ship in port. Before she could get the words out, she heard a commotion behind her and someone calling her name.

  Not just someone—Harris.

  She turned to warn him away.

  Catching sight of him, Jenny cringed. She was thankful there were no more people around to see him. Bad enough she’d have to introduce him to Roderick Douglas. What would her suave, well-tailored fiancé make of Harris in his present state?

  The green plaid that had looked so manly in the wedding procession now twisted and flapped around him in the most comical way. His long, bare shanks stuck out beneath the hem like double trunks of some improbable tree—a tree on fire. His rusty beard and wildly flying hair provided the flames. For all that, the sight of him stirred her heart with unwelcome intensity.

  An intensity almost equal to that of his expression. Bearing down on her with the force of an Atlantic gale, Harris wrenched her hand free of Roderick’s and pulled her clear.

  “No, Jenny! Ye mustn’t do this. Morag told me…”

  She struggled to work free of him. Had he decided to wreak his revenge upon her by ruining her chance of a match with Roderick Douglas? She’d teach him to play dog in the manger.

  Before she could get the words out, Roderick Douglas stepped forward. “I don’t know who you are or what you want.” He jabbed a forefinger at Harris’s chest. “But lay hands on my bride again and you will be very sorry.”

  A look passed between the men—contempt on Roderick’s side, desperation on Harris’s. Jenny feared they might soon come to blows.

  “It’s not what ye think, Roderick.” She took his arm and faced Harris, to show where her new loyalty must lie. “This is Mr. Chisholm. He’s been my escort from Scotland. When our ship was wrecked on the bar at Richibucto, he brought me overland to Chatham…so ye and I could be married.”

  Intended to allay his hostility, her words seemed to inflame Roderick further. His dark eyes flashed and his perfectly proportioned features hardened. “Escort? You mean this fellow has been with you all the way from Dalbeattie, and day and night through the woods? What’s he been up to with you along the way?”

  Jenny flinched at the accusation. Roderick was right to be angry with her. She’d behaved foolishly at best, wantonly at worst. Without a thou
ght about the consequences it might have for his reputation.

  “I know it may look bad, but I assure ye Harris was a perfect gentleman, and nothing improper took place between us.”

  The lie burned on Jenny’s tongue. Well, it was partly true, she tried to salve her conscience. She would still be a virgin bride, and that must be Roderick’s chief concern. Fiercely she strove to suppress the memories of how passion had arced between her and Harris during their journey.

  “I’d have thought ye’d be grateful to him,” she insisted, eager to change the subject. “If it wasn’t for Harris, I never would have made it to Chatham alive.”

  “I see.” Roderick sounded contrite, but his tightly clenched jaw did not relax. His glare did not soften. “I apologize, Chisholm.”

  Jenny fairly squirmed with shame. She was the one who’d behaved badly—to both these fine men. She was the one who should beg forgiveness and atone.

  “I thought you meant harm to my lady,” Roderick continued. “I couldn’t stand for that. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  His lady? Jenny nearly melted into Roderick’s arms. After how she’d behaved, in spite of how she must look, he was prepared to call her that? No question, here was a knight errant capable of shielding and defending her from anything that might blight their future happiness. As for Harris—he was better off without her. If only he could see it.

  “I thought you meant harm to my lady. I couldn’t stand for that. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “Aye.” Harris took a step back, more dismayed by the adoring look on Jenny’s face than by Douglas’s vague threats. “I mind ye well enough.”

  So this was why Morag had sent him tearing down the Chatham Road after Jenny. Harris had few memories of his rival from their schooldays in Dalbeattie, but he remembered Roderick’s father, Gregor Douglas. Though the man had been a pillar of the kirk and community, local gossip held that all three of his wives had died of a broken spirit. Likewise, Old Douglas had dominated his children—all but Roderick.

  Harris had assumed the rancor between father and son sprang from their differences. Now he knew better.

  Judging by the look on Jenny’s face, it was no use trying to convince her. At least not for the moment. Her fierce denial that anything improper had occurred between them was clear proof that she didn’t love him as she’d claimed.

  Still, in spite of himself, he cared for her. He could no more abandon her to a future with black-hearted Roderick Douglas than he could have let her brave the dangerous journey to the Miramichi on her own.

  Reaching into his vest pocket, Douglas extracted a few coins. “I owe you a debt, Chisholm, for seeing my lady safe to the Miramichi.” He tossed the money at Harris in a gesture both graceful and contemptuous.

  As the coins fell around him into the sawdust, Harris wanted to hurl the money back with a bloodcurdling oath. If he was to stay in town, though, and watch for a chance to apprise Jenny of her fiancé’s true character, he’d need something to live on.

  “Even ye don’t have enough coin to pay me for my trouble.” Harris had the bitter satisfaction of seeing Jenny flinch at his words.

  “I suppose you’ll be on your way, now that you’ve discharged your escort duties?” asked Roderick Douglas.

  So that’s what the money was for—to speed his departure.

  “On my way? Not necessarily. I may hang about for a while. See what opportunities there are for a man with my skills.”

  Roderick Douglas cocked an eyebrow and half raised one corner of his mouth. “And pray, what are your skills, Chisholm?”

  Harris strove to keep his temper in check. “I was the manager of a large granite quarry before I emigrated. I know how to keep accounts and I write a good hand.”

  “We don’t have much call for clerks in Chatham.”

  “Aye? Then I reckon I’ll have to move on. Though after all I went through to get her here, I’ve a mind to see Miss Lennox properly married off. That way I’ll feel I’ve kept my word to her pa. How soon will the wedding be?”

  “It could be as much as a month.”

  Beneath the pretended regret, Harris heard a note of barely concealed triumph. No doubt Douglas assumed he couldn’t afford the money or the time to wait around until then.

  “A month?” wailed Jenny. “Why so long?” She sounded as desperate to get the wedding over with as he was to prevent it.

  “Banns, my dear Janet.” When Douglas treated her to a proprietary smile, Harris feared he might vomit again. “They have to read them for three Sabbaths, you know.”

  “Aye, I know about banns,” said Jenny. “Only, I reckoned a ri—, that is a well-off man like ye could afford a license.”

  “Of course, I can afford it,” Douglas snapped. Catching his lapse of temper, he continued with exaggerated civility. “It’s a question of propriety. What the community expects of a man in my position.”

  It was too clean a shot for Harris to resist. “And a man in yer position must always be mindful of his position.”

  Jenny fired him a look, half chiding, half pleading, as if to say, Please don’t do this—not now.

  Roderick Douglas did not appear to catch Harris’s meaning. “Mindful of my position.” He seemed to savor the words on his tongue. “Just so. You do understand, then, Chisholm?”

  “Now that I’ve met ye, Mr. Douglas, I understand a great deal.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Once again, thanks to you for delivering my Janet safely. If you’ll excuse us, I must see her properly installed at my house, and confer with the vicar about posting banns on Sunday.”

  “Vicar?” said Jenny. “We aren’t getting wed in the English church, are we?”

  “But of course, my sweet Janet. Only Church of England marriages are recognized by civil law. This is a British colony, after all.”

  “Then why did the McGregors and their neighbours have a Free Kirk minister to say the words at that wedding?”

  “The Highlanders are…sentimental folk about such things. I assure you, the weddings in question aren’t recognized by law.”

  “What about God’s law?” Harris challenged quietly.

  Douglas cast him a smug look that set his blood boiling. “I won’t loll about in a shipyard debating theology with you, Chisholm, when a lady obviously needs her rest and nourishment…and a change of clothes. Come along, Janet. Cousin Binnie wrote me all about you, but I confess her letters didn’t do you justice.”

  He continued to talk as he escorted her away.

  Jenny glance back once. Harris could not read her expression.

  When they were quite out of earshot, he muttered to himself, “Ye haven’t seen the last of me, Jenny. Nor ye neither, Rod Douglas.”

  “A-hem.”

  At the deliberate sound of a throat clearing, Harris spun around to see a small man, holding a roll of paper—ship’s plans, no doubt. Though he had not noticed the fellow during his exchange with Roderick Douglas, Harris guessed he’d been a silent witness all along.

  “A word of advice, friend,” said the man mildly. “Do yourself a great favor. Don’t tamper with Mr. Douglas. You may live to regret it.”

  Turning to walk away, he added thoughtfully, “Then again, you may not.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  With a sigh, Jenny put down a piece of fancywork she’d been trying to stitch. She was making a mess of it. When Roderick asked how she was getting on with it, tonight at dinner, she’d either have to tell him and brave his look of gentle reproach. Or she’d have to lie.

  Why couldn’t he understand? She’d never had the time to spare for such stuff. She could wade her way through a mountain of mending where stitching only needed to be quick and strong. She had no patience for this fine, precise needlework. It was tedious and of no earthly use.

  Casting a hopeful glance around the parlor, she wondered if a bit of light housework might occupy her time. But the room was in its accustomed state of fastidious order, every bit of woodwork oiled
and polished within an inch of its life, brass and copper fittings rubbed to a soft glow. Even the cushions on the settee were placed with unerring precision. The smug chamber seemed to mock her timid attempts to make it her own.

  For sheer spite, Jenny picked up one of the cushions, flattened it unmercifully and placed it back on the settee—slightly askew.

  Going over to the window, she stared out through the painstakingly buffed glass. She would like to have gone for a walk, but where was there to go? She knew no one in Chatham. Roderick said she must be careful of the company she kept, yet he never offered to introduce her to the better sort of people in town. Was he ashamed of her?

  The notion stung—and not for the first time. She owed Roderick so much. Back in the old country she never could have hoped for a match like this one. Yet again, she swore to do everything in her power to be a dutiful wife so he would not regret marrying her.

  Only one more reading of the banns, and they would be wed on the following Friday. Jenny wished the time would pass more quickly. Perhaps once she was Roderick’s wife, she would feel less intimidated in his house. And she would have more to do, seeing to his comfort. She would lose these vague feelings of discontent and emptiness—as though something vital was missing from her life.

  Such nonsense. What could possibly be missing?

  The day she’d arrived in town, Roderick had installed her in his house, taking quarters at the inn for the sake of propriety. He came to dine most every evening, though, and Jenny looked forward to his visits…for the most part.

  He talked a good deal about his business, and she tried her best to make sense of all the strange shipbuilding terms. He frequently complained of his difficulty in securing reliable employees. This one was shiftless, that one dishonest, the other defiant. With such workers, Jenny wondered how the company managed to produce any vessels at all.

  “Of all the useless, ignorant, ham-handed…”

  Faint but sharp in their invective, the words echoed Roderick’s complaints about his men. They were followed by the sound of blows landing with a force that made Jenny flinch.