by Ann Moore
“Yet,” Grace added firmly. “Why I can’t marry you yet.”
“But you do still want to marry me?”
Grace hesitated only a second. “Oh, aye, Peter, if you’ll still have me. And the children, of course.”
He laughed. “Of course the children. Who are you, Grace Donnelly, if not mother to all these children, hmmm?”
She did not fully understand the meaning of what he’d just said, but she smiled as if she did.
“When you’re well and on your feet again, we’ll talk more about it,” she promised. “We’re not in dire straits, any of us, and we’ve time to settle our business before we come together.”
“Do you still have business to settle?” he prodded gently.
“No, Peter,” she resolved. “I’ve put it all behind me, and I’m well ready to make a life with you.”
“So am I.” He reached into his pocket and took out a small box, elegantly wrapped, then leaned forward and put it in her hand. “Merry Christmas, Grace.”
Heart pounding anxiously, Grace slipped off the bow and opened the box; the elegant ring was stunning, and she was moved by Peter’s thoughtfulness.
“It’s an emerald. For the Emerald Isle whence you came. How’s that for poetry?”
“Oh, Peter, ’tis beautiful.” She looked at her blunt fingers, rough and reddened from kitchen work, the nails cut short. “Too beautiful.”
He took the box from her and withdrew the ring, then slipped it onto her finger. “Not nearly beautiful enough,” he said and kissed her hand.
She bit her lip, then raised her hand hesitantly, tipping it so that the stone caught and tossed the light from the fire.
“It’s my promise to you that we’ll marry whenever you are ready. You and the children. And in the meantime”—he held up his fingers to count again—“I’ll rest, find a house for us, and see if Mister Hewitt will be willing to come there for the children’s lessons. I don’t know yet what to do about Christmas or your enormous wages, but I’ll figure it out.”
She got up and kissed his mouth tenderly, then knelt by the side of the chair. “Thank you, Peter. Thank you for everything.”
“It’s only a ring,” he teased. “But if you want everything, I’ll get that for you, too.”
She laughed. “I don’t want everything. Only a home with you and Liam, Mary Kate and Jack.”
He nodded, glancing over his shoulder at them. “Mary Kate’s a wonderful girl, Grace. You’ve done well with her. And I like your young Jack, though he seems none too fond of me.”
“He’ll come round,” she declared. “Truly, he’s wanted to know you forever. Couldn’t wait to hear your letters when they’d come.”
“Well, he was quite clear in his opinion that I didn’t look like a sea captain.” Reinders looked down at his own thin frame and laughed. “Granted, even I don’t think I’m very impressive these days.”
“’Tis the pirate stories Mary Kate reads aloud,” Grace admitted. “I suspect he thought you’d come flying into the harbor with devilish hair full of shells and bones, scars on your face and golden teeth, a great rattling saber at your side.”
“Sorry to disappoint him,” Reinders said ruefully, running a hand over his clean-shaven cheeks and chin. “Maybe I should grow it back, get one of those hats, an eye patch.”
“You needn’t work at it. Give him time to get to know you and he’ll be in your pocket for the rest of your days. You’re great with the boys; look at how devoted Liam is to you!”
“Who would’ve thought all those years ago when we sailed from Liverpool that we’d end up here together, the four of us. Five,” he amended. “I’m glad Liam and Mary Kate are still close.”
“They’ve been from the start,” Grace recalled. “When Alice and Siobahn died, he found comfort in caring for Mary Kate and, of course, she adored him. Whisper, whisper, whisper, and only with her did he shed any real tears.”
“I remember how little she was then, those big dark eyes watching everything around her.”
“Aye, she’s an old soul, that girl. She loves Jack truly, but there’s a loyalty to Liam that goes even beyond that. Perhaps because of what they survived as young ones.”
“I forget, sometimes, what he’s overcome. What you’ve overcome.”
“Good, as we’re more than that now,” she said absolutely. “We’re Americans, and hasn’t everyone here survived something in order to be here?”
“I didn’t.”
“Aye, but your folks, now, they did. How’s your mam, by the way? Do you write to her as you should?” She grinned.
“Yes, Missus Donnelly,” Reinders reported dutifully. “I write my mother twice a year. She sold off half the farm and moved closer to town with my brother and his family. She’s getting old now, but she still chides me about not attending church services.”
“She’s a good mother, then.” Grace’s eyes twinkled.
The clock on the mantel began to ring out the time, and Jack stirred himself.
“Mam,” he said grumpily, rubbing his eyes. “Can I go home and see the puppies now?”
“Aye, Jack. Soon.”
“Nice present,” Reinders said aside to Grace.
“The doctor saw how good they were with Scout while she carried. Jack especially. Can’t get enough of the dogs and the horses, that one. ’Tis the one thing he wanted most, an animal of his own.”
“Generous man, your employer. Knows exactly what everyone wants and provides it.” Reinders paused. “You don’t think … Have you considered, Grace, that he might be interested in more than just your domestic service?”
Grace sat up straight and stared at him as if he were mad.
“Doctor Wakefield wants a decent cook for his house, and a house made decent for his friends.” High color rose up her neck and into her cheeks. “If you knew him, you wouldn’t even think of—” She broke off, frustrated. “What exactly are you saying to me?”
“Just that he might have stronger feelings for you than you realize, maybe stronger than he realizes. I just want you to be careful, that’s all.”
“Well, of course I’m careful, you daft eejit.” Grace put her hands on her hips. “Rowen Wakefield is not the kind of man who would ever consider carrying on with a servant. And that’s what I am in that house, Peter—a servant.”
“Grace.” Reinders looked at her gravely. “You might think of yourself as a servant, but no one else who knows you could ever think of you that way. You’re like … like … some deposed majesty, biding your time until the day you can reclaim your throne.”
“Let me tell you, Captain Reinders, that I work as hard as the next with no eye to getting out of it.” Grace was really angry now. “I don’t know who you think you are saying such a thing to me, but perhaps ’tis you don’t know me as well as you think.”
He put up his hands in protest. “That’s not what I said, Grace! Or if it is”—he paused, trying to remember—“it’s not what I meant. I don’t know what I meant, exactly, except that … I guess I’m just uneasy about you living in another man’s house. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Grace eyed him warily. “You’re not a petty man, Peter.” She glanced over at the children, all of whom had stopped playing and were staring at them. “But I shouldn’t’ve gone off like that, either, and I’m sorry for my end.” She sank back down onto her knees and lowered her voice. “It’s been a long day. A good day,” she amended, “but … long.”
“Grace.” Reinders tipped her chin up so that he could see her eyes. “Is everything all right up there? It’s not too much for you, is it?”
Suddenly, she longed to close her eyes and go to sleep right there and wake up next to him; she longed for the body of a husband beside her and the comfort that body could bring, for the intimacy of talking in the dark, of telling all that was in her heart.
“The work is fine,” she said instead. “The housekeeper’s a hard woman, hard on everyone, including her own daughter, who does a
ll the work. There’s always a quarrel.”
“Why does Wakefield keep her on?”
“His sister won’t hear of anyone else, but … she’s unwell, Miss Abigail. Today”—Grace stopped, still not sure what had really happened—“the doctor gave her a piano as a special present, and she gave him nothing but anger and tears.”
“What’s Hopkins got to do with that?”
Grace shook her head, baffled. “I can’t really say, but I know ’tis her making things harder than they ought to be. She’d told the doctor Miss Abigail wasn’t up for being with people, and was too smug when the mistress proved her right. Things like that, and then she slips away in secret now and then, not a word to anyone.”
Reinders put his hand on her shoulder. “Household servants can live very small and narrow lives, you know that. Take Arnott, for instance—he disappears all the time, always with a good reason, but somehow you just know he’s up to no good.” He squeezed gently. “You can’t let yourself get dragged into whatever drama they’ve made for themselves. It’s too exhausting.”
“’Tis true, I suppose, what you’re saying,” Grace allowed, though she felt strongly that there was a greater problem at heart.
“See how very useful a husband can be? And speaking of slipping away in secret …” Reinders glanced at the children, who’d resumed their play. “Do you see us being alone anytime in the near future? Not that I would ever compromise your morals, Missus Donnelly.” He winked.
“Too late for that,” she pointed out. “What are you thinking, then, Peter, that we should be lovers again before we’re wed?”
The captain was surprised at her bluntness and shook his head. “I’ve thought of that afternoon a million times, Grace,” he confessed quietly. “And I won’t deny I can barely stand to wait a minute longer.” He stopped himself and laughed shortly. “But in truth, I don’t think I even possess the strength to carry you up to bed.”
The look on his face intensified the longing Grace already felt. “I think of that afternoon, as well,” she admitted. “And sometimes I want only to …”
“Lie down together,” Reinders finished for her. “I’m glad to know that. But we’ve waited this long, we can wait a little longer.” His words were decisive, but his eyes spoke otherwise. “I don’t want you to have to sneak around and make up excuses, especially to the children.”
Grace nodded, relieved; her body was more than willing, but her mind was full of trepidation. She did not tell him that her biggest fear was becoming pregnant and the embarrassment she would feel in rushing a marriage that would confirm Missus Hopkins’ suspicions of entrapment and convenience. She kissed him now, grateful for his passion as well as for his understanding.
“Soon,” she whispered, and kissed him again. “Soon enough we’ll be together every night for the rest of our lives.”
“Mam!” Jack demanded, standing up and putting his fists on his hips. “The puppy! She’s waiting for me! I said I’d come see her tonight, and ’tis night now!”
“Jack, that’s rude,” Mary Kate chided. “They’re talking; can you not see that?”
“They been talking all day!” Jack insisted. “I even took a nap like a good boy, didn’t I, and still they’re talking!”
“I understand your impatience, young Jack.” Reinders let go of Grace and got slowly to his feet. “A puppy is a fine present.”
“Oh, aye! ’Tis the best!” Jack enthused. “The best ever!”
Grace sent him a look behind the captain’s back.
“But the fishing pole’s fine, as well,” the boy added, taking the hint about his manners. “Thank you very much, sir.”
“You’re very welcome.” Reinders walked over and ruffled Jack’s hair. “I plan to take you out myself as soon as I’ve recovered my health.”
“You might be too old,” Jack speculated, ducking the captain’s hand. “And anyway I go with Mister Litton. He knows all about the fishing round here.”
“Jack!” Grace was mortified by her son’s bold tongue.
The boy sighed. “I mean—yes, sir; thank you, sir. Sorry, sir. Sorry, Mam. Sorry, Mary Kate. Sorry, Liam.”
“I think that about covers it, son.” Reinders laughed. “We’ll talk more about the fishing another time, but now you’d better get your mother home.”
The captain called for the carriage and they said their good nights in the large entry hall while waiting for its arrival. After he’d seen them safely off, Reinders slowly climbed the stairs to bed, more exhausted than he’d felt in a long time. Although he’d tried to put on a good show for the day, he had to admit that he was still far from his old self.
He was forced to call Arnott for help in undressing and getting into his nightclothes, and the presence of the butler irritated him. What was it about such people? he wondered. The Arnotts and Hopkinses of the world—that they should radiate such smug superiority and barely veiled contempt for others? He sighed and let his head sink into the pillow, and though he’d wanted his last thoughts to be of Grace, they were instead of her little boy, the boy he knew instinctively looked just like his father. Reinders had not anticipated having to win over this child, and it bothered him, as if McDonagh himself had presented one last stumbling block to Peter’s and Grace’s happiness. “Foolishness,” he whispered to himself in the dark—the boy would come around and all would be well. But as he fell asleep, it was uncertainty that circled his heart instead of confidence, anxiety instead of peace, frustration instead of love, knowing that for the whole of the night he would toss and turn, and in the morning look worse than ever. Ridiculous, Reinders thought and fumbled for the lamp beside his bed. He lit it and settled himself against the pillows, opening the book Grace had given him for Christmas.
Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson was one of the few men Reinders admired in the world, a hero to any seagoing man worth his salt. Off to sea at age twelve, the diminutive Nelson commenced upon one of the most brilliant naval careers in history—one that eventually cost him an eye and then an arm, amputated without benefit of anesthesia—despite the fact that he suffered from seasickness his entire life and was often ill with dysentery and malaria. Reinders admired the man even more now that he’d had a taste of what Nelson experienced with maddening regularity.
‘“I have always been a quarter of an hour before my time, and it has made a man of me,’” Reinders quietly quoted. “But I, Admiral Nelson,” he added, looking up from the page, “have always been at least two steps behind, and cannot truly say what that has made of me.”
Two steps behind, he thought now, especially when it came to Grace Donnelly, a woman who seemed a century ahead. Would he ever catch up to her, Reinders wondered, ever prove to be the kind of man who deserved such a woman? Admiral Nelson had won the heart of the love of his life, the great Emma, Lady Hamilton; what advice would he give Reinders, if he could?
A man must act decisively, or not at all. Was that Horatio, Reinders asked himself, or yet another ahead of his time?
Quit brooding, Captain, and get some sleep—battles cannot be won with weary heads, you know.
“And mine is definitely weary.” Reinders closed the book and turned out the lamp. “Good night, Admiral, if you’re there. Thanks for lending a hand with all this.”
I’ve only got the one, the admiral replied, but it’s yours for the asking.
Reinders stretched out, his eyelids heavy with sleep. “Doctor in the morning,” he mumbled and then began to snore.
Twenty-three
Grace woke up late in the night and felt for Mary Kate beside her; the girl breathed regularly and was sound asleep, as was Jack in his cot. She lay still a moment, wondering what it was that had awakened her, and then she realized that someone was outside in the yard or—Grace rose up on her elbows, listening more closely—beyond the yard. It was a woman, crying and pleading, her entreaties matched by the low, urgent voice of a man; Grace was sure it must be the doctor and Abigail. She got out of bed and went to the window, pul
ling the curtain aside. On the far side of the garden, two figures wrestled in the cold moonlight, the doctor attempting to catch his sister by the arm and drag her back indoors, though she fought him every inch.
Grace went into the mudroom and threw on a heavy jacket over her nightdress, then slipped her feet into her work boots. Outside, the cold slapped her in the face and her breath ached in her lungs. Moving quickly but carefully around the icy puddles, she went around the back of the garden and hurried to where the two people still grappled, Abigail crying out and the doctor cursing now.
“Thank God,” Wakefield said when he saw Grace. “Grab her other arm. She’s soaking wet. Careful.” He was breathing hard. “Got to get her in before she freezes.”
Grace did as ordered, though anyone fighting as hard as Abigail was in no immediate danger of freezing, she thought. She waded into the skirmish, surprised at Abigail’s strength—Hell hath no fury came to mind—and Grace hung on with a grip she knew would leave marks.
“Let go, you devil!” Abigail shrieked, flailing at her new assailant.
Wakefield managed to clap a hand over his sister’s mouth, but she bit him and he yelped, releasing his other hand, as well.
Now it was only Grace who had a hold of the woman, and she flinched as a punch landed against her neck, as fingernails raked her cheek. Blindly, she fought for control of Abigail’s other hand and caught it right before it scratched her eye. Off balance now, the two women went down with a hard thud, Abigail on top; Grace summoned her might and rolled the woman over, pinning her to the ground, though her head turned wildly from side to side and blood trickled from her mouth.
“Now what?” Grace called over her shoulder to Wakefield, who was frozen where he stood. “Doctor? Help!”
Abigail spit in Grace’s face and brought her knee up hard from behind, thumping her captor in the back.
“Hold her there.” Wakefield dropped to his knees and felt in his pocket. “Oh, God,” he moaned. “It broke. The bottle broke.” He withdrew a hand that was dark with what must be blood.
