Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “You’re not just having ‘people’ over; you’re bringing in eligible women. I’m not fooled for a minute.”

  “The women’s circle sews together every other Tuesday.”

  He snorted. “What about that gaggle you had in last week?”

  Emily gave him an exasperated look. “If you had any manners, you wouldn’t refer to that. MayEllen Reece is in confinement, and we all wanted to celebrate the coming little blessing.”

  “I might grant you that one, but every other day you have a lass here for a meal. Em, don’t prevaricate. It’s as if you toss out birdseed and every last goose and henwit in the county takes a turn pecking at our table.”

  She muffled a sound he couldn’t quite interpret. To be sure, she looked displeased. “I have the perfect name for your vessel. Based on the way you’re acting, it should be called the Recalcitrant.”

  “I’m not recalcitrant; I’m independent. When I determine I’m ready to wed, I’ll do my own choosing. I’ll court a woman with common sense and a kind heart. Until then, Em, cut it out.”

  “There’s nothing in the world wrong with my letting you have a look at who’s out there.”

  “You’re wasting your energy. By the time I’m ready to wed, every last one of these lasses will be married and have a babe or two.” He gave his sister a hug, then decided he’d made his point and it wouldn’t hurt to praise her a little. “I know your motive is good. I’m thankful you have a happy marriage, and it’s endearing to know you want the same for me. When I’m ready, I promise you’ll be the first to meet my girl.”

  Emily beamed up at him. She stood on tiptoe and patted his cheek. Duncan felt a spurt of relief. He’d finally gotten through to her. He smiled.

  “Duncan, boy-o. You’re in the right of it. I will be the first to meet your girl. That’s why I’ll have to introduce the two of you!” Emily twisted from his hold and hummed as she walked away.

  It wasn’t until she started down the stairs that Duncan identified the tune: “The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing.”

  Late that night, when Duncan climbed into bed, he caught himself ironing his hand over the crisp sheet. He pulled his hand back and growled under his breath. That pretty Irish maid with the beguiling blue eyes had changed this linen and smoothed it in place so nary a wrinkle marred the surface. She’d plumped his pillow, too. He took it, turned it over, and thumped it for no reason whatsoever.

  No matter where he turned, there were women. He’d grown accustomed to living at sea, being surrounded by men. Even in the close quarters of a ship, men understood how their crewmates needed solitude and space. Here on land where room abounded, women clumped together and clucked over every little thing. It could drive a man daft.

  The last thing Duncan wanted was to come into his chamber and have thoughts of that maid, Brigit, haunt him. Her quick wit, bright eyes, and attention to detail left her all too perceptive—not that he had anything to hide; but she’d been here, fussing at Emily’s insistence. She’d straightened his things, dusted his bookshelves, and even left the faintest hint of citrus behind. Was it lemon and beeswax polish, or did she wear lemon verbena?

  That did it. He was an orderly man. He kept his cabin on his vessel clean, and he could jolly well make his bed at home. He’d tell Emily not to have Brigit in here again.

  Chapter 7

  So that’s how it’s to be for now.”

  Brigit bit her lip and nodded. “There, now,” Miss Emily crooned. “Duncan’s in a foul mood, and ’tisn’t your doing. ’tis mine, truth be told. Aye, that it is. I’ve crowded a few too many lasses about him, and he’s needing his chamber to be a refuge.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Your position is safe here, Brigit. I’m delighted with you. So let’s discuss your duties for today.”

  Brigit listened and diligently carried out each assigned task. The Newcombs ran an odd home—the help worked only a half day on Sundays, and they each had another day off during the week. In addition, each of them also had one evening off on a weekly basis. Tonight she’d go visit Da and Mum. That thought warmed her as she collected the laundry and delivered it to the laundress.

  When she entered through the kitchen, Cook flashed her a smile. “I just took inventory of the pantry, and I’m needing to rearrange things. A handful of girls are due in tomorrow to help me with canning. Have the other maids told you about this?”

  “No. I’m willing to help. I’m not precisely sure what to do with those orange things though.”

  “Pumpkins.” Cook smiled at her. “They make a wondrous custard or pie.” She flapped her hand back and forth. “But that’s neither here nor there at this moment. I’m going to have Trudy and Lee wash out jars for me. Goodhew put crates in the pantry, and you’ll go help me sort through the jars.”

  “What are the crates for?”

  “Why, Miss Emily sends a crate of jars to the staff’s families along with flour, sugar, and such so they’ll have the essentials for holiday baking. It’s a household tradition. She does it once a season—autumn, Christmas, Easter, and summer.”

  Brigit stared at Cook in astonishment.

  Cook tugged her into the spacious pantry and whispered, “Miss Emily was practically starved to death when Mr. John found her. She’d given her portion of food to Duncan and their sister, Anna. Anna—bless her soul—made it through birthing Timothy, but she was just too weak. The very first thing Miss Emily did as mistress of Newcomb House was to come into this pantry and make boxes for the maids’ families. Now where shall we begin?”

  Brigit looked around at the countless tins, sacks, barrels, and jars. Shelves, cupboards, and bins filled the large, square room. Canned apricots sat at eye level on the nearest shelf. “Oh, Mum loves apricots,” she blurted out.

  Cook laughed. “Then help yourself. While you’re at it, put a pair of jars in the next crate for my sister.”

  “Glory be,” Brigit said slowly. “The dear Lord’s in heaven, and He’s reaching down to provide for us.”

  He had no one to blame but himself. He’d taken Emily to task for overworking Brigit, so now Emily had the maid taking the girls to Newcomb Shipping’s warehouse for an afternoon of hunting through the bolts of fabric. They were to select flannels for the women’s sewing circle to make blankets and nightgowns for the local orphanage.

  The girls would be underfoot at the house with the autumn canning, so the excursion made perfect sense. All in all, the plan should work out beautifully—except for the fact that John had an appointment, so Em decided Duncan could drop them off on his way to the dock and pick them up later.

  So here he had June standing between his legs as he drove the carriage, and Brigit sat beside him with Julie on her lap. Anna Kathleen and Lily took up the other seat, much to his relief. Until they were seated and others were out of range, his nieces practically killed anyone who ventured close with their parasols. He’d have to talk to Em about teaching the girls to handle those dumb things better; else they’d blind someone.

  As the carriage rolled down the main tree-lined street in town, another carriage stopped alongside his. Opal and her mother were riding along with Prudence and another woman. He couldn’t very well ignore them, so he tipped his hat.

  June asked loudly, “Uncle Duncan, which one of them is Fortune Hunter?”

  The outraged expressions and sounds coming from that conveyance made it clear all of the women heard June’s question.

  “June, the name is Fortuna, darling.” Brigit’s words rang out. “Fortuna was an imaginary name for the dolly. It means to be blessed or lucky. We all need to look for the blessings in our lives.”

  Grateful for Brigit’s quick thinking and diplomatic solution to the sticky situation, Duncan nodded, then smiled at June. “And you want to be a blessing to others.”

  “Is that why we’re getting ‘terial for the orphan babies?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “‘Tuna Hunter didn’t get a blessing,” Julie pouted. �
�She got lost. I can’t find her.”

  Anna Kathleen called over, “You all are welcome to join us if you’d like!”

  Duncan bit back a groan. If the ladies accepted Anna’s invitation, there was no way he could leave society ladies in the warehouse. He’d be obliged to go along and endure them all afternoon. Brigit had enough common sense to mind the girls and keep them together with her. She’d capably select practical fabrics with a minimum of fuss or bother. Compassion had filled her eyes when she’d been told of the purpose of this outing, and Duncan knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the only material she’d want would be for the motherless children. He’d be able to assign a man to push along a cart for Brigit and assure their safety, then leave and tend to his own business.

  On the other hand, visions of Prudence pulling out yards of pink satin or Opal heading toward the brocades made Duncan’s hair stand on end.

  He strove to school his expression. “Someday we’ll have to plan some other kind of outing, Anna. The ladies are wearing such fetching dresses, they’d never want to get them soiled in a musty old warehouse.”

  “Yes, well, we will be coming to the ladies’ sewing circle next Tuesday,” Opal singsonged as she ran her fingertips along a ribbon on her day gown. “You girls go on ahead. Be sure to pick out some lovely little pieces so we can brighten the days of those unfortunate waifs.”

  Prudence leaned forward. “I’d be happy to help today.”

  Opal’s mother cut in. “Pru, dear, your mama would swoon if I took you home with cobwebs and dust all over that rose taffeta.”

  “Another time. Good day, ladies.” Duncan drove off and didn’t even try to smother his smile. Pink had some use after all.

  Chapter 8

  Details. They’re just minor details,” one of the carpenters grumbled as he tromped off with a toolbox. Duncan held his tongue. It wouldn’t serve any purpose to bark at the men. The frustrations he faced were myriad; yet none of them would be lessened by snapping at someone. His ship still needed appreciable fittings before it would be seaworthy and capable of handling a fully laden hull. After listening to the discussions around him, Duncan felt more pressured to hasten the maiden voyage.

  Hotheaded men already scrapped with one another about politics, and everyone had an opinion about the Lincoln-Douglas debates. Whichever leaning they held, those men weren’t above trying to convince others to see matters in the “right” way. He had his hands full keeping the workmen on task and off the political bandwagons. More often than not, Duncan found it necessary to stop a scuffle between his workers because some staunchly advocated secession, while others firmly believed in preserving the Union. All he needed was for someone to get upset and sabotage the vessel. Once it was launched, he would have far better control over who came near it.

  Newcomb Shipping boasted fine crews of seamen, and there’d never been anything but cooperation at sea. Discipline was both rare and fair. Some of these hotheaded men could tear apart the crew’s harmony. Duncan made mental notes of the few who were rabble-rousers and also of those who were peacemakers.

  Duncan wasn’t a man to vote by party recommendation—he studied the candidates, prayed, and finally came to the decision he felt was best. The word “secession” came up often, and folks were hot under the collar. He wished the Lord’s peace would be poured out on the nation.

  “Duncan, I’m needing more timber,” Old Kemper called from several yards away.

  “Fine. I’ll have a draft ready for you at the office. When do you want it?”

  Kemper sorrowfully shook his head from side to side and swaggered up. “Nae, that’s not the issue. ’tis that the mill’s behind on deliveries.”

  “Then we’ll send wagons for whatever you need. Probably ought to lay by some extra if they’re running late on our orders.”

  “I was hopin’ you’d say that. Can’t take my men though. I need every last man jack. You’ll have to pull some deckhands. Sooner you do it, the better off we are.” Kemper brushed some sawdust off the front of his shirt. “I’m already looking at a delay because of this.”

  After arranging for a team of sailors, Duncan sent them off with Old Kemper to get the lumber. He went to examine the sails on another vessel and dickered with a supplier over the rising cost of tar.

  Every last contact contained some reference to the election. Duncan didn’t want to engage in political conversations. He tried to sidestep them as best he could. Folks lost all reason when they found someone didn’t share their leanings. Duncan planned to cast his vote in the privacy of the ballot box and prayed whatever the outcome, his loved ones would be spared any of the discord’s ravages.

  John met his gaze and subtly tilted his head toward the shipping office. He rarely sought a meeting in private. Most of their discussions took place out in the shipyard or on the docks. The fact that John indicated he’d rather handle a matter out of sight let Duncan know it must be important.

  Duncan cupped his hands to his mouth to create a bullhorn. “John—I need to get some papers signed. Can you meet me in the office?”

  His brother-in-law nodded.

  Duncan hadn’t lied. He did need John’s signature on a few things. Those matters were resolved in minutes. Unfortunately, folks kept coming in and out. John grimaced. “Let’s have a quiet supper tonight. I’ll instruct Emily that she and the children can eat early. Hey—have you seen my fountain pen?”

  “No. Why?”

  John shook his head as he rummaged on the top of his desk. “I can’t find it at home and wondered if I accidentally carried it here or if you’d borrowed it by chance.”

  “Sorry. Haven’t seen it.”

  John heaved a sigh. “It’ll turn up. As to the other matter—we’ll dine in the library at seven, if you’re free.”

  “Done.” Duncan figured John had plenty on his mind. They’d both been busier than a one-armed man in a rowboat. ‘Twas time to compare notes.

  “I’m needing butter.” Brigit surveyed the cart and determined what else would complete the meal.

  “Here you go.” Lee plunked down a small dish.

  “I’ll be happy to wheel that on in.” Trudy bustled over and curled her hands around the handle of the ornately inlaid wooden cart.

  “I imagine you would, but you’re not going to.” Cook used her ample hip to bump Trudy away. “’Tis dishes for you tonight. Get with it now.”

  Trudy let out a gust of a sigh and pouted. “I don’t know why I can’t take the tray in to the gentlemen. I’ve been here longer than Brigit.”

  Brigit didn’t want to be party to this conversation. She popped the domed covers over the plates to hold in the heat and filled the creamer.

  Cook didn’t mince words. “You’re not assigned that task, and for good cause. You make a pest of yourself every time you get in the same room as Duncan.”

  “I do not!”

  “And just who dropped beets on his arm yesterday?”

  Trudy looked completely affronted. “That was an accident.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone so accident-prone,” Lee added in a wry tone. “The way you tripped on the stairs and he had to catch you—”

  “Oh, stop! Mishaps occur to everyone.” Trudy pressed her hand to her bosom. “No one can begin to imagine how mortified I was to tumble down the stairs in front of him.”

  Lee snapped a dish towel at her. “For it being such an embarrassing calamity, Goodhew said you sure did manage to cling to Duncan for a long while.”

  “I could have broken my neck. He rescued me, and I was suffering a reaction.”

  Cook folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes. “Tripping down one measly step wouldn’t break your neck. It’s a crying pity you didn’t thump your noggin and knock some sense into yourself. Any other lady of the home would dismiss you for the way you’re literally throwing yourself at a family member. ’tis unseemly. Stop whining and do your job, and be glad you’ve kept it thus far.”

  Brigit turned the c
art around and bumped the swinging door with her hip to open it. She backed out of the kitchen and drew the cart after her until the door shut. Once out, she seesawed the cart back and forth at an angle until she had it turned around. The library lay just a few doors down the hall.

  Goodhew waited until she brought the cart to the door, then opened it and announced, “Dinner, sirs.”

  “Yes. Good.” Mr. John’s voice drifted out of the room along with the pleasant scent of the fire Brigit had lit in the room an hour before.

  She pulled in the cart, and the door shut behind her. Mr. John sat behind his desk, and Duncan stood by the fireplace. Brigit got no cue as to their desire, so she asked, “Will you gentlemen be dining off the cart, or would you prefer to use the desk or one of the tables?”

  “That table there will do just fine.” Mr. John gestured toward a table flanked by a pair of deep green leather wingback chairs. He then turned his attention back on Duncan. “It’s not a matter of greed. Emily suffered from such poverty. I’ll never have her in a position where she needs to worry again.”

  “And you have my undying gratitude for that.” Duncan grabbed an andiron and poked at a log. The logs let off a cheery popping sound, and sparks flew.

  Brigit quietly spread a small, plain white linen cloth across the table, then set the plates down and laid silverware beside them. She took pains to make as little noise as possible. The somber tone of voice the men shared brought forth memories of when Da and Mum were discussing the grave matters of sending the farmers to America so they wouldn’t starve. Tears misted her eyes.

  She poured coffee for Mr. John and placed the glass of milk for Duncan next to the other plate. Once everything was in place, she pushed the cart off to the corner, came back, and removed the warming domes. “Supper is served.”

  The men took seats, and Duncan asked a blessing. Brigit waited until he finished before she set the domes on the cart. It would have been disrespectful to make that racket while he was addressing the Almighty.