Honor Redeemed

by Christine Johnson

  “Precisely where I have taken a room. We shall dine and have a long conversation. I have much news from home.”

  David tried to hide his disappointment. This would be no short meal. His father could talk for hours.

  Prosperity would wonder why he did not visit his son this night. She might think he did not love the boy, when in fact each day knit them closer together. The doctor would gain the advantage of another day.

  Fear wound its icy fingers around his heart. Time was running short. If he did not change Prosperity’s opinion of him soon, he would lose her.

  “I don’t understand.” Prosperity stared at the woman standing on the O’Malleys’ doorstep. She was simply yet beautifully dressed in an exquisitely constructed gown. Despite the mugginess at this very early hour, she conveyed an airy ease. “You must be mistaken. I did not request a gown.” She certainly could not afford one.

  The woman’s lips pinched into a tight smile. “The doctor said that would be your response.”

  “Doctor?” Realization dawned. “Dr. Goodenow?”

  The woman nodded.

  “He should never have presumed.” She wracked her brain for a polite way to dismiss the seamstress who must have gone out of her way to call on her before they’d broken their fast. “I am in mourning. I do not need another gown.”

  “The fabric I selected is quite proper for half-mourning. At least let me show you.”

  Before Prosperity could react, Elizabeth swept in from the dining room and pulled the door the rest of the way open, revealing the sun’s first glow on the palms.

  “Mrs. Evanston,” Elizabeth cried with genuine delight. “I thought I recognized your voice. It is always a delight to see you, but whatever would bring you here at such an early hour?”

  “A fitting, naturally.”

  Elizabeth looked just as surprised as Prosperity had been. “I don’t recall ordering a gown. Has my husband been up to something without my knowledge?”

  Mrs. Evanston chuckled. “Not this time. Dr. Goodenow has commissioned an evening dress for Miss Jones.”

  “Commissioned?” Prosperity choked. Did that mean he was paying for it? “Evening dress?” She gave Elizabeth a pleading look. Even though she was forcing herself to spend more time with the doctor, this went too far. “It is not appropriate. I cannot accept such a gift.”

  “I assure you that I have taken your mourning period into consideration,” Mrs. Evanston hurried to assure her. “Do look at the sketches. We can adjust anything that does not meet your expectations.”

  “I have no expectations, because I do not need an evening dress. Where would I wear it?” Prosperity bit her tongue. That botanical society meeting the doctor had mentioned must take place in the evening. Had he said something about a soiree? She felt the color drain from her face.

  “It can’t hurt to look at the sketches and fabric.” Elizabeth breezed into the dining room with the seamstress. “We can lay everything out on the table.”

  Prosperity trailed behind them. “But . . .”

  Mrs. Evanston spread out her sketches and a swatch of the loveliest silk Prosperity had ever seen.

  “I have never seen quite that shade before. Somewhere between black and deepest violet. Beautiful,” Elizabeth exclaimed, handing the cloth to Prosperity. “It almost shimmers like the night sky.”

  Faced with Elizabeth’s approval, Prosperity could not admit her initial reaction—that the color was too bright for mourning. “It’s beautiful, but it would cost too much.”

  Mrs. Evanston peered at her. “I thought I made it clear that the doctor is paying.”

  That was the problem. “I cannot agree to this.” Prosperity pressed a hand to her roiling stomach. “It—it’s not proper.”

  “I believe you will see that an evening gown can be quite proper.” Mrs. Evanston placed a sketch before her. “Note the appropriate neckline. Any ornamentation can be left off, though no one here would consider a little lace extravagant, even in full mourning. In fact, gray lace would denote your status.”

  “That’s not what I meant. The cost—” How could she explain it? “I do not wish to be beholden to anyone. I’m afraid I cannot accept this.”

  Mrs. Evanston blanched. “But the fabric is already purchased.”

  “It is?”

  “Last week.”

  Prosperity trembled. Dr. Goodenow had asked her to attend the botanical society meeting just yesterday. If the fabric had been purchased a week ago, then he must have commissioned the gown before he knew she would accept. Why would he lay out such a sum on an uncertainty?

  Elizabeth squeezed her arm. “Don’t fret. If you do not want the gown, I will take it.”

  That certainly brightened Mrs. Evanston, but it didn’t relieve Prosperity’s misgivings.

  “The doctor must have paid for it already.”

  “I will reimburse him,” Elizabeth assured her.

  “That’s not it. Well, that’s not the entire problem.” Prosperity could not explain with Mrs. Evanston watching. “It’s, well . . . it’s presumptuous.”

  Elizabeth appeared unrattled. “Talk to the doctor, then, before making your decision.”

  “I’ve made my decision. I can’t accept this.” Prosperity drew a deep breath. The whole business was turning her empty stomach.

  “That would disappoint him,” Elizabeth said softly.

  Prosperity knew that, but she also realized that accepting such a gift drew her one step closer to marriage. Wasn’t that precisely what she had worked out in her mind as the best choice? Still, her heart balked.

  “A giver wants his gift to be received,” Mrs. Evanston seconded.

  But a gift could carry with it certain expectations. Aunt Florence and Uncle Harold expected her never to approach them for money in the future. Invitations to dine must be reciprocated. Something as personal as a gown required a personal response, one that struck dread in the pit of her stomach.

  Elizabeth touched her arm. “My offer stands. If it does not suit you, I will purchase the gown.”

  That eased her mind a little, for indeed she had wondered what to wear to the botanical society meeting. Moreover, the fabric looked much more comfortable than her mourning gowns. Perhaps she might wear it just that once and then give it to Elizabeth. She lifted her gaze to tell her friend this new plan and spotted a very large problem. “You are much taller than me. How could it fit both of us?”

  Elizabeth turned to Mrs. Evanston. “Do you have enough fabric for the extra inches?”

  “Indeed I do. Your figures are similar. With flouncing in such favor, I can construct an extra tier that can be buttoned into place.” She quickly sketched out her idea.

  “Why, that is brilliant, isn’t it, Prosperity?”

  She had to admit the solution would work.

  Mrs. Evanston smiled. “Very well. Then all I need this morning are some measurements, Miss Jones.”

  Prosperity hesitated. Now that the dress was closer to reality, her nerves fluttered even more alarmingly. Accepting this gown would surely lead to expectations she could not fulfill. What if the doctor sought a kiss? Or asked to court her? The very idea made her stomach churn.

  Yet she had never owned such a gown. Her dresses were serviceable . . . and old. She had dyed her blue dress and bonnet black for mourning after her father’s death. She had worn the gray one for years. The seams were fraying and the elbows were shiny. Neither would do for a soiree. She ran her fingers over the silk. What would it be like to feel such fabric against her skin? Would her entrance into a room draw notice?

  She shook her head to clear away those untoward thoughts. Prosperity Jones was no society belle eager for the next ball. She was a simple woman who had dedicated her life to serving others as Christ had served in His time on earth.

  “There is little time to ponder, given the deadline,” Mrs. Evanston said.

  Then the gown was for the soiree. Prosperity clutched her midsection.

  Elizabeth must
have noticed her distress, for she asked the seamstress for privacy. Mrs. Evanston slipped into the hall.

  Elizabeth drew Prosperity to the far end of the room. “You are reluctant to accept the gift because you believe Dr. Goodenow will expect something in return.”

  Prosperity felt her cheeks heat.

  “Listen to me.” Elizabeth caught her hands. “I know the doctor well enough to allay your concerns. This is truly a gift, meant in kindness and friendship. He will not expect what you fear. He would never press you to accept his offer of marriage.”

  “I didn’t realize my feelings were so obvious.”

  Elizabeth pulled Prosperity close and whispered, “Ask yourself how you would feel if the lieutenant had given the gift.”

  Prosperity squeezed her eyes shut. That was the problem.

  David hurried toward town at an outrageously early hour. He had to believe two infants would rouse the O’Malley household before sunrise. If not, he would wait.

  A whiff of fish brought a sudden pang for home. He’d often walked the wharves at sunrise to see what the night catch had brought in. When young, he’d dreamed of whaling like so many of his classmates. His father had other plans. David was to use his education to advantage in the church, but that vocation did not promise the thrill of the sea.

  Perhaps that’s why he’d found Prosperity so engaging. He could listen to her father’s tales of daring for hours. Though she confided that many of those stories had been embellished, they still rang of adventure he would never see in clerical robes. Pursuing engineering through the army had been a compromise that ultimately fit better than either the ministry or the sea.

  Still, the wild smell of the ocean stirred his blood. This morning he diverted his path to walk the docks lining the seaport. Fresh planks had been laid in front of the newest pier. The scent of hewn timber tickled his nose.

  He glanced down.

  The new spikes already boasted a coating of rust, the curse of the salt air. Some had been pounded so hard with a sledge that the rust was worn off.

  He slowed.

  That last spike bore a mark.

  He knelt and brushed away the sawdust and dirt. The sledge had flattened the head of the spike, but the mark could still be read easily.

  The back of his neck prickled. This was the marking the blacksmith had agreed to use. But that had taken place after the spikes went missing, and the man hadn’t reported another theft.

  He checked the remainder of the new planking and found only one other with the mark. A few missing spikes might escape notice. He looked around. Fishermen unloaded their catch, laughing and jesting over the amount each man had hauled ashore. Stevedores made their way to a schooner headed to the next wharf. Wagons had already lined up for the cargo. The cannery hummed to life. He could not spot any other dock construction, nor could he tell who owned this wharf.

  Sunlight began to dust the tops of the trees. If he didn’t hurry, he would miss another chance to see Prosperity. He hurried down the streets to the O’Malley house. Lamps burned inside, meaning the family was awake. He clattered up the steps to the veranda and crossed the expanse in two strides. Two raps on the door brought answering footsteps.

  The housekeeper opened the door.

  David pulled off his hat. “I hope to see my son.” It still felt odd to call Oliver his son, though it was getting easier. “Is Miss Jones awake?”

  The housekeeper nodded. “You wait here.”

  She disappeared into the house, leaving the door wide open. David could hear her calling for Prosperity, and his heart leapt. Maybe this time she would look at him. Maybe this time she would talk. His mouth felt dry, but swallowing did not ease it.

  Prosperity appeared in the hall, her face flushed and her hair so hastily pulled back that wisps framed her face. Even in the glow of oil lamps, her hair shone with streaks of gold and red. Her hazel eyes shimmered gold, as they always did in such light.

  “Prosperity.” It came out in a breath.

  Instead of ducking away, this time she met his gaze.

  He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. He wanted to tell her how much he missed her. He longed to reveal his heart. Instead he asked if Oliver was awake yet.

  A trace of what looked like disappointment crossed her face before she turned away. “Of course. I’ll take you to the nursery.”

  He entered the house and closed the door before following her down the hall.

  When he passed the dining room, he noted an unfamiliar woman making notes on a piece of paper. Drawings and fabric covered the table. Apparently Mrs. O’Malley was having some article of clothing made. Aileen had loved new gowns, which he could not afford. Yet somehow she’d always managed to acquire new things. Often he’d receive the bill later, but not always.

  His step slowed. Perhaps he should reveal this much. “I know where the money went.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I thought Elizabeth—Mrs. O’Malley—refused payment.”

  He blinked. “Mrs. O’Malley? What does she have to do with—oh.” Prosperity thought he was talking about his payment for Oliver’s care. “She did until I suggested she set it aside for a young mother in need.”

  The stiffness left Prosperity’s posture. “You did?” Her eyes shone with admiration.

  He should have known that generosity would touch her heart more quickly than apologies.

  “That is so generous.” She swallowed. “Thank you.”

  Though he reveled in her response, he could not take credit. “She would not accept payment any other way.”

  “She is a generous soul.”

  He agreed.

  Her brow furrowed. “But if you weren’t talking about payment, then what money were you talking about?”

  “The money I sent to you when you first arrived.”

  Her back stiffened. “Please stop bringing this up.”

  “But—” He cut himself off. Tempting though it was, he should not tarnish Aileen’s memory. It would do nothing to win over Prosperity. “I’m sorry, you’re right.”

  Her shoulders eased. “Thank you. I am sometimes correct.”

  “Often.”

  He thought he saw a trace of a smile, and his heart buoyed.

  “You didn’t visit Oliver last night,” she whispered. “Did something happen?”

  The trouble over the missing spikes and lost money faded under the reality of his father’s arrival in Key West. If Father paid Prosperity a visit, David would lose ground again. His head spun, and he had to brace himself against the wall.

  “Are you well?” Her eyebrows drew together with concern. “You look pale.”

  Indeed he felt like he had run from the garrison to the O’Malley home. “A little lightheadedness. It will pass.”

  “Did you eat this morning?”

  “I wanted to see Oliver.”

  Was that approval he spotted in her gaze? “I’ll have Florie bring you something.”

  “No. It’s not necessary.”

  “Elizabeth would insist.”

  She’d moved close enough that her hair, which always smelled of the fresh ocean breezes, tickled his chin. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, overwhelmed by desire for the woman he loved and the future together that had once been assured.

  A soft hand pressed against his forehead.

  “You are a little warm,” she said.

  He leaned into her touch, relishing this tiniest of compassionate gestures. “It’s the wool uniform.”

  She removed her hand.

  He opened his eyes to see her gazing into them. “The wool is hot, even at this time of day.”

  “A poor choice.” But the words barely left her lips.

  How sweet those had once been, like springtime rain, soft and gentle, promising renewed life to come. He leaned closer, longing for just one kiss. One. Yet he knew that one would never suffice. He wanted more. He wanted to claim her, to sweep her into his arms and promise undying love. Yet if he gave in to that surging des
ire, he would lose her. His head knew it, but emotion clouded reason.

  He brushed a stray lock from her forehead and let his fingertip glide down her cheek.

  She trembled but did not pull away. Her lips parted, and the emotional battle played out in her eyes.

  He must say something to persuade her. He must find the one thing that would turn her back to him. If only he could pull his scattered thoughts together enough to speak with eloquence. If only he could convey that her name rested on his lips a hundred times a day and a thousand times each night. A poet could find the words that would wipe away the pain and bring her back to him. An engineer had only precision.

  “I still love you.” His statement echoed in the hall, ricocheting off her with enough force to make her step back.

  “Don’t say such things.”

  “I must, or I will die.” He reached for her.

  She backed beyond reach. “Don’t you see how impossible it is?”

  No, he didn’t. He couldn’t give up or he would not be able to go on. “I only see how much I hurt you and how badly I want to take that pain away so we can build a future together.”

  Her chin quivered, and for a second he thought she would come to him.

  Instead she squared her shoulders and jutted out her chin. “Your son is waiting.”

  Then she left. Only after the door closed, leaving him alone in the hallway, did he realize he had neglected to tell her that his father was in town.

  22

  It took all in Prosperity’s power to walk away from David. Her cheek still tingled where his finger had brushed it. She wanted to believe him, wanted to forget what had happened and return to the past, but life could not be found in dreams and wishful thinking. He was not the same man, and she was no longer the woman who had entrusted her heart to him.

  The baby lying in the nursery was proof of that. She could not look at Oliver without seeing David’s betrayal. Though the boy was clearly not his, he must have believed the woman was carrying his child to marry her. That meant . . . well, that meant David had broken his pledge and dissolved the bond between them before he sent the letter.