CHAPTER 22
There was a chill between them, like the blanket of icy fog that rose over the shoreline. Gemma and Andrew passed each other in the hallway, sat opposite in the warm kitchen for meals, but their conversation was limited to Marc’s activities and “please pass the butter.” The days were much the same, short and sunless, with Mr. and Mrs. MacLaren arriving early to escape the mayhem in their small cottage. The boat had been delayed again due to the blustery weather, and their relatives were stranded on Batter. Mrs. MacLaren even seemed to welcome Gemma’s help in the house as a pleasant diversion from her daughters-in-law. Mary and the two women spent time baking and cleaning, with Marc playing happily with his soldiers, blocks, and bears.
Andrew and Mr. MacLaren were consigned to the attic, where they were attacking the roof from the inside. Thin and sometimes thick fingers of daylight were visible, and until the weather improved enough for Mr. MacLaren to climb atop the roof with new slates, he and Andrew were closing the gaps. It was the first time in his life that Andrew could remember being rained on indoors.
And not just ordinary rain. Dagger-sharp and frozen, enough to make a man long for the Tropics.
And then it hit him, as he steadied the ladder for the older man. He could begin again in the New World. Find another island—warm this time, lush with exotic flowers and rolling green hills. A place where Marc could run outdoors in bare feet, not wrapped like a mummy against the cold.
Where no one would spot Andrew walking on the street and remember seeing him in quite another position on his knees.
Sailing across the ocean would accomplish just what he had envisioned for the Western Isles, except he’d be under the hot sun with other English-speaking people. Breathing in flower-fragrant air and gentle sea breezes. Sipping rum in the afternoon shade. Dining on fresh fruit and vegetables rather than dried and preserved muck stored against the ferry’s schedule. The simplicity and seductiveness of the idea was so sharp he wondered why it had not occurred to him before.
A part of him had wanted to return “home” to Scotland, where he would be safe from the ton’s opprobrium, but after these past few months he knew he’d made yet another lapse in judgment. It was an ingrained habit, making these mistakes. But perhaps it was not too late to turn over a new leaf. Something tropical. Banana? Palm? He broke into a smile.
Mr. MacLaren glared down at him and mumbled, and Andrew remembered to pass up the tar pot. He should be doing this job himself. Surely a warmer climate would ease the ache in his arm and bring about his recovery all the quicker?
There was only one person left to make his plan perfect. And last he’d seen her, she’d been stitching a new shirt for Marc out of an old sheet.
He might be too late. Andrew had rejected Gemma pretty firmly, had gone extra steps to withdraw and make himself, if not disagreeable, generally aloof. They only took meals together in the presence of Mrs. MacLaren. At night, Andrew locked himself in his library with a sandwich or whatever had been left for his supper. Gemma’s talents lay in reheating food only—she was not about to cook him anything, but Mrs. MacLaren saw to it they didn’t starve once she walked home at dusk.
Which came in the middle of the afternoon. Winter days on Batter were short. What would it be like to watch a huge golden sun dip into a deep purple bay late in the evening? See a thousand stars above? The image was seductive, particularly as a drop of rain landed on his upturned face.
Andrew held the ladder impatiently. Somewhere among his books was a travelogue on the West Indies. Why, he could trade his Western Isles address by changing just a few letters.
He bided his time until the holes were plugged and Mr. MacLaren seemed satisfied with his handiwork. Clambering down the attic stairs with the ladder between them, Andrew was treated to an incomprehensible lecture on what he should do about the roof come spring.
By spring, he might not even be here.
Winter crossings were tricky, that much he knew. He might be on board a ship for six or seven long, dangerous weeks. Marc had fared very poorly the last time they traveled by water, and the open Atlantic was bound to be much more inhospitable than the English Channel.
Perhaps it would be better to wait until spring. That would give him time to fix his leaky roof, find a buyer, and make inquiries about properties in the islands. Andrew had no idea how to go about any of it, but he had no doubt Edward Christie would.
And that truly would be the last favor he asked of the baron. He’d be thousands of miles away and on his own. Independent of anyone’s direction. Master of his own fate.
Gemma had talked about fate when she was so eager to persuade him they were meant to be together. Could he persuade her now?
Before he went off half-cocked, he went into the library and shut the door. His letter to Edward was folded in his top desk drawer. Andrew had pulled that drawer open every day for a week, fingering the sharp edges of the folded paper. Today, he picked it up and tore it into tiny pieces, dropping them onto the coals in the fireplace. They flared with brilliance and then disappeared.
He could not abandon his son, no matter that the child deserved a better father. Ironically, Gianni had given him a chance to know his son as he never would have before. To think, Andrew had been prepared and paid to father another child, to walk away again as if he was not responsible for the life he’d helped create.
Giulietta might even have been carrying that child when she was gunned down. If she was not, it would not have been for the lack of trying. Andrew had been assiduous in his attentions to her, with poor portly Alessandro hovering beside them on the bed.
Andrew shut his eyes against the image. That life was over. Whether Gemma forgave or believed him, he would never go back to his old ways. He knew it now with a fierce certainty that washed over him from his scalp to his booted toes.
He riffled through his shelves until he came to the book he remembered, The American Universal Geography, or A View of the Present State of All the Kingdoms, States and Colonies, this edition only recently published in Boston. The title was long, the goal ambitious for a mere two volumes. Andrew had bought entire lots of books for years, taking advantage of bankrupt peers or sons who did not appreciate their fathers’ libraries. His collection was eclectic to say the least.
Thumbing to “The Caribbean Islands,” he skimmed the overview of the original natives and their fearsome customs and went directly to the paragraphs describing each island. He read of sugar, indigo, and rum, of forts and sheltered harbors. The Leeward Islands—the very name meant peaceful and protected. Quite a change from the thunderous ocean at his doorstep and the driving, daily sleet. He took a few notes of things that caught his attention among the dry lists of exports and local government.
When he had selected a few islands to explore further, he closed the book and leaned back in his chair. An unaccustomed tingle of hope surged within. He’d been so desperate before to hide Marc that he’d not considered the ramifications of being marooned on this bit of volcanic rock. If he was going to be marooned anywhere, why not in a more forgiving climate?
Oh, he knew there were hurricanes in the Caribbean. He’d just read of the destruction of Bridgetown in Barbados. And worse than the weather was slavery, which flourished unabated. He had been piqued by the approval by the landowners of Antigua to allow the Moravian missionaries to educate the island’s slaves. That was something in their favor, he supposed. But if he were to purchase property, anyone who worked for him would be freed. Andrew knew only too well what it was like to feel enslaved.
Not that Donal Stewart had owned him. Andrew could have left the comfort of his Edinburgh home at any time. But the shame of what he’d done—of what he’d been forced to do—from the age of seven on made him disbelieve there were any alternatives.
God, he’d been a fool then. And a fool now, as recently as last week. But he’d come to his senses this afternoon standing in the attic looking at the gray sky through a slit in the roof.
Ther
e were stirrings in the back hall, an indication that the MacLarens were getting ready to leave for the day. Andrew was glad they had each other for company while they went back to the village on the icy track. He didn’t envy them a stroll in the dependably daily storm. He poked his head out of the library door and wished them a good evening and a Happy New Year, then went to hunt down Gemma.
He had no idea what he was going to say to her. For an orderly man who planned everything down to the last detail, that should have terrified him, but he was almost looking forward to her giving him the cutting edge of her tongue.
Gemma’s eyes were tired. She was no needlewoman, just as she was no cook. It really was a pity her mother had spent so much money on her schooling when she had learned so little of the domestic arts. Miss Meredith hadn’t cared—she was more concerned with a girl’s mind than her manners and had excused Gemma many lapses. True, Gemma could sew a crooked seam when she had to take a garment in, or embroider a lumpy leaf on a napkin, but making Marc’s shirt from scratch had been a bit of a nightmare. The thought of slicing through the fabric to make buttonholes gave her palpitations, for she was quite sure no matter where she placed the button, it would never match up with its hole.
She abandoned the shirt to the workbasket and checked on the soup that was warming on the stove. It smelled delicious, as did everything Mrs. MacLaren made. Gemma really should take advantage of her present situation and learn how things were done in the kitchen. Mrs. MacLaren accepted her help only grudgingly, relying on Mary much more than she did Gemma. It was lowering to think a thirteen-year-old girl had more expertise than she did.
The spoon slipped from her fingers when Andrew surprised her by entering the room. He’d kept to himself for days, which was only fitting. She couldn’t bear to look at him. And she was now suffering from unbearable itching as her nether hair grew back. It was too vexing for words, when she had nothing to look forward to for her discomfort.
He cleared his throat. “I take it Marc is still sleeping.” His voice was raspy, as though he hadn’t spoken to anyone in ages. He certainly had not said much to her.
“Yes.” She retrieved the spoon from the stovetop and continued to circle the carrots and potatoes around.
“That smells good.” Andrew peered over her shoulder, close enough for her to detect his lime cologne. The scent of the soup was nothing compared to the tangy scent of Andrew Rossiter.
“Um.”
“I’d like to talk to you if you have a minute.”
“I don’t really. Marc could get up any time. If I’m not there to watch him, I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself.”
“He calls for you, does he not? You’ve trained him well.”
“Little boys are unpredictable. Much like men,” she said tartly. “He could decide to jump out without me there.”
“Come into the parlor with me then. You can hear him if he calls down for you.”
Gemma couldn’t argue. She should have stationed herself near the bottom of the stairs to listen for Marc anyway instead of being in the back of the house. She’d moved a chair there for just such a purpose, where she could read by flickering candlelight on the hall table while the chill draughts from the front door numbed her feet.
“All right.” She followed him down the dim hallway to the double parlor doors. A listless fire had been ignored too long, and Andrew set about poking up the coals and adding a brick of peat, a wasteful indulgence as she didn’t plan to be there long enough to get comfortable. She sat down on the stiffest-backed chair in the room and folded her hands primly. “What is it that you want, Mr. Ross?” If he was about to tell her she was going without Marc, she would be very irritated indeed.
He remained by the fireplace, warming his hands. They were stained with ink, probably from writing letters in ever more clever ways to get rid of her and his son.
“It’s New Year’s Day tomorrow.”
“Yes. What of it? You don’t expect us to burn a bush in a field, do you? There aren’t any.”
“No, nor do I expect you to drop egg white in water to see who your love will be.”
Gemma could feel her face heat. She would not hope for an “A” to form, truly she wouldn’t. She waited. He seemed tense, rubbing his bad arm now as if it pained him. It pained her to watch him.
“I don’t quite know how to say what I want to say,” he said at last.
“Perhaps you should write it down and then read it.”
“I doubt the words would come any easier. Gemma, I’ve made a terrible mistake. Well”—he chuckled ruefully—“not a mistake. Many of them.”
“I don’t appreciate being called a mistake, Mr. Ross. But if you are worried that there were consequences from our times together, you needn’t be. My—my courses have come. You have no further obligation to me.”
He looked so stricken she thought for a moment he was sorry there would be no baby.
“You misunderstand me. I’ve—I’ve been completely muddled. I’ve ignored your advice when I should have listened. You’re very smart for a mere girl.”
“I’m two and twenty. On the shelf.”
“Yes. Vastly ancient. I’ve over ten years on you, but you put me to shame.” He ran a hand through disheveled golden curls. “There’s no good way to say this. Gemma, will you marry me?”
Gemma shook her head like a dog with water in its ear. Whatever she had expected, it was not this.
“Absolutely not” were the first words out of her mouth.
“Maybe I should explain.” Andrew went on as though she had not refused him. “Hear me out. I’ve come up with an idea. We can leave this house, go to the Caribbean. You’ve said yourself I was a bit mad to settle out here. I wanted somewhere remote and safe for Marc, but Batter’s too remote. You’re the only person who can understand what I say, and the damned weather is colder than a witch’s t—toe. Perhaps it’s heaven in the summer, but I really don’t think I can last that long. Ever since I had the chance, I’ve always seen to my creature comforts. I may be shallow, but I’d rather roast under the sun than freeze to death.”
“The Caribbean?” she asked stupidly. Turquoise waters. The rattle of palm leaves in the breeze. Hairy spiders. Scorpions. Herr Birnbaum had been something of a naturalist, and he had collected shadow boxes full of oddities from his trips abroad. Gemma’s mother was not the first item he’d acquired as he traveled the globe.
“Think how good it would be for Marc to be raised in such an environment. Why, he could run barefoot on the beach every day.”
“Sand flies,” Gemma murmured. Herr Birnbaum had been quite emphatic about the mosquitoes, too.
“We can make a fresh start.” Andrew’s pale eyes were bright as diamonds. “Tuck ourselves away on a plantation and sip rum on the veranda.”
“Slaves.”
He seemed to finally hear her. “I won’t countenance that. You should know me better, Gemma.”
“I don’t know you at all!” she cried. “Three hours ago you looked down your nose at me, and now you want to marry me. Forgive me if I’m a bit confused.” She stood up so quickly the chair toppled to the carpet. “You are as variable as the weather, Andrew. Mr. Ross. A week ago you planned to give your son away and release me from my employment. You bedded me, then spurned me. I’m not some—not some doll you can play with and then toss aside.” She balled her fists tight but really wanted to punch Andrew Ross’s—Andrew Rossiter’s—dimpled chin and add another hole.
“I know. I’ve been an idiot. Don’t you see? I’ve had a revelation. I can still keep Marc safe, keep our anonymity, but in a much nicer place. No one will know what I was before—there would be no shame for you if you married me.”
Gemma opened her mouth, but nothing came out. That was why he rejected her? That she would somehow be tarred with his past?
She watched him pace along the edge of the worn carpet. It was true that there must be much nicer places on earth than Batter Island and Gull House. But she had become accustomed
to the howl of the wind and the bite of the sleet. The scent of damp and ocean permeating the furniture and even her clothes, now that she had some. She thought ahead to spring and summer, when the island would be carpeted by yellow stars of tormentil and bog asphodel. The frozen streams and pools she’d seen on her walks would be flowing. Seals would bask on rocks and geese would return to honk overhead. Each season in Scotland had a distinct chapter—Andrew was just now in the most difficult part of the book.
“No matter how far away you go, the past goes with you,” Gemma said. That applied to her as well as the harebrained man before her.
“I know all that. But can you honestly say you could live here for the rest of your life?”
Gemma bent to right the chair and sat back down. “If I were with the people I loved, I could live anywhere.”
“Well, then.” Andrew’s smile was triumphant. “Come with me to the Caribbean, Gemma. There are thousands of islands to choose from. I’ll let you decide.”
“You’ll let me.” She didn’t have time to ask him what else he was prepared to let her do, because Marc chose that moment to call for her.
“We can talk about this later tonight,” Andrew suggested, not realizing he’d been saved from a scathing set-down. No man was going to let her do anything. She didn’t need Andrew’s permission to make decisions. She would do what she wanted, and right now the temptation to shove him into the fireplace was strong. If he wanted to be warmer, that just might do the trick. The man had proposed, talking of his child and the weather, without a word of his feeling for her. Oh, he didn’t want his name to bring her shame, but that wouldn’t keep her warm at night. That was no basis for a marriage, even if it was the only offer she might ever get.
She flounced up the stairs, so agitated she had to hold on to the railing. This was one time she didn’t want to fall into his arms.
CHAPTER 23
Gemma hesitated at her bedroom door. She was well-wrapped up in two flannel nightgowns and a robe, with nubby wool socks on her feet and a scarf tied over her ears to keep out the cold. Even with the fire rippling in her hearth, the new year was beginning on an arctic note. Because her hearing was obstructed, she could only imagine Andrew’s footfalls as he climbed the stairs. The closer she thought he came, the more indecisive she was. Just when she figured he must have walked the length of the hall and reached for her doorknob, she turned the key in the lock.
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