“I told my teacher that we’re going to keep talking. She’s stoked.”
Mrs. B sets down her cup onto the saucer. “Stoked?”
“Excited. She’s curious about you and this place. All the kids know about you, but no one really knows you, if that makes sense.”
Mrs. B studies Beth like she’s either searching or trying to dissect. “Could you ever see yourself living in a house like this, Beth?”
The teacup rattles in the saucer. “God no! If I lived here, I’d never get out of this town.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Well, yeah. If you’re my age and haven’t seen the world. You’ve traveled. The best I’ve done is a school field trip to the Washington, DC, zoo last year.”
“Maybe after you’ve traveled a bit, to Nashville or wherever, you’ll end up returning to Cape Hudson.”
Beth reaches for a sugar cookie, which is kind of bland but grows on her after a mouthful. “How do you know about Nashville?”
“It was one of the cities you mentioned the last time you visited. I may be old, but I remember.” She sips her tea. “I hear things about you, Beth.”
Instead of being put off, she is intrigued. The old lady isn’t the hermit she appears to be. “I bet you got an earful. I’ll bite. So what did you hear?”
“That you were a cheerleader but got kicked off the team after an incident involving chickens set loose on the football field at homecoming.”
Beth grins. “Don’t ever dare me.”
“You’re dating one of the football players, but you also have an eye for my great-nephew.”
“Well, I was dating Eddie, but now I’m on to Brian. Noah’s your great-nephew, right? He is pretty good looking, and I wouldn’t say no to a date.”
“When you chase a boy, you give your power away.” She raises her teacup to her lips.
“Power?”
“Sex, dear. Just because a boy smiles doesn’t mean you should have sex with him.”
For whatever reason, Beth laughs. “Believe me, just because I like to have a good time doesn’t mean I’m letting any boy stop me from going to Nashville, or wherever.”
Mrs. B studies Beth over the rim of that delicate porcelain cup, her eyes searching. “I’ve met girls like you before. They’re drawn to the excitement. Moths to a flame. Be careful, Beth.”
“Of what?”
She slowly sets the cup down. “Shall we get started?”
“Yep. Where do we begin?”
“We’re going to start with Claire.”
“Who’s Claire?”
“Listen and learn.”
Beth switches on the camera.
Claire
Cape Hudson, Virginia
October 3, 1904
The first time Jimmy Latimer saved Claire Hedrick’s life, she was sixteen.
She was thrilled to finally return home to the Eastern Shore. Her charge, Victoria, was in school in Switzerland, and she had been invited to Winter Cottage as a lady’s maid to Mrs. Lawrence, who spent most of the hunting season in breeches.
It was her free afternoon, and the air was warm and heavy with humidity on this Indian summer day. She wanted to be out on the water like she had been as a child. Nearly four plus years of caring for the spoiled Victoria, sewing for endless hours, and enduring homesickness had taken its toll. The water promised freedom, and it was so tantalizing she didn’t worry about the dark clouds clinging to the distant horizon and the faintest rumble of thunder. She wanted to feel alive.
Claire pulled the small skiff toward the water, savoring the sunshine and the salt air teasing the copper curls framing her face.
“You’re being stupid, girl,” a man shouted.
The sharp warning came from Jimmy, the housekeeper’s son. He was home on leave for several weeks from the merchant marines, and his mother, Mrs. Latimer, spoke with pride about her son’s service. On track to be captain one day. Too handsome for his own good. Any girl would be lucky to have him. Mr. Buchanan claimed he was the best hunting guide in the county.
Jimmy was the favorite son. She was the forgotten daughter.
So when Claire’s gaze met Jimmy’s ice-blue stare and desire and longing rushed through her, she was more determined to dislike him. She tugged the vessel closer to the water, and his deepening frown only fueled her determination to prove him wrong. At sixteen, she could pretend she was sure of herself so that she didn’t look cowardly before the handsome man watching her.
Unmindful of the water soaking her boots and the hem of her skirt, she pushed the bow over the smooth sand. She jumped into the small boat and gripped the oars, feeling a little smug as she pulled away from the shore. A rumble of thunder followed as she watched Jimmy walk to the shore, hands on hips, scowl deepening. But to stop was to admit failure, and so she kept rowing. Even the current fought to keep her on the shore.
The oars were heavier than she remembered, and she was quickly growing breathless. Sweat trickled down her back. But as Jimmy watched, she kept cutting the water with the oars. Soon she was a hundred yards from shore, and Jimmy’s features had melted away. She sensed then that she’d made a mistake.
When the weather turned on a dime, the wind swept in dark clouds with falling temperatures. The sky was ripe with lightning and thick droplets of rain.
The boat rocked, and the wind splashed the waters against her face and chilled her body to the bone. Getting back to shore was urgent. She wrestled the boat around and rowed, ignoring her tired muscles and burning lungs. The choppy current, so fickle in storms, shifted and now pulled her farther away from shore. Even with every pull of the oar against the churning water, the little boat drifted farther from land.
She never saw the wave that struck and capsized the boat. Her first reaction was shock. Then panic.
Another wave hit her, and her arms flailed as she struggled to keep her head above water and reach the upended boat. Her clothes and boots, now saturated, pulled her under. Treading water became impossible. She fought, gulping water while scrambling to the surface. Her adrenaline was beginning to yield to the cold and exhaustion. The dark sky grew angrier as her lungs screamed for air. She’d been a fool, and it would cost her dearly.
A strong hand grabbed her by her collar, hauled her like a rag doll into the air, and dumped her onto the soaked wooden hull of a fishing boat. She coughed up water and sucked in a breath.
Claire looked up to see Jimmy and his most beautiful scowl. His weathered hands gripped the oars, and his muscles pulsed as he rowed with all his might. He was silent until they reached the pier.
“That was stupid,” he said through clenched teeth.
Pushing hair from her eyes, she coughed, wiped the briny water from her lips, and sat straighter, hoping to salvage some dignity. The cold was almost unbearable.
He nodded toward a blue woolen jacket draped over the bench seat. “Did you not hear my warnings?”
“I did.” She lifted her arms and shoved them into the warm folds of the jacket. His scent surrounded her.
“I’ve heard you’re hardheaded. You’re lucky I was watching you.”
Her lips trembled. “Why were you watching me?”
He grumbled something, and with a flick of his head pushed back a thick lock of sun-streaked blond hair. Such a beautiful face. Such a muscular body.
Mrs. Latimer came down the pier, a blanket in her hands. She fussed over Claire, helping her out of the boat and wrapping the blanket around her. “What were you thinking, girl?”
Jimmy answered for her as if she were simple. “She’s fearless like you said, Ma. But not as smart.”
They’d been talking about her, Claire realized as Mrs. Latimer fussed over her. “Why did you do such a foolish thing?”
Claire couldn’t answer as Mrs. Latimer led her to the house. She twisted around and found Jimmy still watching. Damp hair, blue eyes, and full lips turned into a puzzled frown.
He’d saved her, and pride or not, she was so gratefu
l. Without thinking, she broke from Mrs. Latimer, rushed toward him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Seconds passed before he gently patted her on the back and then pulled her hands away.
“Thank you, Mr. Latimer.”
“I’m just Jimmy.” This time he grinned, and just like that, she was in love.
Claire
January 10, 1916
Claire hadn’t seen Jimmy for almost twelve years. To say she thought of him all the time would be a lie, but she did think about him often. She began a regular correspondence with Mrs. Latimer, and when she wrote, she always asked about Jimmy, though she was careful to sound polite, as if this were a kindness. And how fares your son? What countries has he traveled to this year? Claire collected all the tidbits Mrs. Latimer supplied.
The years had been good to Claire. She’d developed a reputation as a very talented seamstress and had received offers from couture shops and other society ladies who wanted to employ her. But in the end, she’d remained with the Buchanans, who were her surrogate family in so many respects.
Now she was back in Cape Hudson. The first Mrs. Buchanan had died in her Paris apartment, and Mr. Buchanan was finally marrying his mistress, Mrs. Lawrence. Claire had been readying Mrs. Lawrence’s trousseau for months and had designed her wedding dress.
Thoughts of a grumbling Victoria, who had accompanied her from New York on the long train ride, and even the pressing alterations to the wedding dress were forgotten when she saw Jimmy. He was leaning against a polished Model T car parked in front of the train station in Cape Hudson.
His arms crossed, his lips flat in a deep, beautiful frown, he wore a dark coat and knit cap suited for a sailor and not a driver. He was taller than she remembered, and though still fit, the years had filled out his body and accented his tanned face with feathered crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.
He’d been in the merchant marines nearly fifteen years and was rising through the ranks. His mother said he’d soon be captain of his own ship, but he was again on leave and would be doing odd jobs for the Buchanans as he always did.
His presence was a good omen. The way she saw it, it added to the euphoria of being back home where the salty breeze was fresh and the land open as far as she could see. No more skyscrapers, rattle of streetcars, and rush of city people.
It felt right.
Feminine laughter bubbled behind Claire, and she turned to find Victoria Buchanan giggling as she spoke to the train porter. The poor young man was already smitten by the stunning twenty-one-year-old woman, who possessed a youthful beauty that turned men’s heads and tortured them with jealousy.
Curled blonde hair as fair as summer sand framed Victoria’s oval face and accentuated her high cheekbones, bow mouth, and bright, expressive blue eyes. The wool fabric of her navy-blue velvet traveling coat nipped into a tiny waist and draped over perfectly rounded curves. The girl was a dream to dressmakers, though Victoria often complained about her large bosom and wished for sleeker curves like Broadway’s Irene Castle, who was making lithe and boyish figures fashionable.
Claire was trim, but her build would never be as delicate as Irene Castle’s. Though her own mother had dubbed her frame sturdy and dependable, she was not unattractive and knew how to alter her dresses to make her waist appear slimmer. She still had her share of men taking a second admiring look her way.
Today she’d chosen her own coming-home dress carefully, selecting a burgundy wool with a draped bustle and fitted jacket that fastened with pearl buttons and dipped below her waist to a point. It had been one of Victoria’s castoffs, but the fabric was too fine to pass up, so she’d customized it with a fur collar from another rejected ensemble.
As Miss Victoria moved away from the porter, she raised a gloved hand to her mouth and stifled a yawn. The girl initially had planned to travel with her father and soon-to-be stepmother two weeks ago to Cape Hudson. But she’d begged, pouted, and pleaded with Mrs. Lawrence during one of their last fittings. “Let me stay! Papa will listen to you!” Mrs. Lawrence hadn’t been convinced until Victoria offered Claire up, insisting she chaperone.
Claire had not wanted to linger in the city. She’d wanted to be in Cape Hudson before her father’s ship set sail. But Mrs. Lawrence had seen the advantage to having her fiancé to herself for a couple of weeks, and in short order the arrangements were made. Claire’s father had set sail by the time they’d arrived.
“Claire, this place is as dull as I remembered,” Victoria said.
“I think it’s beautiful.”
Victoria wrinkled her pretty nose. “After all the places you’ve seen, you can say that?”
Claire brushed a curl from her face and imagined Jimmy behind her, staring. Would he remember her? “Because it’s the truth.”
Victoria’s smile was aimed toward Claire, but she was truly focused on the young porter lingering by the train. “Your people were seamen.”
“And fishermen.”
She winked at the boy and then faced Claire, already growing bored with the game. “I wonder if Daddy would mind terribly if I just slipped back on the train. I’m sure he’ll not miss me when he marries Mrs. Lawrence.”
“He’ll notice.” When a man spent a small fortune on dresses, as Mr. Buchanan had with the frocks for this wedding, he expected to see his ladies on display.
Victoria raised a lace handkerchief to her lips. “Ugh. I know. He wants Brother Robert and me here with bright, shining smiles when he welcomes his new bride into our family.” She continued to hold the handkerchief to her lips. “Is there some kind of facility where I can relieve myself?”
“Are you still feeling ill?”
“Mixing brandy and whiskey is now off my spirits list. But seeing Anna Pavlowa and The Big Show at the Hippodrome last night made me forget reason.”
The evening before, Victoria and her third cousin Edward Garrison had arrived home at 2:00 a.m. Claire had been waiting in the kitchen over a warm cup of tea when she’d heard the front door bang open. She now hoped the twit retched for the rest of the week.
“There are facilities around here, but if you have a queasy stomach, they’ll make it more so. I suggest you wait until you arrive at Winter Cottage.” There was a special kind of relationship between a lady’s maid and her mistress. Certainly there was a line that could not be crossed, but there was also familiarity. She was always abreast of the girl’s exploits, which came close to crossing a line.
“How long will that take?” Victoria asked.
“Less than an hour.”
Victoria slowly tucked the handkerchief inside her left cuff. “Ugh, again. At least Papa assures me there’s indoor plumbing at the cottage now. Thank God. I can’t imagine roughing it much more than I am. How do we get to the house?”
Claire nodded toward Jimmy. “I’m guessing he’s been sent for us. No one else on the shore has money for a driver other than your father.”
Victoria regarded Jimmy, and a slow grin dispatched her pout. “He’s very attractive. Rugged. Strong.”
“That’s Jimmy Latimer.”
“You know him?”
“I doubt he remembers me. But yes, I know the family. His mother is housekeeper at Winter Cottage.”
Victoria pushed the edges of her right sleeve up, exposing a portion of her delicate white wrist. “I’m going to freshen up somewhere. And when I return momentarily, can you introduce us?”
“Of course.” As Victoria ducked into the train station, Claire walked up to Jimmy, feeling a giddy tightness she’d not felt since that day he’d watched her pushing the skiff into the water.
Tipping her chin, she stood in front of him, waiting for him to say her name. He studied her, but she saw no hint of recognition. “I’m Claire Hedrick.”
“Hedrick?” He sounded as if he were searching his memory. “I know an Isaac Hedrick. His ship sailed a few days ago.”
“My father. So I’ve really missed him?”
“Aye.” A genuine kindness wove around the word
, making her sorry she didn’t really mind missing her father. In the years she’d been gone, he’d never written her once. “So which of the four Hedrick sisters are you? Oldest, youngest?”
“The oldest.” His question vexed her. “It’s been over a decade since I was in Cape Hudson. I’ve been living in New York, Newport, and Europe.”
“Fancy places I’d say, judging by the looks of you. I’ve not seen any of your sisters, but I see your brothers running about town from time to time. The Jessups are doing a fine job with them.”
She’d written to Sally Jessup weekly through the years and received news back on the “little boys” often. Though they were hardly little boys now at fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years old. “I’m looking forward to seeing them.”
“Stanley plans to go to sea like his father.”
“Does our father see the boys?”
“Whenever he can.”
So her father kept up with his sons. She was glad for the boys but irritated for herself. Annoyance crept into her tone. “Are you my driver?”
He raised a brow. “I’m here to pick up Miss Victoria Buchanan.”
“That is me,” Victoria said brightly from behind Claire.
He looked past Claire to Victoria. Immediately he grinned that odd, silly smile men got when they first looked at her. He had the good sense to temper his reaction, but it was there. He tugged off his cap. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Buchanan. I’m Jimmy Latimer.”
Victoria looked amused but didn’t really smile—that was something she would make him work for. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, James.”
“Not James,” he said quickly. “That’s too formal. Just Jimmy.” His gaze skittered to her bosom, and he cleared his throat, dropped his eyes, and mumbled something about taking their bags.
He was a male and therefore powerless against Victoria’s charms. Claire had witnessed similar effects on men as young as ten and as old as eighty, but this time she felt a jealousy she had little right to claim. He’d saved her life, but he’d saved countless lives, according to his mother’s letters.
“Let me get your luggage loaded,” Jimmy said. “Where are your bags?”
Winter Cottage Page 4
