The Paper Marriage

by Bronwyn Williams

  “The truth?” Bess assumed a look of utter innocence, which was always a tip-off. She was stalling. When it came to diversionary tactics, his aunt had written the book.

  Matt had already given up on the Magruder woman and set his own course. He’d started by hiring Rose to take care of Annie. On his way north he planned to track down that lawyer friend of Bess’s and make him tear up the marriage contract. Damned thing had been a mistake from the beginning. He blamed Bess for cooking up the scheme; blamed himself for falling for it. But Bagby had been the one to legalize it. Just to be on the safe side, Matt intended to pay the man whatever it cost to illegalize it.

  First, though, he had a pound of flesh to extract.

  “Tell me, Bess, was there ever an Augusta Magruder in the first place, or did you cook up this whole proxy marriage scheme to keep from having to come down here and help me with Annie?”

  “Well now, I’m here, plain as day. I could have been cruising down the Albemarle and Chesapeake Canal on an excursion boat with a photographer and an ornithologist, and instead here I am, doing my best to make myself useful.”

  It was so patently false that Matt could only shake his head in admiration. “Make yourself useful? How? By bribing my crew to supply you with brandy? By keeping them awake half the night pecking away on that confounded machine of yours? By—”

  “Now, Matthew, you’re my only living relative, my brother’s own boy. Think of it this way—as long as I can earn a few pennies with my scribblings, I’ll not be depending on you for support in my declining years.”

  “Declining, my sacred ass,” he said, knowing full well his aunt wouldn’t be offended. She could curse circles around him if it suited her purpose. At the moment, it suited her better to play the martyr, sacrificing her own comfort for the sake of someone less fortunate.

  “It won’t wash, Bess. I don’t know why you’re here, but it sure as hell isn’t for my benefit. Have you talked your publisher into letting you write another series about the deer-eating wildcats and the goat-strangling pythons of the Outer Banks? That piece you wrote last summer was the biggest load of manure I ever tried to wade through.”

  “You’re the one who told me there were wild boars in those woods.”

  “And you can’t tell a hog from a cougar? Hell, Bess, they’re not even in the same family.”

  “Wild boars can be every bit as dangerous as any wildcat. I saw an actual tusk from one of those creatures, and let me tell you, I’ve seen less impressive ivory on a full-grown elephant.”

  “Besides, they both have four legs, right? What about the python? The picture in the paper showed a giant snake wrapped around the waist of a half-naked woman, dragging her off into a swamp. Is that the scene you described to the artist?”

  “Well now, artists, being creative and all, occasionally take certain liberties—it’s called artistic licence. Take it occasionally, myself.” Matt rolled his eyes. “But I myself have seen dangerous poisonous snakes right here at Powers Point. For that matter, Rose—”

  Matt sliced the air with an impatient hand. “Forget snakes, forget Rose. I want to know if you’ve seen my wife. Do I actually have a wife, or is she in the same category as all those jungle animals of yours?”

  “Well now, you certainly do have a legal wife. I watched her sign the papers myself.”

  “Or signed ’em for her,” he muttered. “How much did you pay her?”

  “How much?”

  “I sent you a check to cover her traveling expenses, with enough left over to pay off any debts she owed. You said the woman was widowed and down on her luck, and that you’d had to lend her money to live on.”

  “Well now, that’s exactly what she is—was, and I’m sure—”

  Bess watched the boy’s powerful shoulders flex, stared at the pulse that throbbed on one side of his brow. She admired control in a man. Always had. Sure indication of strength, and he had that, all right. Strong of body, strong of will. A worthy adversary.

  “Admit it, Bess. The woman cut and ran, so any contract between us is invalid.”

  “Now, don’t be so hasty. We’ll just ask Horace about—”

  “That’s another thing. That lawyer friend of yours has dropped off the face of the earth, too. Did the pair of them run off together? My wife and your lawyer friend?”

  Bess plucked at a loose thread on her driving glove. There was always risk involved in the telling of a good tale. The thing was to skirt as close to the truth as possible and keep open all options. She’d been so certain Matt and Rose would suit each other, and with a wife in residence, Bess’s rare visits would be all the more comfortable. Those two old men did their best, but lately their best had fallen a bit short of adequate.

  “Well, now, I believe Horace did mention a trip he’d been meaning to take.” The coward had as good as told her he didn’t intend to hang around waiting for her chickens to come home to roost.

  “So he’s in on it, too. Just tell me why, Bess? For a few hundred dollars? It’s hardly worth the trouble.” He had mailed a check when Bess had described the woman’s circumstances.

  “Now, Matthew—”

  “Did you plan the whole thing so you could write it and claim it as the truth? How the beached sea captain took a wife and couldn’t find her? Maybe you got the idea from that damned fool poem.”

  “Couldn’t keep her, not couldn’t find her. That was Peter, Peter in the nursery rhyme. Now, Matthew—”

  “How the devil could I keep the blasted woman when I can’t even find her in the first place? What happened, Bess? Did she sign the papers and take off with the money? Is that it? Then why not just admit it? Hell, we all make mistakes in judgment, I’ve made a few myself. If she pulled the wool over your eyes, we’ll just chalk it up to experience and go on from there.”

  “Speaking of that, Matthew, I just had an excellent idea.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had all the ideas I need from you and that lawyer. A word of advice, though: you might want to start looking for a new secretary. Next time you might even find one who can use that damned typing machine.”

  “But Rose—”

  “Forget Rose. She’ll be working for me.”

  “But, Matt, Rose is—”

  “No point in arguing, she’s already agreed to it.”

  Bess opened her mouth and closed it again. She was sailing too close to the wind to risk giving herself away with a careless word.

  Why the bloody hell had she gotten herself into this mess in the first place? She had an adequate income—of course, she could always use more. But she could have split the money with Rose, washed her hands of the whole business, and told Matt the truth—that his bride had had second thoughts. He probably wouldn’t even have cut up rough about the money. The boy was tough as salt horse, but he was no skinflint. She’d known him to give a year’s pay out of his own pocket to the widow of a common seaman who’d been killed in a tavern brawl. Told the poor woman it was her husband’s due wages, when the truth was, the fellow had drunk and gambled away every cent he’d ever earned, leaving his poor wife to take in washing.

  “Well now, as to that,” she began without the least notion of where she was headed. One advantage of being a writer was that a body could make up whatever story served the purpose. “Mrs. Magruder, as I believe I mentioned, had this relative—an elderly aunt, I believe she said—and as it happened, on the very day of the wedding she received a—”

  “Stow it, Bess. You tried and failed, and that’s the end of it.”

  “What I was going to say is that—” That what?

  Bess would have given anything to be back home, quietly sipping brandy and swapping tales with Horace. Instead, she was going to have to wiggle herself out of this mess without his help.

  She should have left weeks ago instead of hanging on to see how it would all work out. What if she told the boy straight out that his bride had gotten cold feet, and she’d brought her down here to look him over before committing herse
lf any further?

  He’d wring her neck, that’s what. No man with a lick of pride would allow himself to be put on the block and examined like a prize bull.

  Think, Bessy, think! You’ve shoved a skiff up many a creek, only to have it peter out on you. You can work your way backward, or you can drag your boat through the marsh until you hit deep water again.

  Arms crossed, Matt was obviously waiting on her to say something. So she did, without the least notion of where she was going with it. “I was about to say that my friend Rose—”

  “Friend? I thought you said she was your secretary.”

  “Secretary-companion. A sort of steward, you might say. Does a bit of this and a bit of that.” So far, so good. Now what?

  “Whatever you call her, I still want to know everything you know about her, seeing as I’ve already hired her to take care of Annie when I leave.”

  ’Ware the shoals ahead.

  How much had Rose told him? If Bess said too much and their stories got crossed, it might endanger Rose’s credibility. Although better that than endangering her own, still she wouldn’t risk harming the girl if she could help it. Might be better to say as little as possible.

  She shifted her eyes and pulled another thread from her glove. “Well, now, as to that…”

  Matt disguised the intensity of his regard by dropping his eyelids to half-mast. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you know, every time you start a sentence with ‘Well, now…’ I know you’re about to pile on another layer of bull.”

  “It’s purely a mannerism, boy. We all have them, even you. You narrow your eyes and cross your arms and I know you’re not going to believe a word I say.”

  “That’s because you lie.”

  “I don’t lie. What I do is try to present the facts in the most interesting manner. It’s what I get paid to do.”

  “I don’t want to be entertained, dammit, I want to be informed. Right now, I want all the information you have about the Littlefield woman. You claim she’s a widow. Is that true, or is it another one of your fancy flourishes?”

  “Matthew, I swear on my father’s grave that—”

  “We both know your father was buried at sea. I was there, remember?”

  “I swear on the Atlantic Ocean,” she said without missing a beat, “that Rose was married to a man who drowned shortly before she came to live with her grandmother, who happened to be a close friend of mine, which is how I came to know her—Rose, that is—in the first place. When her grandmother died, the poor girl was left with no home and no skills to support herself, which is why I took her on.”

  Bessy, my girl, you’re treading on thin ice. If you can plot yourself out of this fix, you’ll be ready to write your first novel.

  “Now why does all that sound familiar? Have you taken up writing those fancy female stories?”

  “What fancy female stories?”

  Well, why not? If Matt was determined to hire his own wife, why not encourage a romantic interest between them before he found her out? By the time he learned the truth, Bess would be long gone. It would take Noah and a forty-day rain to get Rose back aboard a boat again. Meanwhile, any man worth his salt would already have given the girl a rollicking tumble or two. After that, they could set their own course and forget all about any discrepancies that might have cropped up.

  Bess tugged off her ragged glove and fumbled in her dresser drawer for a fresh pair. “If that’s all, I need to be on my way to the village. I told you Dick Dixon’s invited me to dinner, didn’t I? His son’s coming home for the summer, and I want to talk to him about Rose.”

  “What does Rose have to do with Dixon’s son?”

  Her inventive mind at work again, Bess gave it her wide-eyed best. “Well, now, Rose might be a widow, but she’s still a young woman. I understand the boy’s planning to go into politics. A nice wife would be an asset, and Rose could certainly use a husband.” Nothing quite like setting the cat among the pigeons, if only to watch them scatter and see where they came to earth again.

  Yes indeedy, a novel might be just the ticket. Newspaper columns were well enough, but why stop there when she could be the next Brontë?

  As Bess had taken the cart, Matt sent Luther off on one of the mares as soon as he sighted the mail-boat headed into the channel. Sooner or later, that damned shyster would have to admit what he’d done or risk being hauled before the bar by the scruff of his mangy neck. Matt had written weekly, wanting to know the whereabouts of his missing bride.

  Bagby had written once, telling him nothing at all.

  Some hour and a half later, Luther came larruping back into the yard, leaped from the mare, dropped the reins and ran yelling toward the house, waving a letter. “We got us a letter from the Swan,” he shouted.

  Actually, it was from the broker Matt had commissioned to buy her back. Hardly daring to get his hopes up, Matt ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents.

  “We going to Boston?” Luther asked eagerly, peering around his shoulder to read the letter.

  Feeling as if a two-ton anchor had been lifted from his back, Matt nodded. He went so far as to grin. “Yeah, we’re going to Boston. Take care of the mare while I go tell the others.”

  “Me, too?” Luther couldn’t quite mask his anxiety. Evidently he hadn’t forgotten the dressing down Matt had given him when he’d attempted to ride Jericho.

  “Yeah, you too, son. Somebody’s got to help me sign on a crew. I guess you’re the best I’ve got.”

  The best he had left. The words went unspoken, but both men sobered, glancing out past the paddock to the lone sandy grave.

  In the kitchen, Matt skimmed the letter aloud to Crank and Peg. “—negotiations in final stages, your presence required immediately for closing agreement.”

  “You done pulled it off, Cap’n” was Peg’s comment.

  “Hot diggety-by-damn,” Crank swore admiringly. “We’ll handle things here, don’t you worry ’bout a thing. Peg can look after the horses, I can look after Annie—we got enough fish salted down to last until—”

  But Matt was already three jumps ahead. “I’ll send Luther back to hire a boy from the village to take care of the horses. He can come every day and bring whatever supplies you need from the village. Peg, you’ll oversee the outside work. Bess and Rose can look after Annie—”

  Rose. He would need to secure an ironclad agreement before he left, because he didn’t trust Bess to hang around until he could get back. It would take at least a month, possibly longer, to complete the inspections, sign the final papers, hire on a new crew, arrange for cargo and deal with harbor officials.

  He should have paid closer attention to those reports, then he’d know where to make the best deals on consignments.

  His mind teeming with details, he went in search of Rose.

  She was in the backyard. With Annie under a makeshift awning, Rose was kneeling beside a row of dead plants, carefully pouring water around each one. She glanced up. “They’re collard slips. I think they’re supposed to stand upright, don’t you?”

  As far as he knew, they were supposed to lie dark and greasy in the pot with a slab of side meat. “Forget the collards, I’ve got to go to Boston, but before I leave I want your word of honor that you’ll stay until I get back.”

  She forgot the collards. “Boston?”

  “It might take a couple of weeks, maybe even longer. We agreed that Crank and Peg can’t handle Annie on their own, and Bess is about as reliable as a—” He swallowed the bawdy comparison. “Anyhow, I need someone I can trust. Will you do it for me, Rose?”

  She sat back, brushed the sand off her hands and gazed up at him helplessly. “Matt, we really need to get something straight before I agree to anything.”

  “Can it wait? I’ve got about three days’ work to do in a few hours. There’ll be a freight boat bound up the sound on the high tide. From Elizabeth City we can catch a train for Boston.”

  “We?”

  “I’ll
be taking Luther.”

  “Oh.” Rose wondered at his swift look of—of what? Satisfaction? “And you want me to stay here and look after Annie. Even if Bess leaves?”

  “I want you to stay on even if my wife shows up. She’ll need help getting her bearings. We had an agreement, if you’ll remember.”

  He was clearly eager to be off and about his business. Rose had seen children on Christmas Eve look less excited. “Of course I’ll stay, but, Matt—”

  It was plain to see his mind was already miles away. Standing there, legs braced apart, hands on his hips, with his head tilted back and his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun, he was a magnificent man by anyone’s standards. She could easily picture him standing on whatever part of a ship the captain stood on, with that same look of inner excitement sparkling in his eyes.

  “Never mind,” she said quietly. “It’s waited this long, I suppose another few weeks won’t change anything.” Let him go. Let him get his ship back so he could put to sea and forget Annie and Powers Point and…the wife he’d left behind. What difference could it make now? She’d made her choice, now she would have to accept the consequences.

  She watched him head out to the barn, his long legs striding across the bright, hot sand. Glancing down at the pathetic slips she had planted so hopefully, she wondered why she even bothered. One thing, and one thing alone, mattered to Matthew Powers: his blasted ship.

  They all, every last one of them, sang the man’s praises. Luther worshipped him. Crank never ceased talking about the galley the captain had fitted out with the very best of everything. Peg bragged that after he’d gone and got himself all busted up, the captain had rounded up the best sawbones money could buy to patch him up, then hired another chips to work under Peg’s supervision until Peg was on his feet again.

  “Saint Matthew. Blasted man,” she muttered. “Blasted, bloody, arrogant sailor.” She jabbed the trowel into the sand.

  This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To have her own home and a baby to care for without the risky ties of marriage? She had it all now, just as Bess had promised.