Gillian_Bride of Maine
Page 1
GILLIAN, BRIDE OF MAINE
Volume 23 of AMERICAN MAIL-ORDER BRIDES SERIES
Kirsten Lynn
www.kirstenlynnwildwest.com
Sign up for Kirsten’s Newsletter
www.kirstenlynnwildwest.com/contact_kirstin.php
Gillian Darrow fled her father’s house in Maine before he could put his evil plans into action. Now the actions of another unscrupulous man have left her without employment and few prospects. Following in the footsteps of other women from the factory, Gillian decides to become a mail-order bride. The advertisement from a lighthouse keeper in Maine catches her eye, and Rhys Chermont’s letters catch her heart. She hopes the lighthouse keeper can guide her home.
There’s only one problem…
Rhys Chermont never posted an advertisement for a wife and never wrote any letters to Gillian Darrow.
The last thing Rhys Chermont wants is another wife. While life at Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse keeps Rhys busy, he has to admit it would be nice to have a helpmate. The solitary life of a lighthouse keeper drove his first wife into the arms of a wealthy shipbuilder and led to a scandalous divorce. Luckily for Rhys, other forces are at play during the Christmas of 1890, and in Gillian, he just might find the light that leads him home.
Copyright © 2015 Kirsten Lynn
Kindle Edition
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission.
Editor: Red Quill Editing, LLC
Cover Design: Erin Dameron-Hill
Photograph on title page courtesy of Mount Desert Island Historical Society (W.H. Ballard Photographer)
DEDICATION
To the trip to Maine I took years ago and the long-suffering friend who visited every lighthouse we possibly could with me, even during a hurricane. From lighthouses to lobster and everything in-between, the memories never fade and a piece of my heart was lost Downeast.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
More Books by Kirsten Lynn
CHAPTER ONE
‡
December 24, 1890
Near Portland, Maine
The tail of the “n” at the end of her name shot to the edge of the paper. Gillian grimaced at the sloppy letter. She glanced over the page to confirm her friend Willow would be able to make sense of the chicken scratch.
Dear Willow,
As I write this note to you, I am on a train bound for Maine to marry Mr. Rhys Chermont this very night. He is the gentleman to whom I have been writing from his advertisement in the Grooms’ Gazette. My heart is filled with great hope, and at the same time, my stomach turns in terror. I pray Mr. Chermont is as kind as your Amos turned out to be, and we will experience the same happiness you have found. I know I have sworn a million times I would never return to Maine, but it is where my heart is leading. And Mr. Chermont is a lighthouse keeper, so surely he can guide my path to good a life.
I left Rose and Emma well. Neither is certain of their path yet, but I hope the New Year will guide them to fulfilled and happy lives. Life at the Brown Textile Mill was harsh, and I cannot say I’m saddened by Mr. Brown’s loss, but I would not give up those years when I met and befriended three of the most caring and wonderful women on earth. I am also thankful you can put all doubts about starting the fire behind you and move on in your life with Amos.
My most sincere wishes for a very Merry Christmas. My best to you and Amos.
Love and friendship always,
Gillian
Though her friend’s happiness had come after a period of trials and misunderstandings, Gillian wished for the same joy for her and Rhys. Trials could be overcome; she knew that lesson well. If he was a man with a good heart and upstanding morals, she could accept anything else about him.
Folding the letter, Gillian placed it in the addressed envelope and stuck it into her bag. She pulled another envelope from the bag and held it between her hands as her gaze turned to the blowing snow outside the train window.
The Boston & Maine chugged relentlessly through the cold and snow to Portland, Maine. She shook her head. Who would have ever thought she’d return to Maine? When she fled three years ago, she took one last look at her home promising never to return. The money she’d taken only brought her as far as Lawrence, Massachusetts, and to the factory where she’d worked with hundreds of other women. Some had secrets deeper than her own and some had no choice but to work to keep their families fed and clothed. Gillian had formed many strong friendships with the women of the factory until the day of the fire in September.
The fire set in motion another turbulent period in Gillian’s life. Again, she was tossed into an ocean of uncertainty, but this time, she was not alone. She joined with Willow, Rose, and Emma, and they encouraged each other. When Gillian saw an advertisement from a lighthouse keeper in Maine, her heart beat like a drummer leading returning soldiers through the town. The village was far enough from Bath that her father would never know of her return, and lighthouse keepers tended to be solitary individuals. She would keep to herself and build a life with Rhys Chermont. Maybe she would find a safe harbor at last.
She turned her gaze to the letter between her hands. Rhys Chermont, what a strong, lovely name. He described himself as tall, broad, and with red hair and blue eyes. She hugged the letter. They’d only exchanged three letters before he sent her a train ticket asking her to come and be his Christmas bride. Home for Christmas, she couldn’t refuse.
Her mind drifted for a second to Emma and Rose celebrating Christmas together in the small apartment she’d shared with them after the fire. Neither had looked through the Grooms’ Gazette with her and Willow since they’d both determined not to marry. She hoped the holidays would bring some joy to them both.
It had been hard parting from them at the train station that morning. The cousins were both reserved ladies, and their hugs were light even as she squeezed them tightly. Neither woman cried, so Gillian held her tears until she was on the train. Both were wonderful women and friends despite the walls they’d built around their hearts.
She opened the letter she held.
I look forward to making you my wife by Christmas with prayers this will be the first of many happy Christmases together. I will ever strive to make you proud you chose to call me husband.
Her body warmed. …making you my wife. Did he mean saying the vows, or taking her to bed? She wasn’t sure what she would say or do if he meant to bed her this night. By the law, he’d have every right. For her, she’d like to know him for more than a few hours before they joined their bodies. Her hand fisted despite the crinkling
of her letter. She breathed deep against the panic. What if his letters lied, and he was a man accustomed to using his fists and the fact he was male as weapons against a wife?
“Traveling home for Christmas?”
Gillian’s gaze snapped to the lady on the hard bench across from her. A young boy sprawled across the bench, using his mother’s lap as a pillow. So many things hadn’t crossed Gillian’s mind when she answered the advertisement. This man might be a brilliant liar, painting a picture of a kind and loving husband when, in truth, he was a tyrant. Her father had taught her the lesson that who a man was outside the house and who he was inside the house could be as different as summer and winter in Maine. She glanced at the young boy with a mop of gold hair covering his round cheeks as he curled closer to his mother’s warmth. And children? Would Rhys welcome children or want to keep his house silent?
Shoving the letter back into the envelope and then into her bag, she smiled at the lady. “Yes. And you?”
Somehow it felt right acknowledging Rhys’ house as her home. Gillian began to relax.
“Yes. We’ve been visiting grandparents, and now it’s home to Portland.”
“Not long left on your journey then.”
“No, just minutes. Is Portland your destination?”
“No, I continue on to Bass Harbor.”
The lady lifted one perfectly groomed, blonde eyebrow. “Gracious. You’re not going overland, surely?”
“No, my fiancé will meet me, and we’ll travel by boat.”
A shiver shook the woman’s shoulders. “Not a night for a boat cruise.”
Gillian forced her forehead not to furrow and kept her smile in place. “Well, we’re to be married this night, so it will be worth a chill.” She hoped.
The train slowed with the screech of iron on iron, and the beast gradually came to a halt. Gillian’s heart picked up the pace where the train stopped.
The lady roused the sleeping boy and offered one last smile. “Safe journey and congratulations on your marriage.”
Gillian tried to smile but feared the effort fell short. “Thank you. Merry Christmas.”
It was time. She had a moment of doubt when everything screamed for her to find accommodations for the night and return to Massachusetts in the morning. Her heart and the words in Rhys Chermont’s letters pushed her to her feet and down the aisle to meet her husband.
Darn her heart, it was much stronger than she was.
CHAPTER TWO
‡
Gillian stepped onto the platform, and her gaze wandered over each man and woman waiting for a passenger. Rhys Chermont wasn’t hard to spot. He stood at least a head taller than any man there. She observed him while she was yet unnoticed. The regulation dress uniform lighthouse keeper’s black visor hat, indigo blue with a white lighthouse in the center and gold leaves in a half-circle, covered all but the fringe of his ginger hair. Wrinkles formed at the outer corners of his eyes, testament to a man who looked into the sun and worked in the harshest weather. A closely trimmed, red beard covered the lower half of his face, adding some protection from those elements. He pulled up the collar of his heavy, blue wool overcoat that stretched over broad shoulders. He turned then, and his light blue eyes caught and held hers.
He started walking toward her. His stride and carriage were those of a man who knew what he wanted and went after it. He looked neither left nor right, but compelled her to stay put just by the power of his gaze. A small shiver ran up her spine that had nothing to do with the large, wet snowflakes sticking to her face and coat and everything to do with the mountain of a man who stopped just inches from her.
Words from his first letter gave her some reassurance. …I may seem a bit gruff, and I am built bigger than most men, but rest assured, Miss Darrow, I would sever my hand from my arm before I ever touched you in violence. I may rage a bit, but my temper is quick to cool.
“Miss Gillian Darrow?”
She resisted the urge to look around for the unfortunate woman with that name. Strange how he both frightened her and intrigued her. The hint of a French Canadian accent somehow made him seem softer. “Yes, I’m Gillian Darrow. Are you Mr. Rhys Chermont?”
“Yes, Miss. Pleasure to meet you. I’ll be taking you to Bass Harbor.”
She felt her frown. What a peculiar thing for the man who had sent her the train ticket with the intention of marrying her to say. “Yes, I know. Thank you.” Her response sounded equally odd, but words were now lost to her.
He nodded. “Do you have any other bags?”
Gillian held tight to her carpetbag, which held her only other dress, a few underclothes, the books she treasured most, his letters, a bit of stationery, and her prized possession—her mother’s gilded brush and mirror. “No, this is it.”
“Fine then. I’ll carry that for you.” He took her bag before she could agree or disagree. She opened her mouth and snapped it shut as an ear-piercing whistle cut through the thick, winter night air.
She let out a gasp and stepped back when a wolf came running, tail wagging, and stood by Rhys’ side. He rubbed the wolf behind the ear. “This is Wee Jacques.”
Hysterical laughter burst from Gillian’s lungs. The wolf-dog was almost as big as she was. “Wee Jacques?”
The lines at the corners of Rhys’ eyes crinkled deeper and a smile transformed him from formidable mountain to the man in the letters. She lost a piece of her heart in that moment.
“Oui, he’s just a small thing. Runt of the litter.”
Gillian continued to smile and fell into step as Rhys ushered her toward the waterfront. Wee Jacques kept between them as their acting chaperone. They walked the short distance in silence, and Gillian took the opportunity to pray and give thanks that Rhys did indeed seem to be a kind man with an easy smile.
As they walked down the docks, the familiar sounds of fishermen talking and waves lapping against the strong, wooden poles of the piers took her back to earlier days. When her father had business in Portland, her mother would bring her down to the docks. She would stare into the horizon, and Gillian would hold her breath, hoping her mother didn’t dive into the sea. During those times, it was if the woman didn’t belong in Maine or with Gillian. She felt a bit like that this night—as though she was home, but at the same time, like she was a bit of a sojourner still seeking a place to call home.
Rhys stopped at a Friendship sloop tied to the dock, bringing Gillian back to the present, and the one man who might help her find a place where she belonged for the future. When he offered her his hand to help her on board, Gillian didn’t hesitate and slipped her gloved hand in his. He surprised her by giving her hand a slight squeeze.
“Father McDonald said you’ve had a rough time of it, Miss; you’ll not see rough days again.”
She held back tears at his vow but wondered again about how odd he was acting. He’d mentioned the priest in his letters, but Rhys knew of her situation directly. He didn’t need Father McDonald telling him her story. She shook off the questions flooding her mind and squeezed his hand back. “Thank you, Mr. Chermont.”
“It’s going to be a cold journey up the coast, Miss Darrow; if you want to go belowdecks to the cabin, it’ll be a bit warmer. Pardon my saying so, but you’re not really dressed for the top deck.”
She pushed down the rise of temper and the desire to inform him she’d taken what little she had left from her wages at the factory to purchase the new dress so she’d have something presentable to marry him in. The slice of the cold wind cutting through her not-so-new wool coat kept her tongue from wagging, and she gave a nod. He was correct, of course, and as a woman born to sailing, she knew it all too well.
She inspected his clothing. He wore heavy, thick woolen slacks. She could see the wool sweater under his peacoat, which was under his overcoat, and heavy boots protected his feet. His slicker laid at the ready beside the wheel. When her gaze made it back to his face, her heart sank that she’d been caught staring.
“Yes, Miss, I’m
well dressed for the journey. There’s blankets in the cabin; be sure to wrap one around you. Wee Jacques, take the lady down to the cabin.”
Gillian couldn’t believe she was actually following a dog belowdecks. He hadn’t mentioned the beast in any of his letters, yet they seemed close. She glanced at Rhys once more before stepping through the hatch and heading down the ladder. Something was wrong about all of this, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. He didn’t act the slightest bit nervous that, in hours, she was going to be his wife. However, he did seem like a man who, once a decision was made, it was final, and there was no room for emotions.
Rhys watched the young woman descend until only the top of her hat was visible and then it disappeared. At least it wasn’t one of those garish numbers with feathers and flowers that looked more like a cake than a hat. By the same token, the blue satin bonnet wasn’t going to do a blasted thing against cold sea spray and snow. Rhys removed his dress hat, tucked it in one of the cedar benches, and took out a wool hat to cover his ears.
Gillian Darrow had been a pleasant surprise from the first moment he saw her. To say she was a handsome woman didn’t give her credit. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted dramatically with creamy white skin, and when she smiled, he’d almost choked on the breath lodged in his lungs. When Father McDonald asked him to sail to Portland and pick up a young woman the priest considered almost family, Rhys offered every excuse not to make the trip. But when the Father shared her tale and explained he’d offered her shelter in Bass Harbor, Rhys couldn’t refuse. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t harden his heart, though God and Father McDonald knew he’d tried for years.
Rhys waved to the harbormaster as the older man helped him cast off, and he raised the main sail first followed by the jib sail. For better or worse, they were on their way. His breath caught at the phrase for better or worse, and he couldn’t say why. He gave a sharp, humorless laugh; he could think of one possible reason—his ex-wife fit square in the worse column.