Yankee Wife

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Perhaps,” Millie agreed philosophically. “I have my sister Charlotte, of course, but she can't precisely be called a friend because there are times when she hates me. And Aunt Persephone's bones hurt when it rains, so she spends a lot of time in her room.”

  A tiny muscle deep in Lydia's heart twisted. It wasn't difficult to imagine how lonely the vast, gracious house could be, set square in the center of this wild and unsettled country the way it was. “Aren't there other children in Quade's Harbor?” she asked, stricken.

  Millie shrugged one small shoulder. “Only Indians, and Aunt Persephone won't let us socialize with them because they have lice.” She leaned closer to add in a confidential whisper, “And they don't use chamber pots.”

  Lydia held back another smile. “Mercy,” she remarked, because the daring information Millie had imparted called for some comment. “What about the lumbermen? Don't any of them have families?” She recalled the row of sturdy saltbox houses she'd seen from the mail boat when she and Polly and Devon had arrived in Quade's Harbor earlier that day. She'd been struck by how much the town resembled long-settled villages in the East.

  Millie shook her head. “Most of them don't have kinfolks to speak of, and if they do, they don't want to come here.”

  Lydia was about to offer a reply when there was a rustle of sateen at the open doorway of her room. She looked up to see a tiny white-haired woman standing there, gazing at her with energetic, speculative eyes. This had to be Aunt Persephone, she thought Despite Millie's earlier statement that the woman often suffered from painful bones, she didn't look as though she'd ever spent so much as an hour reclining on a sickbed.

  Lydia rose, straightened her skirts, and extended a hand. “Hello,” she said. “I am Miss Lydia McQuire—the governess.”

  The gracious lady in the dark blue dress inclined her head slightly. “Yes,” she agreed, in a thoughtful tone. “The governess. My name is Mrs. Persephone Chilcote. Brigham and Devon are my nephews.” The sweetly imperious gaze swept to the child sitting on the bed. “Millicent, get down from there at once. One does not invade another person's chambers and muss their coverlet with one's feet.”

  Millie obeyed readily and fled the room in a sudden and quite staggering burst of energy, shouting, “Charlotte! There's a ship in the harbor and it's going to take you all the way to China because Papa's sold you to a tribe of bandits with long mustaches!”

  Mrs. Chilcote rolled her eyes, but her expression was gentle. “I do what I can,” she sighed, “but I'm afraid my grandnieces have become too unruly for an old woman to handle.”

  Lydia privately thought that a whole brigade of whooping Confederate raiders probably wouldn't prove “too unruly” for Mrs. Chilcote, but of course she didn't voice this conclusion. Devon and Polly were newlyweds, concerned wholly with each other, and the master of the house was hardly civil, let alone companionable. Lydia needed an adult friend.

  She indicated the two straight-backed chairs near the window, and Mrs. Chilcote took one.

  “This town, this house,” Lydia marveled softly, sitting across from her welcome visitor. “It's as though some genie lifted them whole from some coastal village in New England and set them down here, in the woods of the frontier.”

  Mrs. Chilcote smiled, and Lydia had no doubt that the woman had been a significant beauty in her youth. “Quade's Harbor doesn't have the raw look of Seattle, does it?” she agreed. “My nephew—it's Brigham I refer to now—had a vision of how he wanted this place to be before he ever staked claim to his first stand of timber. Things tend to take shape the way Brigham imagines them.”

  “Yes,” Lydia said.

  Mrs. Chilcote leaned forward in her chair, hands folded serenely, eyes dancing. “Am I wrong in guessing that you've already met Brigham and found him difficult?”

  It would have been impossible to lie to the woman, Lydia concluded, even if she'd been so inclined. “He's very officious and overbearing,” she allowed, looking away.

  The Quades' elderly aunt laughed, the sound soft and rich, like the patter of summer rain on the roof. “Brigham is strong-willed,” she agreed. Her look became more solemn. “But please don't judge him too harshly. His life has not been easy, despite a fortunate birth, and he's built the beginnings of an empire in these woods, with more hindrance from the fates than help, I'm afraid.”

  Lydia was puzzled by this last remark, but she didn't pursue it. The excitement and drama of recent events had finally begun to catch up with her, and she wanted nothing so much as a warm fire on the hearth, a pot of strong, sweet tea, and a long, blissful nap.

  “You must be very weary,” Mrs. Chilcote said pleasantly, and Lydia added astuteness and perception to the qualities she'd already ascribed to the lady. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

  “Tea would be wonderful,” Lydia answered. “Thank you.” Her hostess rose resolutely and left the room, and Lydia went to the marble fireplace, where small bits of dry bark and sticks of kindling rested on the grate. She found matches on the mantelpiece, in a porcelain box with violets painted on the lid, and lit the fire. When the blaze had caught properly and she'd adjusted the damper to her liking, she added several small, seasoned logs from the brass basket at her side.

  She was warming herself, hands outspread, when Mrs. Chilcote returned with a tray. This she set on a sturdy table of highly polished, ornately carved pine, and Lydia caught the wondrous scent of tea. There was also a dish of cinnamon pears, a small sandwich with the crust cut away, and a bowl of savory-looking stew.

  “I'll leave you to get settled,” Mrs. Chilcote said, her voice as warm as the crackling fire on the hearth. “Dinner is at seven, as uncivilized as that seems. Brigham declares he'll starve if he has to wait until eight, as would be proper.”

  Lydia measured the man in her mind; he seemed as tall and burly as a bear, though in truth he had the same lean grace and broad shoulders as his brother. She'd sensed a controlled energy about him, as though there were a furnace burning in his spirit, growing hotter and hotter, threatening to burst free in an explosion of molten activity.

  She nodded her thanks to Mrs. Chilcote, and when she was alone, settled down on the side of the bed to consume the food. When every crumb was gone, she fed the cheerful fire more wood and then stretched out to nap, covering herself with a rightly patterned quilt.

  When she opened her eyes again, hours later, the room was in shadows and she could hear rain whispering at the window glass. There was a dank chill in the air, and the fire had reduced itself to a few forlorn embers.

  Rubbing her arms in an effort to warm herself, Lydia sprang from the bed and went to the hearth to add kindling, then another log. In the glow of the resultant blaze, she found the kerosene lamp on her bedside table, turned up the wick, and lit it.

  She was just replacing the beautifully painted globe when there was a knock at her door. Expecting Mrs. Chilcote, or perhaps Millie, Lydia smoothed her hair and crumpled skirts and went smiling to admit her company.

  A slender young woman, just into adolescence, stood in the hallway, where two lamps burned at either end of a long cherrywood table. She was as beautiful as Millie, though in a different way, for her hair was maple-colored and her eyes a soft brown.

  Lydia felt an unexpected twinge, surmising that her caller had to be Charlotte Quade, Brigham's older daughter, and she was somehow certain that the child resembled her mother.

  Unmistakable hostility glinted in the wide, fawn-soft eyes. “Papa says you're to come down to dinner or we'll eat without you,” she said.

  Inwardly, Lydia sighed. If she hadn't been so hungry, she'd have sent Mr. Quade an equally rude message via this irritable little messenger. Instead she simply said, as though having a pleasant encounter at a tea party, “How do you do, Charlotte? I'm Miss McQuire, and I'll be most happy to join you for supper, if you'll just lead the way to the dining room.”

  Charlotte tossed her lovely head, narrowed her eyes for a moment, and turned on her heel
. “I don't understand why Uncle Devon had to bring you here in the first place,” she said, without looking back, as she progressed toward a rear stairway in long strides. “We certainly don't need you.”

  Lydia made no reply, since any comment she might make would certainly be met with more of the thirteen-year-old's brutally direct logic.

  They started down the stairs, passed through a kitchen where a man in overalls, suspenders, work boots, and a plaid woolen shirt sat at the table. Dirty pots and pans were everywhere, and he was perusing a thin, crumpled issue of the Seattle Gazette.

  “That's Jake Feeny, the cook,” Charlotte said idly, as though Mr. Feeny were inanimate and unaware of their passing. “Papa hired him after the Indian woman left.”

  Lydia nodded at Mr. Feeny, and he smiled at her, bright, wry eyes twinkling.

  In a dining room as tastefully ostentatious as the rest of the house, the Quade family had gathered at a long table. A blaze chattered on the hearth of a large brick fireplace, and Devon rose at Lydia's appearance, followed reluctantly by Brigham.

  She took the only open place, at Brigham's left, and felt unaccountably self-conscious when he drew back her chair before returning to his own.

  The conversation resumed, a merry flow of laughter and talk, and the food was delicious. Lydia concentrated on putting away her share of chicken and dumplings and canned green beans cooked with bacon. She wanted to put on a few pounds of insulation in case her fortunes took another unexpected divergence and she found herself out in the rain.

  “I think we should send Miss McQuire back wherever she came from,” Charlotte proclaimed suddenly, and the tide of happy interchange dried up instantly.

  “Let's send Charlotte instead and keep Miss McQuire,” Millie countered, pausing to put out her tongue at her sister.

  Lydia lowered her fork to her plate and sat with her hands folded in her lap. Although she would have done anything to prevent it, her gaze swerved to Brigham. She wasn't looking for a champion, needed no defense from the silly attacks of a child, and yet she expected something.

  Mr. Quade glowered at his elder daughter, taking a white dinner napkin from his lap and setting it aside. “Perhaps you would prefer spending the rest of the evening in your room, contemplating the drawbacks of rudeness.”

  “I'm sorry, Papa,” Charlotte said meekly.

  Brigham's response was firm. “It wasn't me you offended,” he pointed out.

  Charlotte turned her amber eyes to Lydia, and the defiance Lydia saw in their depths belied the child's words. “I apologize, Miss McQuire. I shall not be rude in the future.”

  Lydia was skeptical of both the apology and the vow to abstain from bad manners, but she nodded, looking solemn for the sake of Charlotte's obviously formidable pride. “Thank you,” she said, with dignity.

  Soon after, both Charlotte and Millie were excused from the table, and Mrs. Chilcote retired as well. Devon and Polly were lost in each other's eyes, and simply wandered out of the room. Lydia looked after them with an envy that surprised and dismayed her, remembering a time when she'd hoped for a love like that. A time when she'd believed love was possible for her.

  “You thought you were going to marry my brother, didn't you?”

  Brigham's words so startled Lydia that she spun in her chair, all color gone from her face, the peach-preserve pie that had kept her at the table still untouched before her.

  She swallowed. The expression in Brigham's storm-cloud eyes was not unkind, but simply forthright. She cleared her throat. “Yes,” she answered, at painful cost to her pride.

  The timber baron sat back in his chair, looking at her pensively. “You don't need to worry, you know. You're a handsome woman, and any number of my men would be willing to take you in and give you a name.”

  Lydia sat up as though lightning had touched the small of her back. A furious blush stung her face. He made her sound like a half-witted waif, or a bedraggled kitten, not the strong and capable woman she was. “I am not looking for a man to take me in, Mr. Quade,” she told him, parceling out the words one by one on little puffs of air. “I can look after myself, thank you very much!”

  He smiled. “You would have been all wrong for Devon,” he said pleasantly. “Polly suits him far better, with her limpid looks and long sighs.”

  Lydia pushed back her chair to leave, even though it killed her to abandon her pie. She had not had such a treat since before she left the East, and she did not forgo it lightly. “I don't suppose it's occurred to you, Mr. Quade, that Devon might be all wrong for me, that he might be the one who's unsuited—”

  Brigham's palm struck the table with a resounding smack when she would have risen, and she dropped back into her seat, more surprised than intimidated.

  “Sit,” he said, quite unnecessarily.

  Lydia glared at him. It was still raining, and she knew she wouldn't be able to find proper accommodations in a town full of lumberjacks, even if the place had looked staid and settled from the boat.

  He waggled an index finger at her. “You and I have gotten off on the wrong foot, Miss McQuire,” he said. “Every time I speak, it seems, you take immediate offense. I was merely offering a comment before; my brother would not know how to deal with a woman like yourself.”

  A little of Lydia's ire subsided. It was true that Brigham Quade nettled her sorely, but she couldn't imagine why. She was used to the teasing of soldiers with both grave wounds and minor, and besides, he hadn't actually insulted her…had he?

  She looked at her host out of the corner of one eye. “You have been quite kind, under the circumstances,” she conceded, tempted again by the slice of pie awaiting her. The fruit filling was probably both tart and sweet, while the crust looked flaky and light. Lydia tasted humble pie, as well as peach, when she took her first bite. “I'll try to be less sensitive.”

  There was a smile couched in his voice, or so it seemed to Lydia.

  “You do that,” Mr. Quade replied.

  Lydia savored her pie.

  “Devon tells me you were a nurse during the war,” said the master of the house, apparently determined to convince her that he could carry on a civil conversation. In truth, Lydia would have been much relieved if he'd simply removed himself from the room.

  She chewed, swallowed, dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin. “Yes.” She hated to think about those horrible days, let alone discuss them. There was every possibility that the nightmares would return if she dwelt on the topic too long. “It was not very pleasant, of course.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Mr. Quade agreed, watching her.

  Lydia finished another bite of pie, which didn't taste quite as good as the first. “Perhaps you were involved in the war effort in some way?” she asked, hoping to direct the flow of conversation away from herself.

  “Actually,” he replied, reaching out for a china pot that looked ridiculously out of place in his brawny, callused hand and pouring himself more coffee, “I sold timber to both sides and kept out of the argument.”

  She pushed away her pie, unable to believe what she'd just heard. “‘The argument’?” she echoed in disbelief.

  Quade leaned forward in his chair, looking baffled. Clearly, he knew he'd offended her again but couldn't think how.

  She was about to enlighten him.

  “I have seen bodies stacked between trees like cord-wood, Mr. Quade,” she said coldly, sitting up very straight in her chair. “Sometimes, one of the arms or legs would twitch. We didn't know whether or not some of those men were still alive, and we hadn't a moment to find out, because there were others—so many others—being brought in all the time. At Gettysburg there were corpses so thick on the ground you could barely wedge a foot between them, and they say the water of Antietam Creek ran scarlet with blood. I would not call the War Between the States an ‘argument.’ Furthermore, I consider your selling lumber to the rebel states an act of treason.”

  “The war is over, Lydia,” he said, his voice quiet and grave. />
  She barely heard him, she was so flustered. “Have you no conscience? How could you bear to prosper from such carnage?”

  Brigham's tones were still level, though a tiny muscle was twitching under his left cheekbone. “I didn't start the conflict, and I couldn't have stopped it by refusing to sell lumber because a man wore gray instead of blue.”

  Lydia was so horrified that, for the moment, she couldn't speak. She sat clutching the edge of the table, unable to rise from her chair.

  Mr. Quade regarded her thoughtfully for a long interval, then said, “I am willing to allow you your opinion, Miss McQuire. Why is it that you are so troubled by mine?”

  She closed her eyes, hearing the exploding shells again, the screams, mere boys in farm clothes and mismatched uniforms, covered in gore and shrieking for their mothers. She smelled the powder from the cannons, the blood, the merciless stench made up of sweat, excrement, urine, and infected flesh. She swayed, felt a strong hand grasp her forearm and steady her.

  “Lydia!”

  She looked, saw Mr. Quade bending close, but she could still hear the screams. Even after she'd walked away from the hospital in Washington City for the last time, she'd heard them, night and day, hour upon hour, until she'd truly thought she'd go mad from the sound.

  She was trembling.

  Mr. Quade went to a side table. She heard the clinking of glass against glass, and then he returned, shoving a brandy snifter into her hand.

  Normally, Lydia did not take ardent spirits, given the havoc whiskey had caused in her father's life, but she was about to topple over and she needed something to revive her. She took an unsteady sip, using both hands to hold the glass.

  “What just happened here?” Brigham demanded, crouching beside her chair. As shaken as she was, his nearness had its effect on her. She felt an achy heat deep inside her, in that place a good woman tried hard not to think about. “You look as though you've just taken tea with the devil.”