by Susan Wiggs
A few moments later, Granger left the boys practicing their half hitches and went to the deck. Jesse’s younger sister, Annabelle, was there, looking coltish and shy as she clung to her mother’s hand and greeted the guests.
Granger made an elaborate bow before the ten-year-old, then led her into a dance. Even from a distance, Jesse could see her blush with pride and pleasure.
A blast from the ship’s horn interrupted the dancing. Jesse’s father waved to him and Emily, gesturing them down to the pier. Thomas Clapp, Granger’s father, announced through a bullhorn that it was time for the christening. The crowd surged along the dock and gathered there, buzzing with excitement.
Photographers with their cameras mounted on tripods jockeyed for position during the brief speeches from Morgan and Clapp. Granger leaned over and gallantly kissed Emily’s hand, whispering, “I hope you saved me a dance.”
She blushed, but before she could reply, the speeches ended. Both Jesse and Granger were handed bottles of Dom Perignon, tethered by scarlet ribbons to the prow of the ship.
“Lord have mercy,” Granger complained good-naturedly. “What a waste of fine champagne.” He pressed his lips to the bottle in a passionate kiss, and the crowd roared. His grin was slightly hard-edged—chiseled, Jesse knew, by the constant, strident demands of his parents. “Ready, old pal?” Granger asked.
“Not quite.” Jesse’s heart filled with anticipation. What a perfect time, what a perfect day, to share his news. He made a great show of stepping back to hand Emily the bottle. “This is an honor that belongs to Emily Leighton, my bride-to-be.”
For just a heartbeat, there was stunned silence, broken only by the shivering of lines against the masts and the lapping of the water at the hull. In that heartbeat, Jesse took it all in—Emily’s glowing smile, his mother’s wordless gasp followed by a gush of tears, his father’s hand lifting to slap him on the back, Mr. and Mrs. Clapp exchanging a cold glare before pasting on their smiles. But most of all, Jesse saw Granger. More clearly than he’d ever seen him. It only took a moment, but he saw something in Granger’s eyes ignite and then die. Granger, too, had been in love with Emily.
“Congratulations, son,” his father declared, and the hearty applause that followed chased away the frozen moment Jesse had sensed when he’d looked at Granger.
“All the best to you,” Thomas Clapp said expansively. He thumped his own son on the back a bit harder than good nature dictated. “How about that, eh? Your partner beat you out again. Looks like you’d better find yourself a bride and give me some grandkids to spoil.”
Granger went red to the tips of his ears. “All in good time, Father,” he muttered.
Something had changed that day. Though Jesse hadn’t realized it at the time, there was a subtle shift in the dynamics of the three friends, as if the world had tilted on its axis, never to right itself again. Jesse and Granger and Emily. They’d always been the merry trio, together at parties and holidays; going to the opera where Emily sat enraptured while Granger and Jesse drank secretly from a shared flask and tried not to guffaw at the posturing on stage; practicing the newfangled game of baseball while Emily pretended to understand it.
But after that day, a frost hung in the air. Granger became more and more distant. He spent Friday evenings at Madame Fanshaw’s Mansion of Sin rather than in the company of Jesse and Emily. The three of them would never be easy together again.
Emily had recovered first from Thomas Clapp’s insensitive remark. She laughed, cloaking the moment with humor, then said, “If we don’t do this right now, I’m going to uncork this bottle and drink it all myself!”
The last thing Jesse remembered about that day, that glittering day that had changed the course of his life, was the sight of two green bottles swinging through the air, pausing ever so slightly at the top of the arc where the sun shone through the green glass, then shattering against the hull and exploding into a million sun-sparkled bits of emerald.
* * *
She was trapped in the dream, and she could not find her way out. It was as if some drug had been fed to her, holding her limbs and head immobile while she was forced to watch and feel things against her will.
The door. An ordinary door of four wood panels and a crystal knob. She sat in a chair opposite the door, watching, waiting.
The door opened. Slowly. She heard the tread of a footstep and the creak of a floorboard, always the same board, always the same tone. Her days had taken on a sameness that was almost comforting in its uneventful boredom.
But today was different. Today she had something to tell him. Something that would make him so happy. He would sweep her up in his arms and whirl her around, and she’d forget all the past slights, all the little unknowing cruelties he’d committed. She would be important to him now. She had something he wanted. Desperately.
A bar of light slanted through the open door. A tall, broad male form came toward her. She waited to see the handsome face, the neatly combed hair held in place with just a little coating of wax, the smile that set her heart to fluttering.
She found herself looking at a stranger. Taller, broader even, than him. And infinitely more frightening.
The light shone from behind, so she only saw his shape, but it was enough to send chills through her. Big shoulders and powerful arms revealed by rolled-up sleeves. Hair that was too long, too wild, flowing like a mane that stirred with the slightest movement.
It was the man who had shot at her earlier. Defying the throbbing pain in the region of her right shoulder, she made the sign of the cross. “Mother Mary and Joseph, help me.”
She heard the rasp of a Lucifer, then an oil lamp on the wall shelf flared to life. Just for a moment, her captor’s face was bathed in radiant gold, and she saw it in fine, exquisite detail, as if she were looking at a painting in church.
A painting of the Dark Angel. There was an icy purity in the blue eyes that made her blood run cold. A high, noble brow and heavy eyebrows. The shape of his mouth was so flawless that she felt the urge to trace it with her finger.
Then the Dark Angel turned and spoke. “Are you awake?”
She burrowed deeper into the covers, holding them to her chin. “And who’s doing the asking?”
He stared at her as if she had sprouted antlers. “Are you afraid of me?”
The words sent her hurtling back in time, back to a place she had risked her life to escape. Don’t be afraid. I don’t want to have to hurt you....
Whimpering, she dived under the blankets and drew her knees up to her chest. It was warm here, and she shouldn’t be shivering, but she couldn’t stop. What a turn she had come to. What an awful, awful turn. She had gotten to a place in her life where she wanted only one thing—to feel safe.
“Ma’am?” The stranger’s voice was low, tentative. Edged with annoyance.
No one had ever called her “ma’am,” as if she were a lady of consequence. The blethering fool, she thought, letting her mind drift like a bit of wood bobbing on the waves. Didn’t he know better?
* * *
Feeling like an idiot, Jesse stood with the lamp in one hand, the other hand stretched out toward the shivering mound on the bed. Confound the woman. Couldn’t she make up her mind whether to be awake or asleep?
Tonight, Erik was tending the light. The lad was steady, grinding the gears every four hours as Jesse had trained him to do. But he only allowed Erik to sit watch if the weather held no threat.
Early in the evening, Jesse had gone out to the edge of the promontory and stood for a long time, feeling the wind and tasting the air, watching the rush of clouds across the lowering glow of the sun.
People said his foreknowledge of bad weather was a mystical gift, but he knew it was simply a skill born of long practice. He had learned to read the mood of the sea and the clouds. The first tenet of warfare was to know one’s
adversary. He had made a study of it. In the room at the bottom of the lighthouse he had an array of instruments any university scientist would envy—astrolabes and quadrants, barometers and gauges for all manner of measurement.
He was diligent in keeping his log, earning special commendations from the district lighthouse inspector for his attention to detail. Of course, he didn’t do any of this in order to earn commendations.
In the beginning, he’d done it to earn salvation. But after twelve years, he’d given up hoping for that. Now he just did it to survive.
Quietly he replaced the lamp on the wall shelf and stood looking at the hump of quilts and blankets. This was his night to sleep, and here he stood, wakeful and agitated, staring in resentment at the woman from the sea.
Earlier, Palina had brought up a fresh quilt and a jar of strong broth. He had heated some of the broth and set the bowl on the bedside table. “Ma’am?” he said softly. “You should try to eat.”
No response. Setting his jaw, Jesse awkwardly pulled back the blankets to reveal a tangle of hair and a flushed cheek. “Ma’am?” he said again, his voice tighter now, more impatient.
She moaned and shivered again, then turned her head away without opening her eyes. She had slipped back into that state of half sleep.
“Fool woman,” Jesse muttered. “You’re never going to get better if you don’t eat something.” He unfurled the quilt Palina had brought and settled the colorful blanket over the woman.
She stirred, and a small foot emerged from beneath the covers. When Jesse bent to tuck it back in, he was struck by the fine texture of her skin.
In a dark corner of his heart, part of him wondered if she was going to die like everything else he touched.
She released a contented sigh and settled deeper into sleep. The quilt seemed to have a calming effect on her. Ever whimsical, Palina had depicted on the fabric some favored Icelandic myth. This one showed a beautiful mermaid rising out of the sea, borne along on the crest of the boiling surf.
Palina and her myths. She used them to explain everything. She used them instead of simple common sense.
Jesse frowned. Common sense wasn’t working here. In truth, it was all too easy to see the Irishwoman as a creature of myth. She had appeared alone from the sea. She was shrouded in mystery. No one had come searching for her. She wore no wedding ring, yet she was pregnant. The foreign lilt in her voice only added to the mystique that hung around her like the golden glow of a lamp.
She took a deep, shuddering breath that startled Jesse. He hated being startled. He hoped to God that word of her would get out quickly. Bert Palais had promised to circulate the photograph and description as far as his newspaper contacts would reach.
Hurry, Jesse thought, turning down the lamp and walking quietly out of the room. Hurry and get her away from here.
He thought of a time years before when he’d been out yachting with friends. That had been in the early years, the oblivious years, before the darkness and the fear. By accident, a belaying pin had stabbed through the fleshy part of his hand. He’d stood frozen for a moment, staring at the vicious steel shaft protruding from his hand. Then he’d grabbed a bottle of whiskey and sucked it dry. And he’d told his friends on the yacht the same thing.
Hurry. Hurry and take it out of me. Before I feel the pain.
* * *
The sooner he found her, the better.
He stood in a parlor that reeked of furniture polish and expensive tobacco and wealth and privilege. Outside, the traffic of Portland creaked and rumbled past with a familiar and welcome cacophony. On the desk in front of him lay the morning journals.
The item that had seized his attention was on the bottom of the back page, tucked amid advertisements for Hiram’s Glory Water and Do-Right Farm Tools. A grainy photograph and a small block of text:
Ilwaco, W.T.—The head lightkeeper at Cape Disappointment rescued a single shipwreck survivor on Sunday last. Captain Jesse Kane Morgan, formerly of Portland, pulled from the surf a young lady of unknown family and origin.
According to Harbormaster Judson Espy, the only commercial vessel known to be missing at this time is the oysterman Blind Chance, of the Shoalwater Bay Company.
Anyone knowing the identity of the young lady is advised to address himself to the lighthouse station....
A strong hand, the fingernails manicured and buffed to a sheen, reached for the newspaper and snatched it up, crushing the page in a fist gone suddenly hard with fury.
Could it be...? He must find out. He would have to be discreet, of course. But he had to find out. He had to learn something else as well—what a man’s rights were to a child he’d fathered.
It was insult enough that the wench had gotten away. That an illiterate Irishwoman with dirt beneath her nails had outsmarted him. But—irony of ironies—she had been rescued by Jesse Morgan.
“Granger?” A feminine voice, tentative and respectful and cultured the way he liked, called from the doorway.
“Yes, Annabelle?”
“I...I was just going out. To call on the Gibsons.”
He eyed her across the room. His perfect wife. Every gilded curl in place. The folds and tucks of her morning gown precisely aligned. The parasol and reticule made to match. Ah, she was a credit to him.
He smiled and crossed the room toward her. She didn’t flinch as he bent and kissed her cheek gently, tenderly. Lovingly. “Have a fine day, Annabelle, dear.”
“I shall, Granger.” She took one step back toward the door, then another. What a vision she was, arrayed to take Portland by storm with her beauty and her charm. Yes, he was the envy of his peers.
Standing at the window, he watched her go. Only after a footman helped her into the drop-front phaeton outside did he look down at what he held in his hand. The crushed newspaper. He hurled the ball of paper into a small bin in the kneehole of the desk. When he looked up again, the phaeton was rounding the corner of Lassiter Way. Pedestrians craned their necks to peer at the beautiful Mrs. Annabelle Clapp.
His perfect wife. In all ways but one.
She was barren.
CHAPTER FIVE
She awoke to sunlight and pain and the disconcerting notion that she had been dreaming of the baby. Formless and vague, the wraithlike images followed her into wakefulness. Light had pervaded the dream. And the rainbow colors of hope and joy shot through the light.
She lay still, listening, wondering about the dull ache in her shoulder. How had she hurt herself? Something to do with the shipwreck. She had a blurry recollection of holding a rail, feeling the wood twist and hearing the snap of timbers being wrenched apart. The screams of the seamen and the roar of the ocean echoed in her ears.
The memory of violence and black night and churning waters should have plunged her into a panic. Yet instead, she thought of the lighthouse. The beacon, flashing a message of hope to her as she washed ashore.
Pressing her good arm behind her, she sat up, unable to move again until a wave of dizziness passed. Mother of God, but she was ill. A squeak of alarm came from her throat, and she laid a hand on her stomach.
“Are you still there, baby? Have you survived all this with me?” she whispered. She felt the small, hard knot and breathed easier. Still there. Still a part of her. She’d failed at every last, blessed thing she’d ever attempted, and she didn’t want to fail at motherhood.
For a while, she held herself motionless, waiting. Finally, the baby moved. She’d first felt it a week earlier—the fluttering of fairy wings. A small, precious miracle grew inside her.
Grasping the sturdy bed frame, she got up. She went outside to the necessary, seeing no one along the way, hearing only the morning birds of early summer and the whispery sighs of the wind through the trees.
On the way back, she stopped in the yard. The trees were the grandes
t, tallest things she had ever seen, and they looked enchanted, all clad in lichen and draped in long, green beards of moss. Their tops swayed in the breeze as if dancing to music only they could hear. Surely the majestic forest could speak if only she knew how to listen. It could tell her what sort of place this was, what she could expect here, if she was safe with that moody, dark stranger.
Her gaze traveled down the broad lawn to a meadow where horses grazed. She saw a barn and, in a sunny corner, a vegetable garden fenced off from rabbits and deer. The entire place had an impersonal air of order, as if no one actually lived here.
But someone did, of course.
A very puzzling someone.
High on the distant bluff to the west was the lighthouse. The stony sentinel, painted white with three bands of red, stood proud and impervious to the wind and the sun. The flashing beacon had been her guiding star after the wreck. She could hardly look at it without feeling the harsh sting of thankful tears in her throat.
Weakness plagued her. Dizzy, she made her way back to the house. A railed veranda faced west. Green shutters and lime-washed siding, the chimney made of smooth, round stones. At one time, flower beds must have graced the front, for along the gravel walkway, she spied some bald rose hips struggling up through wild fern and weed. Hidden close to the ground were runners of alyssum and larkspur, defiantly blooming in anticipation of the coming summer.
A pity about the flowers, she thought. Blooming flowers would liven up the place considerably.
Stepping inside, she held the back of a chair and let her eyes adjust to the dimness. Books everywhere, stacked on tables and shelves. The interior of the house was excruciatingly neat, from the bin of wood beside the stove, to the supplies precisely aligned, like little tin soldiers, on the shelves in the kitchen pantry.
Mum would have liked that, she thought, letting in a warm wave of fond memories. Mum liked a tidy kitchen.
