The Lightkeeper

by Susan Wiggs

  In the next few weeks, Jesse reflected, more tourists would arrive, wealthy people from Portland and Seattle who came to summer at the seashore.

  Years ago, Jesse had been one of them.

  He headed for the smithy at the end of Spruce Street. Smoke streamed from the conical forge chimney, beckoning like a long, wavering finger.

  “Hello!” a singsong voice called from the crowded boardwalk. “Hello, Mr. Morgan!”

  Jesse tried not to cringe too visibly. After debating for a moment whether or not he could ignore the summons, he pulled back smoothly and stopped the buggy.

  With her bosom puffing like a set of bellows, Hestia Swann bore down on them. Feathers dyed improbable colors nodded above the broad brim of her hat. When she looked up at Mary, there was a smile on her face, but her eyes glinted with sharp darts of curiosity.

  “This must be your guest,” Hestia crowed. “My, just look at the poor thing! How pale she is, and thin, for all that she’s expecting a child. Just look at her. Has she a name, Mr. Mor—”

  “Mary Dare,” said Mary, mirth barely suppressed in her voice. “And I might be thin and pale, but I’m not deaf. Nor am I an ee-jit.”

  Mrs. Hestia Swann drew herself up and regarded Mary fiercely. “Impertinent, perhaps.”

  “Oh, aye, my mum always used to say so.” Mary inclined her head. “How do you do, Mrs....”

  “Swann,” Jesse broke in, thinking that he’d lost his mind, bringing Mary to town in broad daylight. “This is Mrs. Hestia Swann.”

  “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Swann.”

  Hestia’s mouth pursed into a perfect, tight “O.” “An Irish girl?”

  “I am,” Mary said. “From County Kerry.”

  Jesse saw her straighten. The pallor left her cheeks, crowded out by spots of color. He managed to catch Hestia’s eye. He didn’t have to say a word. With one freezing look, he stopped her from saying anything insulting or prejudicial against Mary or the Irish in general.

  “I’m certain you’re welcome in Ilwaco,” Hestia said quickly, her gaze fleeing Jesse’s. “And it’s surely a miracle you survived a shipwreck.”

  “Aye, it’s a miracle indeed,” Mary said. “I’ve Captain Morgan to thank for that.”

  Jesse allowed himself to relax a little. By not using his given name, Mary deflected Hestia’s suspicion about exactly what had been going on since she’d washed up on the beach. He was trying to figure out a way to bid Mrs. Swann good day when another woman joined them.

  “Well, here’s our patient, looking the very picture of health!” Fiona MacEwan declared, contradicting everything Hestia had said. She rocked back on her heels, revealing her brogans and clutching a shopping bag under one arm. Without waiting for Jesse to introduce them, she grinned up at Mary. “I’m Dr. Fiona MacEwan. It’s good to see you looking so well.” She winked at Jesse. “We feared you’d never wake up except by means of a kiss from a true prince.”

  Hestia gasped, but Mary only laughed. “If that was what it took, I’d still be sleeping like the dead. Are you truly a doctor, then?”

  “That I am. A graduate of the Women’s College of Medicine in Philadelphia. That’s back East.”

  “Then you’ll be the one to have a look at Captain Morgan’s poor hand.” Mary indicated the bloody bandage.

  “Indeed I shall,” Fiona said briskly.

  “I’ve got business at the smithy,” Jesse said. “I’ll stop in later.”

  “We’re so pleased you’re here, Mrs. Dare,” Hestia said, clearly having decided to hold out the olive branch. “Now, what about the centennial celebration? Will you be there, Captain? And will you be bringing your guest?”

  Jesse almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He never, ever attended social events, and Hestia knew it.

  “Centennial?” Mary asked.

  “Our nation was born a hundred years ago—July 4, 1776. There’s to be a regatta and a dance social in Oysterville. And you’d stay at the Pacific House Hotel, of course.”

  Mary’s face lit up. “I should like that very much, indeed I should.”

  “We’re not going,” said Jesse.

  “I think it would be an excellent tonic for my patient,” Fiona declared, clearly planning to ignore him. “Come along now, and we’ll show you the town while Jesse is off at the blacksmith’s.”

  Within moments, they had helped Mary out of the buggy and were leading her toward the mercantile. There were, Hestia explained airily, certain things a woman needed if she was going to attend a social.

  Feeling twitchy and irritated, Jesse watched them disappear. Damn. This was precisely what he wanted to avoid. People. Friendships. Laughter and fun.

  Mary seemed to be dragging him into it against his will.

  * * *

  “No doubt about it, Mr. Clapp,” said the nervous solicitor. “She’s the woman you’re looking for.”

  Granger studied the antique globe beside his desk. He felt no surprise; Stoner’s discreet investigation only confirmed what he’d suspected all along. “And?” he prompted.

  “She calls herself Mary Dare, it seems, and looks none the worse for having survived a shipwreck.” Stoner idly took out his pocket watch. One-handed, he flipped the cover open, then closed it, and repeated the gesture as if it soothed him.

  Granger spun the globe, his finger stopping its orbit at his favorite spot—the Sandwich Islands. No one knew it yet, but those lush, tropical isles in the middle of the Pacific were his ultimate destination.

  But he couldn’t go there yet. He still had work to do. He still needed a son, an heir. His parents were quite fond of pointing out that a male heir had been born to every generation of Clapps since the Mayflower had landed. He was duty-bound to honor the tradition.

  “Her condition?” He arched an eyebrow at Stoner.

  The man paled. His ivory-white hand dived into his pocket, taking the watch with it. “As I said, sir, she seems none the worse—”

  “I’m speaking of the baby, and you damned well know it,” Granger said.

  Stoner smoothed his hand over his sparse hair. “Sir, I’m not qualified to—”

  “Then I’ll find someone who is.” Granger slapped his palm down on the desk.

  Stoner flinched. His bony Adam’s apple lurched as he swallowed. “She is most definitely with child, sir. Judging by the mother’s good health, I would venture to say the child is healthy, as well.”

  A sense of pride such as Granger rarely felt came over him. He had made a child. After all these years, he had finally managed to get a child in a woman’s belly. The fact that she was a low-class, deceitful Irishwoman caused Granger only minor worry. The fact that she seemed to be in the care of Jesse Morgan enraged him.

  “Have you done the research I instructed you to do?” Granger asked. “What are my rights as the father of that child?”

  “Well, sir, I’m afraid the law’s a bit vague on that point, especially since she’s in Washington Territory. But—”

  “For Christ’s sake, tell me.” Granger shot to his feet and started to pace. “And don’t lie to me.”

  “The truth of the matter is, sir, that the law does not necessarily favor the father in a case like this.” Yet possibility glinted in Stoner’s eyes; Granger could see it, could almost taste it in the air.

  “I hired you to find a way to make this work,” Granger said. “My wife has yearned for a child of her own.”

  Stoner nodded, smoothing his hands down the lapels of his dove-gray busi

  ness suit. He looked around the study. Granger took note of the admiring way the solicitor regarded the Remington painting over the mantel, the Tiffany window, the electric-powered globes illuminating the library shelves. “I have the ear of the territorial governor. Though you might have to be patient—and a bit fre
e with, ah, donations—you’ll get what you’re looking for, Mr. Clapp. Never worry about that.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Granger declared. “Wasn’t worried in the least.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  As she got ready to go to the centennial celebration, Mary eyed the boots Jesse had thrust into her hands. “Here,” he’d said gruffly. “See if these fit.”

  Fit for a princess, they were, and they put her in mind of the first pair of shoes she’d ever worn. It was the day of her confirmation, ten years earlier. At the proud age of thirteen, she had formally joined the Church after taking catechism each night by the light of a tallow candle, with her Da reciting the Latin prayers while she and her brothers memorized them.

  Her father was a fisherman, and the family lived too far from the village to attend church regularly, especially after Mulligan the mule died and the wheels rotted off the cart. Father Farrell, who came four times a year to supper—Mum always scrubbed the cottage for days beforehand—had hinted that it might not be such a bad idea for Mary to honor the occasion of her confirmation by wearing shoes. So out they came, Mum’s skinny leather button boots. Mary thought they were the grandest thing a body had ever seen.

  Until she got to the church. And realized that thirty years earlier they might have been called grand, but now they were hopelessly outmoded, shamefully old-fashioned compared to the shiny patent-leather shoes that clad the proud-stepping feet of the Costello twins and the Mahoney daughters.

  Blushing at the memory, Mary saw herself as she had been at that tender age, all gawky arms and legs, with her cheeks on fire beneath a galaxy of freckles. Pointing fingers and girlish giggles had driven her feet as far under the pew as she could tuck them. The ragged hem of her dress had brushed the perfectly clean stone floor of the church. She had ducked her head and prayed to the Lord God of Heaven to be rich.

  Now, years later, on the other side of the world, she stared into the cheval-glass mirror Jesse had brought down from the attic and made a different wish.

  “I want my mother,” she whispered. “Ah, Mum, I’d give anything to have you touch me now.” She lifted her hand to her just-washed hair and stroked it back along her temple. “Here, like you used to, Mum. Ah, it hurts, it does, to think you’ll never touch me again.”

  She closed her burning eyes. “I need you, Mum. I always knew I’d be a mother one day, but in my dreams, you were there helping me, holding my hand and telling me all will be well. I’m scared, I am, and I’m trying my best to hide it, but I need you.”

  The softness of memories showered her. She remembered the way her mother smelled of laundry and cooking. She remembered the sound of Shannon Dare O’Donnell’s laughter as her big fisherman husband whirled her around the tiny keeping room of the cottage, dancing to the tune Rory played on his pipes.

  Mary forced her eyes open and dragged herself back to the present. She rushed to the basin and sluiced cold water over her face. Don’t cry, she told herself. Don’t cry now. If you start now, you’ll never stop.

  She turned again to her reflection in the cheval glass. Dr. MacEwan and Mrs. Swann had bought more ribbons and laces than she’d ever seen in her life. The addition of a Hamburg lace collar on the plain poplin dress made her feel grand indeed. Streamers of green satin beribboned her hair. Mum would be proud, she thought.

  “Here I am almost a mother on my own, getting weepy like a little girl,” she muttered, pulling on an old-fashioned basque jacket. “What would you say to me, Mum, if you could talk? Would you tell me it’s going to be all right? Ah, please say it. Tell me everything’s going to be just fine.”

  “Mary?” Jesse called.

  She jumped with a guilty start. “I’m coming, Jesse. Just a moment.”

  She picked up the boots and wished the Mahoney girls could see them. The leather was so soft it must have been cured by butter. Endless rows of gleaming buttons fastened up the sides.

  Emily Leighton Morgan had been a grand lady indeed. She must have been rich. All of her clothes were of the best, the dearest materials. But if she had been rich, then why was Jesse here, living like a monk in poverty and simplicity at the lighthouse? Had he abandoned it all in his grief?

  Frowning, she straightened the silk stockings Hestia Swann had bought her and pulled on first one boot, then the other. The buttons were lovely round bits of faceted black onyx.

  But after five minutes of trying to force the first button through its tiny loop, she began to understand why only wealthy ladies wore such frippery. Who could possibly fasten them without help?

  After more long moments of trying, she blew out her breath in defeat and clomped out to the keeping room. “Jesse—”

  He turned with impatient abruptness. “Mary—”

  They interrupted each other, then fell silent, awkwardly staring.

  He looked like a bridegroom out of a young girl’s most cherished dream. A snowy white boiled shirt and cravat adorned his strong throat. Black trousers, with a waistcoat and frock coat to match, gave his appearance a formality she had never seen before.

  “You look so handsome,” she said at last.

  He didn’t acknowledge the compliment but said, “And you look...nice.”

  He wasn’t exactly in paroxysms of ecstasy, but coming from him, it was lavish praise.

  “Thank you,” she said. A blush stung her cheeks. Reaching down with a tentative hand, she lifted the hem of her dress. “I’m afraid I’ve no talent for getting these boots buttoned.” Forcing herself past the awkward

  ness, she sat down and stuck out one foot. “Can you help?”

  “No,” he said swiftly. Now it was his turn to be flustered. He lifted his shoulders stiffly and glared at her, his discomfort visibly hardening to anger. “Just do up a couple of buttons so the boots don’t fall off.”

  “I can’t even get one of them done.”

  “Then wear the rubber beacon gaiters.”

  She tossed her head in disdain at the very idea. “That would be attractive. Do you really want to be seen in the company of a woman wearing bogtrotters?”

  She forced herself to hold his gaze, even as she was tempted to bury her face in her hands. Couldn’t he see how important this day was to her? She was going to a social. She would meet people who would look at her, judge her, decide whether or not they wanted her for a friend. Couldn’t he understand what was at stake?

  As their gazes stayed locked, she felt an inner curl of insight. Of course he couldn’t understand. Shut away out here at the lighthouse, determinedly shunning the world, Jesse Morgan had no understanding of why a body would want to be with people. To know them and be their friend. To be a part of their lives.

  “I wanted to look nice today,” she said, breaking the strained silence.

  “You always look nice,” he replied gruffly. “Didn’t I just say so?”

  A smile pulled at her lips. “I almost fainted when you did.” She thumped her heel on the floor. “I’m trying to explain this. You speak little of your past, but I’ve been able to guess that you’ve never wanted for anything. You’re educated. You can read and write and you speak like a gentleman. By now you’ve surely guessed that isn’t the case with me.”

  He nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Go on.”

  She was encouraged by his interest. Usually he shied from learning things about her, as if he could protect himself from her by showing no concern for her past.

  “Until I was thirteen years old,” she said, “I never wore a shoe in my life.”

  She watched the comprehension dawn on his face like the morning sun. He, who had grown up in a world of unspeakable bounty, had probably never envisioned what her life in Ireland had been like—until this moment.

  “Wait here,” he said through clenched teeth. He strode away. She heard him rummaging around in a drawer in the
kitchen. He returned with a small buttonhook. “Put out your foot,” he ordered.

  She hiked back her skirts and petticoats. A few inches of her calf showed, and she rather liked the way it looked with the thin stocking stretched over it.

  Jesse cleared his throat and gingerly pulled together the first button and eye. He seemed to be trying to do everything within his power to avoid touching her. At first. When it became clear he needed to brace one hand around her ankle in order to wield the buttonhook, he did so doggedly.

  It was a simple thing, that touch, his left hand curved around the back of her calf. Mary felt her eyelids drift to half mast. There was something curiously evocative in the sight of the hook being inserted into the eye, then drawing the button through. For no apparent reason, she remembered the night in the lighthouse. The night he had kissed her.

  The night she had wanted so much more than kissing.

  He moved on to the next button. “See how it’s done? I’ll let you try it—”

  “Oh, I’m certain I couldn’t,” she said quickly, watching the juxtaposition of his big hand with the tiny buttons, his tanned skin and her pale, stocking-clad leg. “It’s hard for me to lean over. You’d be all day waiting for me.”

  He lifted one skeptical brow. “No doubt.”

  She smiled. “I never imagined wearing shoes that had to be fastened by someone else. I was born dirt poor and never knew it.”

  He paused in midmotion and glanced up at her. “What do you mean, you never knew it?”

  Despite a sudden thickness in her throat, she laughed. “Faith, and how does a fish know it lives in water, or a bird in the air?”

  He started working again, the buttonhook moving steadily up the front of her shin while his other hand cradled the calf of her leg. Up and up... Ah, she was hungry for his touch.

  “Good question,” he observed, clearly oblivious to her burgeoning desires.

  “How can a girl know such a thing when she lives in the very center of the world?” she went on.