by Anna Small
“You must be famished,” she said at length, and he glanced up at her, a lock of dark hair falling over his eyes.
“I can wait. I’ve had other privations before this.” His grin disarmed her. “At least, I presume I have. It feels like I have.” He continued with his task.
She tidied up the cottage, noting he’d folded and put away the pillow and blankets he’d used. He did have a remarkable constitution to have recovered so quickly from his ordeal. Again, the suspicion surfaced. As if he knew her thoughts, he broke the silence.
“You must be wondering if I speak the truth or am here on some ignoble mission. I want to assure you, I mean you no harm and will be gone from here as soon as I can make the journey.”
“But where will you go?”
“Ah, I see you have considered my dilemma.” He stirred the pot a few times and set down the spoon on the narrow bench beside him. “Do I go north to where the British are camped, or south to Boston and the Americans? Imprisonment awaits one way or the other. I wish I knew.” He poked the fire with a pointed stick, its end charred. Sparks flew up the chimney.
She swallowed back her anxiety and sat at the table, clasping her hands before her.
“You should wait until you regain your memory.”
“Until I remember which side I am fighting for?” He waved his hand. “You are a respectable woman, and I do not wish to intrude upon your kindness any longer than necessary.”
“It isn’t safe for you in the village, and the nearest British outpost at the border is days away.” The more he spoke of leaving, the more she pictured Caleb in his very same situation; destitute and dependent on the charity of strangers. He could be trying to get home, and the people caring for him could be sending him out to who knew what danger.
He studied her, and she shifted her position, feeling inadequate and small. He could just as easily suspect her of ulterior motives. For all he knew, she had summoned a patrol to capture him.
“On the beach just now, you were talking to a man.” He stirred the mussels again, his manner casual, but he seemed guarded.
“My brother, Elias.” She cleared her throat. “I did not tell him about you.”
I see.” He glanced up at her, his eyes unreadable. “Perhaps you should have told him. You could be in danger.”
She faltered. “I do not think you are dangerous.”
He raised both wrists, revealing the manacle marks.
“I could be a criminal and made a daring escape from my rightful prison.”
She shook her head. “You are not a criminal.” Her ears pounded with her drumming heartbeat. After an interminable silence, he resumed stirring the pot.
“Thank you for your faith, Mrs. Quinn. I quite agree with you.” He peered into the pot. “I think these mussels are ready.”
Without knowing why she allowed him to become the man of the house, she handed him the pewter chargers. He spooned the mussels, fragrant and hot, onto the plates, heaping them both full. She sat at one end of the short table and him at the other. The distance between them was not great. Her knee brushed his, and she nearly jumped. He shifted in his chair without commenting on the incident, as a gentleman would.
They ate in comfortable silence, her mind racing with questions. She looked up at him, but he seemed deeply concentrated in the meal, and she realized he was famished. At last, he downed his mug of water and leaned back in the chair.
“Perhaps I will be able to travel tomorrow. My strength seems to have returned. I may disguise myself, and head north.”
His suggestion was right and practical. She could not hide him forever. Why would she? He did not belong here. She twisted the napkin in her lap.
“Why the north? Why not south, to Boston?”
“I believe my ship was heading for England. I do not know how I know that, but something tells me so.” He stared at her for a hard second. “Do you often see ships passing by?”
“Not very often, and not many warships.” She couldn’t say that the only ship she watched for was one that could possibly hold Caleb. “But there are many fishing boats and whalers.”
“Perhaps I can find passage aboard a fishing boat that can take me as far north into Canada as safety would allow.”
She nodded, but in her heart, she had no idea how she might accomplish such a plan. The only one who could help her was Elias, but he was as patriotic as the next Lobster Covian. The idea she might be harboring an enemy—a living example of the very men who had killed Caleb—returned. Fighting against a rise of panic, she pushed away from the table and picked up her empty plate. He also stood.
“I will chop some more wood for the fire, Mrs. Quinn.”
“Your head…you might hurt yourself.”
His mouth quirked. “I am perfectly capable of chopping wood. Besides, it will be payment for this fine meal.”
“Thank you, Mr…” She stopped, flustered. “I should call you something.”
His blue eyes sparkled. “Choose for me, then.”
A blush heated her throat and spread upward. Her cottage was too small and cramped to permit a distant relationship. She choked out the first name that came to her.
“Mr. Smith.”
He laughed.
“Simple, yet practical. Am I to have a first name?”
Her cheeks felt warm. “Samuel.”
“Samuel it is.”
It was her father’s name. She longed to take it back the moment she said it, to tell him she’d changed her mind and give him another name. She should have chosen something less personal and meaningful.
He indicated the door. “I’ll see to the wood.”
She brought out the blanket and pillow he had used the night before and set them by the hearth, as well as a few personal items of Caleb’s she had never thrown out. After all, why toss away a perfectly good pair of shoes and stockings, darned repeatedly though they were, and a razor and comb?
The axe’s ringing blows filled the air, bringing memories of when it was Caleb outside, or, recently, her brother or herself having to do the job. She rubbed her calloused hands together and stopped abruptly. Her guest was probably used to elegant women who never worked with their bare hands or walked barefoot on the beach scouring the seaweed for salable items to keep food on the table. He was probably more at home in a fancy parlor, not a windswept, humble cottage. He couldn’t wait to leave Lobster Cove and hop on the first available English ship and sail home.
Not that she blamed him. Since Caleb’s absence, the cottage had fallen into disrepair. Several cracked windowpanes contained torn bits of rags and paper shoved between them to stop the drafts. One table leg stood unbalanced on the floor and tilted every time she leaned her elbows upon it, her face buried in the haven of her arms when the doldrums came.
She watched him from the smoky glass window, swiping her hand across to remove the cobwebs. Mr. Smith swung the axe easily, as if he had been born to the task. Caleb had hewn a spot for each chock to fit on top so he wouldn’t have to balance each piece. Mr. Smith had figured this out and placed each piece there. A few seconds later, he swung the axe over his shoulder and split the log in two.
Sweat streaked his linen shirt, outlining the muscular planes of his chest. The pile of cut logs grew beside him. She watched him, mesmerized by the fluidity of his arms slicing the air. His side must not be hurting him too badly, as it looked like he meant to chop enough wood to last her long into the coming winter.
His biceps flexed and stretched beneath the sleeves. Her fingers twinged, and she glanced down at her knuckles, white upon the casement. A quivery feeling started in her middle and spread down her thighs, making her knees wobble. Struck by her unexpected reaction, she pushed away from the window and turned her attention to cleaning the cottage. No matter how hard she worked or how much her feet and back ached, she persisted as if a spotless floor was the main worry of her life.
A few cobwebs lurked in the recesses of the windows, but she avoided them and the sight
they offered of the man outside.
Chapter Five
Mr. Smith worked outside the remainder of the day, although he paused often to catch his breath. She peeked through the curtains, telling herself it was to monitor his injuries, but a little voice in the back of her mind accused her of another motive.
“It’s not as if I’ve never seen a man before,” she muttered. Restless and distracted, she grabbed her shawl and swung it around her shoulders. A vision of him with her shawl draped around his bare waist startled her. She snatched her pail by the door. When she stepped outside, she nearly bumped into him. His smile of greeting warmed her in a most inappropriate fashion. She nodded briskly and lowered her head as she passed.
“Are you going down to the beach?” he asked.
“Yes. I thought I’d catch some crab for supper.”
“Do you mind if I join you?”
It was the last thing she wanted but couldn’t say so. His very presence had become a distraction. She shrugged as if the idea of his accompanying her didn’t bother her in the least.
“Are you certain you’re strong enough for a walk? You’ve exerted yourself today.”
“If I am to make the trip north, I need to build my strength.” He flexed his back, the motion outlining the taut muscles in his thighs. “Your ointment seems to have worked. I daresay your healing abilities rival that of any doctor.”
“It was nothing. I mean, I did nothing extraordinary.” Her voice sounded odd. Guarded. While he slept on her floor, helpless and wounded, she could touch him in ways she would never consider under other circumstances. Now, healthy and strong, she was afraid to look at him.
“I beg to disagree.”
He regarded her a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. Perhaps he was trying to decide if she had her own motives to heal him. She could be a spy, for all he knew, and was ready to turn him over to his enemies for a bounty.
She drew her shawl around her, although the day was warm. He picked up Caleb’s coat from a fence rail and threw it on as if it had been tailored especially for him. Since his arrival, she’d felt a strange sense that Caleb was present. His clothes covered another man. His axe rang outside, chopping wood and cutting logs. Beyond the clothing, there were other, less obvious signs, but she considered them the same manly qualities. It was the way Mr. Smith carried himself, confident and in control, despite being so out of his element. He trusted her. She, a stranger with unknown motives. Yet he trusted her.
She waited for him on the path as he put away the tools and stacked the remaining cut wood. He took her elbow in an automatic gesture when she stepped off the path and down the first of the stairs. As if he’d built them himself, and knew the idiosyncrasies and creaks. As if he was the man of the house and it was his duty to protect her.
She lowered her head to hide her unexpected blush. He crossed in front of her, and she realized it was in case she tripped, he would block her. The gesture touched her in an uncomfortably familiar way, and she hung back three steps so if she did fall, she would not fall on him. An image of herself tumbling head over heels to land in his arms filled her thoughts, and she tried to banish the vision, but it didn’t work. She tried to think of something else, anything else, but it was futile. With his broad shoulders blocking her vision, all she could see was him.
“It’s a fine day.”
His simple words mocked the torment of emotion tumbling through her. In a mere few days, her world had turned topsy-turvy. He took her pail, and she didn’t protest from habit. Caleb used to carry the pail, and she naturally allowed Mr. Smith to do the same.
“It should be a fine evening, as well.”
She chewed her lip, hoping he didn’t deduce any innuendo from her innocent remark. Talk of the weather was tedious and stilted, but too much conversation seemed inappropriate. They should not become too friendly, not with the dangers of war hanging over them. No matter he was sharing her cottage with only a curtain separating them at night, or that he wore her husband’s clothes, which she had made with her own hands. She didn’t know why, but it seemed imperative she keep him at a distance; a thing that was getting harder and harder to do.
“I’ll wager that summer is lovely here.”
News of Caleb’s death had come in July, days after the town’s celebration of the Fourth. She couldn’t bear to mention the sad fact, so settled on the mundane.
“The cliffs are transformed. There are flowers everywhere.”
“Sounds charming. Have you lived here all your life?”
He reached the sand first and turned in a fluid motion to help her down the last few stairs. She’d traversed the steps more times than she could remember, but took his hand in a natural and easy way as if she were accustomed to doing so. It seemed as if he would retain hold of her hand, but that was ridiculous. Why, in heaven’s name, would he want to hold her hand? She pulled away the moment her feet sank into the sand and headed toward the waterline.
“I was born in the village and only moved to the cottage with…” Her voice cracked. No matter how often she thought of Caleb, saying his name aloud always startled her. “My husband built it for us. We hoped to expand one day.” Again, her throat closed up around her words. Visions of the children she would never have with Caleb—of the plans they’d shared of growing old together—taunted with their finality.
“Never give up hope.”
She glanced up at him as they walked, worried his exercise had taken a toll on him. He could not have fully recovered from his ordeal, despite his former declaration.
“About my husband coming home?” The bitter truth almost choked her. “He was on the Reliant. It was destroyed, with all hands, on the St. Lawrence River.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Two years ago.” By the British. She didn’t give voice to her anger. Mr. Smith had nothing to do with Caleb’s death. And men died every day in a war.
“I do not know that particular ship, but there is always hope.” He shrugged. “I fell overboard my own ship, apparently, and yet I survived. Perhaps, your husband…”
“He would not have allowed two years to pass without sending word. He would let me know he was alive.”
Her laced-up leather shoes were sodden from the wet sand. Had she been alone, she’d have removed them long before this. She glanced at Mr. Smith’s shoes. Caleb’s shoes. They were also wet, but he continued plodding beside her.
“Yes, of course, he would.”
The breeze coming off the waves blew her hair about her face. She’d forgotten her bonnet.
“You don’t believe it.”
“It matters not what I believe. I know that stranger things have happened in this war. If he were captured and forced to serve aboard an enemy ship, there would be no way for him to send word.”
“Do you think he might have been captured?”
He shrugged. “There is that possibility.”
She closed her eyes against the salty wind, unsure if her eyes stung with tears or the spray blowing off the sea.
“You are kind to say so.”
He didn’t reply right away, but chewed his lower lip, apparently deep in thought. He shrugged a shoulder.
“The question is, how long do you keep believing? Two years? Ten years?”
He had voiced her worst fear. Would she still walk the beach when she was ninety with a crooked back, her eyes squinting into the sunlight on the water, watching for a husband who would never return?
“For all you know, Mr. Smith, a wife and family could be waiting for you back in England. How long would you want them to wait?”
He stooped to pick up a smooth pebble, which he rubbed in his hand before tossing it into the waves, where it skipped three times before dropping out of sight.
“Long enough. Believe me; I have thought the very thing, Mrs. Quinn. While I would hope a wife of mine would wait a certain amount of time, I would not expect a young, vibrant woman to spend a solitary life for too long. I wouldn’t blame anyone if she eventually put away
the sackcloth and took up living again.”
She stared at the pebbles on the sand as they walked. It was better than seeing the pity in his eyes.
“You sound just like my brother and Caleb’s brother. They are always coming over here, giving me their very much unasked for advice.”
“Perhaps you should listen to them.”
She turned on him. “My brother is drowning in grief for his son. My brother-in-law, Leon…” Her voice choked on her anger. “Leon is despicable. He only wants me for himself. I despise him. I would rather remain alone for the rest of my life than settle for a loathsome man like him.” A shudder pulsed through her, and she stepped into the shallows to look for crabs, her skirts pulled up to her knees before she realized what she was doing.
“By all means, do not marry your brother-in-law.” His voice rose, and she wondered if he were as disgusted with the man as she was. Whatever the reason, he sounded as if he were on her side. “As for your brother, it is easier to grieve for a loved one he knows is dead. You, unfortunately, are in a purgatory of grief, since you do not have any evidence of your husband’s death.” He caught himself, but it was too late. “If he actually was dead, I meant to say.”
“It is very difficult, Mr. Smith, to imagine life without my husband. If your memory restored itself, enabling you to recall a sweetheart, perhaps you wouldn’t be so quick to judge others.”
“My dear lady, I did not mean to imply…”
She strode ahead, purposely ignoring her companion’s needs. He’d appeared winded in the last few minutes, and she was going to suggest he stop and rest, but now didn’t care what he did.
She waited for him to catch up to her, and when he did not, she turned in time to see him sink to his knees, his head bowed. Indignation forgotten, she rushed to his side and fell to the sand beside him, her hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Smith!” Her voice caught on some odd emotional hook, preventing her from saying any more. If he were ill, if his wound were infected and the infection had spread… A hundred terrible possibilities came to mind, but he raised a flushed, yet smiling face to her.
