Did they think he could simply sail across the sound, pick out a few likely candidates, knock them over the head with a club and drag them back to the island? Matchmaking required patience and careful planning. It took guts, tact and finesse, not to mention the ability to handle large amounts of frustration.
Any way you looked at it, turning a rough crew of transients and watermen into a settled, civilized community was damned hard work.
Thank God he had what it took to do the job.
With a million stars reflected in the black water all around him and Dora Sutton stuck in his mind like a peck of sandspurs, Grey allowed himself the rare indulgence of reliving a Chapter from his past. Back when he’d first fallen in love with her, Evelyn had been almost as beautiful as the widow Sutton. A tall woman, she’d had auburn hair and an imperious way he’d found amusing…at least for the first few months.
The years that had given her more generous proportions and darkened her hair had done little to lessen her loveliness. Lately, though, he’d noticed a few lines of dissatisfaction on her face. Come to think of it, even her voice was beginning to sound more querulous than melodious.
But that was Jocephus’s problem, not his. Thank God. One thing about having once fallen hard for the wrong woman, Grey told himself—it lent a man insulation. Taught him what qualities to look for in a wife, as well as which ones to avoid like the plague.
Back on St. Brides, Miss Adora Sutton, the once-popular but now-disgraced daughter of one of Beaufort County’s most prominent citizens, challenged her host to a game of checkers after a modest supper of cold biscuits and molasses, served with dried fruit and tinned tomatoes. Not too long ago she would have turned up her nose at such a crude repast, but having had nothing at all to eat since the ship’s biscuit and brandy Captain Dozier had offered to settle her stomach, she’d scraped her plate clean, going so far as to lick the molasses from her fingertips.
When the last rays of daylight dimmed, she lit a lamp and plumped a pillow to support Emmet’s ankle. They had played a game of checkers, and fading vision or not, the man was a wizard. “One more game?” he teased.
“All right, one more,” she agreed, “but only if you promise to keep your foot up on that stool.” Dora tried to imagine what it must be like to be alone in the world, with both a failing heart and blindness a distinct possibility. The poor man was so lonely he was reduced to talking to a dog, a pen full of chickens and one old gander. He insisted that his ankle wasn’t bothering him, but she knew the swelling alone must be uncomfortable.
They played two more games, and then she insisted on helping him to his bedroom. It had been decided after she had agreed to stay on as his companion that she would sleep in the parlor for now, on a pallet made up of quilts his wife had brought with her. Tomorrow, with Emmet’s permission, she might clear away the clutter in the back. If he objected, she could always see if the attic was at all habitable. It would be hot as blazes, but at least it would be private.
I’ll do my best to look after him for you, Sal, she thought as she snuggled down on her hard bed and stared up at the ceiling. He’s really a dear man. He misses you terribly.
The snug frame house was a far cry from Sutton Hall, but for the first time since her world had come crashing down, Dora felt a measure of peace. Of hope. And oddly enough, of security.
Sooner or later she would have to face Grey St. Bride again, but not tomorrow. Emmet assured her that whenever he sailed north to Edenton to visit his brother, he was usually gone for several days.
Meanwhile, she had much to learn, and Emmet promised to begin teaching her first thing tomorrow. She had confessed when she’d agreed to stay on that she was willing to learn—eager, in fact—but that at the moment, her domestic skills were limited to making tea and boiling eggs.
Emmet had smiled in a way that hinted at the handsome, charming scamp he must have been in his youth. He was only fifty-eight, but looked much older. “I reckon until I’m steady on my pins again, I’ll have to take my chances.”
“Do you really think you can teach me to cook?” The playful challenge was not without a degree of desperation. She had her work cut out for her if she ever intended to be self-sufficient.
“I’m a right fair hand at plain cooking. Sal left a book of recipes. I made out a few things, but like I said, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“Then I’ll read and you can interpret,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t ask why a woman who lacked even the most basic skills had come here to marry a simple workingman.
The last thought on her mind as she closed her eyes, rolled onto her side and tucked her fist against her chin was of a tall, dark-haired man with an incongruous dimple in his chin. A man who had told her she wasn’t suitable—that she was neither wanted nor needed here. That she was, of all things, too pretty!
You and your blooming island can go take a flying leap, Lord St. Bride. I’m here, and I’m staying, and that’s the end of that!
Chapter Three
Among the nicest features of Emmet’s house were the two porches. From the front she could look out past the garden, down toward the landing and watch the activity as ships lined up waiting to come alongside and unload or take on their cargo.
The back porch looked out over a chicken house, three enormous fig trees and one lonely grave, a sagging net-fenced pen and the outhouse. Beyond those there was only sand, a bit of marsh, some scrubby woods and more water. Both front and back porches were sheltered under the deeply sloping roof, which made them good for both sitting and hanging clothes out to air.
When it came to laundry—to drying her most intimate garments, however, Dora chose the attic. Someone—Sal, perhaps—had strung a line across from rafter to rafter. According to Emmet they had planned to turn the space into another bedroom, so as to house St. Bride’s women until they could make other arrangements. With a small window in each end, it would have served well enough.
She tried to visualize what could be done with the small space. Now that she no longer had to live up to anyone’s expectations but her own, she was beginning to discover not only new interests but new talents.
For instance, she was quite good at planning. Better at planning than at the actual doing, but that would come in time. The important thing was that she had a perfectly good brain and a pair of capable—marginally capable—hands.
For no reason at all, she thought of the man who had sent for her, only to reject her. “Here’s one in your eye, St. Bride.”
Her friend Selma Blunt used to announce her serves that way when she meant to zing one across the net. But then, Selma had always been fiercely competitive. She’d always had to be the best at anything she attempted. More often than not she’d succeeded.
Selma had wanted Henry. So far as Dora knew, she hadn’t succeeded there. She did know, however, that both Selma and her personal maid, Polly, had done their best to spread the gossip. Her own maid, Bertola, had told her so.
Well, Selma could have Henry Carpenter Smythe with her blessings. The two of them deserved each other. Personally, Dora found the position of companion far preferable to marriage. If she ever did marry, the truth would have to come out, because she simply wasn’t capable of living a lie.
But then, neither was she ready to confess to the truth.
Sighing, Dora thought of what an utter ruin the Suttons had made of their lives. Her poor father had been unable to accept failure. She, at least, was trying to recover and make a new start. Whether or not it was what Emmet called fate, she happened to have stumbled onto the ideal solution. Instead of being forced to marry for the sake of security, as she had resigned herself to do, she had found the perfect position with a man who was content with what she could offer. Best of all, she had found a friend.