The Marriage Masquerade

by Erica Vetsch

  A bit of tension eased when she reached the road. Moist pavement gritted under her boots. Duluth and Lake Superior spread out before her. Michaelton House stood atop Skyline Parkway, looking down into the lake basin—not as fashionable a location as the mansions right on the lake, but her father preferred the hilltop view.

  Built just six years before, Michaelton House dominated the block with its turrets and garrets, dormers and slate roof. It looked the castle of Anastasia’s dreams. Her throat squeezed at the thought of leaving Hazel and all that was familiar. The urge to go back clambered up her ribcage.

  Firming up her resolve, she hurried down the block to catch the first streetcar of the morning. A grocer’s cart rumbled by, making the morning deliveries, followed by the milkman’s blue and white truck. Bottles clinked and rattled. The driver tipped his cap to her. She nodded, ducked her chin, and hurried on.

  Anastasia had never been out this early before. Several people waited on the corner. Men in rough coats, smelling of cigar smoke and sausage. Women in plain dresses, noses pink in the chilly air, waiting for the tram to take them to their cleaning or manufacturing jobs.

  Anastasia tucked herself into the back of the group so she didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone. She clutched the valise handle with both hands, staring at the sidewalk. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. Concentrating on just the next step, the next obstacle, she pushed away the thought of the biggest challenge yet ahead. For now, just boarding the streetcar, making three switches, and getting to the harbor seemed enough. She half expected someone from home to grab her and haul her back at any second.

  After an age of waiting, the tram pulled up to the corner. She barely glanced at the driver or the horses. Keeping her head down, she swung herself aboard. Public transportation, another first today. Dockworkers and domestic help crowded the plain wooden seats, the smell of damp wool and sack lunches clinging to them. Anastasia had an overwhelming sense of standing out like a beacon.

  She dug into her pocket for her coin, alarm shooting through her when she didn’t find it right away. At last her fingers closed around it in the corner of her pocket. She dropped it into the box and edged down the center aisle, thankful for Hazel’s coaching.

  The bell clanged, startling her as she thumped down onto a seat. She settled her valise in her lap and placed her feet close together, tucking them as far back under the seat as she could.

  A burly man with a mustache that made him look like he’d been eating a bristle broom lurched into the seat across from her. He smelled of sausage and syrup.

  The tram started down the steep slope to the lake, stopping every couple of blocks to disgorge and take on more passengers. After three stops, she dared look out the window. The sun painted the business district in soft pinks and golds, burning away the low-lying fog. Businessmen in dark topcoats entered stone buildings through brass and glass doors, the commerce of Duluth waking to life.

  Anastasia transferred to a cross-town streetcar, praying she had done the right thing. She should’ve written down Hazel’s directions instead of trying to commit them to memory.

  By the time she transferred to the harbor tram, she felt like a seasoned public transportation traveler. She got off at the ferry dock. A fresh breeze whipped her cheeks and tugged at her hair. Water slapped against the pilings, restless, as if seeking a way to climb the dock. She looked over the side of the quay at the chopping waves, her head swirling and her stomach churning.

  Her heart thudded at what she was about to do. Could she force herself to get on a boat? Fear tightened her throat until she thought she would suffocate. Finally, air rushed into her lungs. She gasped, placing her hand on her chest, trying to quell the panic. Her arms prickled with heat, while her hands went cold. Instantly, she was a shivering six-year-old, dripping, gasping, clinging to the upturned bottom of a rocking rowboat.

  “Nick, pass me the wrench, will you?” A gnarled hand jutted from beneath the diesel engine.

  Nick looked up from the bucket of gasoline. Greasy parts sloshed in the pungent liquid. He dug in the tool chest, implements clanking. “Think we’ll get her put back together before dark? I don’t fancy pumping those foghorns up by hand all night if a bank rolls in.” He slapped the handle of the wrench into the grimy palm.

  Fingers closed around the crescent wrench and disappeared under the engine once more. Between grunts and metallic bangs, the voice of his boss, Ezra Batson, drifted out. “We’ll get her put right. Just needed a new seal. You finished washing the grease off those parts?”

  “Almost.” Nick gave them a final swish then tossed them onto a flannel rag. The gasoline evaporated quickly in the sunshine slicing through the door. He pulled another cloth from his back pocket and wiped his hands. “How often does the fog-engine break down? I’ve been here a week and this is the third time we’ve worked on her.” He didn’t really mind. The release his spirit felt at leaving Duluth made him take small annoyances like broken machinery in stride. The more he got used to being Nick Kennedy, the less he felt the drag of Noah Kennebrae’s recent problems. He found himself smiling more, even able to tease a bit. How odd to feel like a new man and yet feel like his old self all at the same time.

  Ezra scooted across the concrete floor on his back, emerging into the light. Grease smeared his cheek and dirt flecked his gray hair. “It’s just working out the kinks, since the equipment sits idle all winter.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Takes a lot of maintenance to stay on top of things. I can’t tell you how glad I am the Lighthouse Board sent you and the boy along this year. Last year I had to make do with one helper who quit after a month. Said it was too remote out here. He was lonely for the lights of Duluth.”

  Nick sorted through the parts, fitting some together, lining up nuts and bolts for reassembling the engine cover. “I guess what some see as a burden, others see as a blessing.”

  Ezra tossed the wrench into the toolbox and rolled to his knees to stand. “You don’t seem to mind it, that’s sure. I’d think a handsome young feller like you would have a lady at home missing him.”

  Only some well-heeled heiress Grandfather wants to shove at me. He shrugged, shaking his head. “No lady at home. I think I’m destined to be a bachelor forever. I like peace and quiet.”

  His boss chuckled. “That’s what they all say until the right girl comes along and knocks all their previous notions into the lake. Mark my words, son, if you meet the right girl, you’ll never be the same.”

  Nick inserted a bolt and spun a nut on the shaft. “Maybe you got the last, best girl.” He smothered a grin, anticipating Ezra’s answer.

  “I got the best one, that’s a fact.” The old man’s face softened, his eyes going warm as they did whenever he talked about his wife. “Imogen’s a treasure. Like the Good Book says, ‘Her price is far above rubies,’ and I wouldn’t trade her, not even for an ore boat of gems.” He walked to the door and stared out at the lake, his eyes squinting in the bright light glinting off the restless waves. “This year will be easier on my Imogen. The Board is sending a woman out to help with the housekeeping and cooking. Should arrive on the Jenny Klamath this afternoon.” He palmed his pocket watch. “In an hour or so, if they’re running on time. I want you and Clyde to meet the ferry. You can pick up the mail and tote this woman’s baggage up to the house.”

  A woman? Hmm. That would be good for Mrs. Batson. Though neither Ezra nor his wife ever spoke of it in Nick’s hearing, he had a feeling Mrs. Batson was ailing somehow. Her skin had a transparent, papery look to it, and Ezra had mentioned her trouble with headaches. Nick wondered at his boss for bringing her to such an inaccessible spot. She looked like she needed to be under a physician’s care, not marooned on a rock in the middle of Lake Superior, miles from shore and leagues from a hospital.

  “Hope this lady’s better than the last one they tried.” Ezra handed Nick another bolt from the cloth on the floor. “Don’t know where she hid the liquor, but she managed to get some h
ere to the island. That gal was drunk as a skunk from noon till dark every day. And she sang when she was drunk, songs no woman should know. And when her liquor ran out, she got mean. Imogen tried to help her, but she wasn’t having any. We put up with her for two weeks, till the Jenny Klamath made her return trip down-lake; then I packed her up and sent her back to Duluth. I can’t abide a drunk, and a drunk woman’s even worse.”

  Nick tried to imagine the upright and steadfast Ezra faced with a rollicking drunk in his kitchen. A smile tugged at his lips. “Sounds like you were better off without her. Surely the Lighthouse Board will have found someone more suitable this time.”

  Ezra grunted. “I think they jump at anyone willing to come here. Sometimes I don’t think they even interview these ladies. I’ve heard stories that would curl your hair. Women running from the law, women with compromised morals looking to find a lonely lighthouse keeper to latch onto. If we didn’t need the help, I never would’ve applied for a housekeeper in the first place. But there’s no way Imogen could keep things up to the mark. Not with inspections being like they are.”

  “The inspector’s pretty thorough?” Nick tightened the last bolt and began cleaning up the tools.

  “Hear my words: Jasper Dillon is the most thorough, most disagreeable inspector the Lighthouse Board has ever employed. Most folks just talk about a white-gloved inspection. Dillon actually does them. Everything on this rock is owned by the Board, but Dillon acts like it belongs to him personally. Every windowsill, every pane of glass, every blade of grass on Sutton Island will be inspected for cleanliness and adherence to the code set forth by the Board. Sometimes I think Dillon must sleep with that book under his pillow. He’s got every line memorized, and he enforces every rule to the maximum.”

  Nick’s eyebrows rose. “That bad, huh? How often does he come to inspect?”

  “That’s the trouble. There’s no schedule. He just pops up like a summer squall, blows in, wreaks havoc and threatens to fire us all, then blows out. It might be a month from now or it might be this afternoon. But he’ll come. And if he finds anything out of order, he’ll be back with a vengeance the next time.”

  “He sounds charming. I can’t wait to meet him.” Nick grinned.

  “Don’t take him lightly.” Ezra’s frown brought Nick up short. “When you see him coming, you’d best scramble into your uniform coat and look smart. He’s not a man to trifle with.”

  Nick pursed his lips, bringing his hand up to stroke his beard. He stopped when his fingers touched his bare cheek, a wry smile twisting his lips. When was he going to stop doing that? “We’d best test this engine out. I can only imagine what would happen if Inspector Dillon showed up and it wasn’t working.”

  The engine turned over and rumbled to life, the sound filling the small fog-house, making conversation impossible. Nick watched the needle on the pressure gauge rise, pressure building in the cylinder. When it reached the right level, the twin foghorns on the roof bellowed out a long beeee-yoooooouuuu. Nick grinned at Ezra who killed the engine.

  In the silence, a steam-whistle blast piped across the water, a cheerful and impertinent echo of the mighty foghorn. Ezra stuck his head out the doorway, shading his eyes to see down-lake. “It’s the ferry. You best go meet her. I’ll finish up here and see you at the house.”

  Nick rolled down his sleeves and plucked his hat from a peg on the wall. He’d best look presentable to meet this new housekeeper. He checked his appearance, whisking some dirt from his pant leg. At least his boots gleamed. He’d spent most of last night rubbing them with mink oil to waterproof them, then applying polish and elbow grease to buff them to a glossy shine. An inspector would find nothing to quibble about there.

  three

  Annie clutched her valise to her quivering stomach and wished for the thousandth time she had never set foot on the Jenny Klamath. Why did this have to be the first job to present itself? Why hadn’t something come along where she could keep her feet on dry land?

  Mist coated her clothing and hair. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to be sick. The gentle rise and fall of the ferry played havoc with her senses, sending waves of pea green clamminess sloshing through her. She tried to make herself one with the bench.

  The ship’s whistle pierced the air, laughing at her frailty. She jerked, her eyes popping open. Cold sweat bathed her skin, her neck and back aching with tension. If only this nightmare would end. She dared a look out of the corner of her eye, not moving her head. Purplish grey cliffs rose ahead of the ferry, white surf pounding their jagged, rock-strewn edges. Dark trees poked the sky high overhead, and looming above that, sunlight shattering off its prisms, the red and white tower of the Sutton Island Light.

  Annie swallowed hard, forcing down her rising gorge. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. The chant, growing faster to match her heart rate, swirled in her ears.

  Around her, crew members prepared to pull into the dock, shouting to one another, swarming over the lashed-down cargo as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Lines whizzed through the air, and at last, the ferry bumped softly into the dock.

  Thank You, Lord. Thank You, Lord.

  “Miss Fairfax?” A crewmember stopped in front of her. “Sutton Island, miss.”

  She nodded, trying to smile, though her cheeks refused to budge. Her breath caught against the lump in her throat. Time to go. She inched forward on the hard bench. Weakness spiraled down her legs.

  With a death grip on the rail, she baby-stepped along the deck. Her head swam with nausea. She reached the gap in the rail where the gangway was supposed to be. Open space down to restless blue green water yawned before her. No gangway? How was she supposed to reach the dock?

  “Toss your bag down, ma’am.” The deckhand stood at her elbow. When she didn’t move, he took the valise from her grasp and heaved it across the chasm. It landed on the dock safe and sound.

  A tall young man stood beside her bag, looking up at her. “Afternoon, Jenkins. This the new housekeeper for the light?” He scrutinized her, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. She couldn’t read his expression, but his close observation did nothing to quell her fears or her queasy stomach.

  “This is her. Give her a hand down, will you? I need to make sure the boys offload all the mail. Last time they forgot two packages.”

  “Sure.” The man held up his hand to Annie. “C’mon, miss. I’ll help you.”

  They expected her to leap across open water? Were they mad? She’d fall in and be sucked under the dock. “I can’t.” She shook her head, her hands icy. Tremors of weakness flowed down the backs of her legs.

  He rolled his eyes. “I don’t have all day. I have work to do.”

  She squeezed the rail harder, tears of fear and frustration pricking her eyes. “I can’t. It’s too far.” Her voice rasped in her dry mouth.

  The man blew out a long breath and swung aboard the ferry. She both marveled at and resented his casual grace all in the same instant. Without warning, he scooped her up into his arms.

  She squealed, grasping him about the neck. “Sir, what are you—”

  Ignoring her, he leaped. His boots thumped on the boards, and wondrously, the pitching and rocking stopped. Annie looked over his shoulder at the ferry then into his eyes—blue, the same color as the sky. He set her down and backed up a pace, looking over her head up the dock.

  Relief at being off the boat surged through her, relaxing her icy control. “Thank you, sir. I’m so—” To her complete and utter mortification, she lost the fight with her nausea and retched on the man’s immaculate black boots.

  His jaw slacked, his eyes going wide. He looked at his boots then at her.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I—I–I’m so sorry.”

  He didn’t move, blinking in shock.

  She backed away. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks with heat. Humiliated, she whirled and ran up the dock.

  Someone’s laughter chased at her, mocking.

  Halfway to shore,
something rocketed into her side, flinging her through the air. She screamed, arms flailing, grasping for something, anything to hold on to, but finding nothing. Her backside smacked the water, and the icy lake closed over her head.

  A scream ripped through the air.

  Nick looked up from his ruined boots to see the lady responsible sailing over the side of the dock. Clyde Moore let the mailbag drop to the ground. It took Nick a moment to realize Clyde must’ve sideswiped the new housekeeper with the bag and pitched her into the water.

  Nick ran, dodging ferrymen. When he reached the spot where she’d gone in, he peered into the water. Nothing. He flung off his hat then heaved off his boots. “Get a rope ready, you fools! Clyde, launch the boat!”

  Nick leaped feet first into the frigid waves, tucking his knees up when he hit the water, trying to jump shallow so as not to hit any submerged rocks. The icy water sucked his breath away, instantly numbing his fingers and toes. He took a deep breath then went under, hands wide and grasping. He scraped his knuckles on a boulder. The surf slammed him into the base of the cliff.

  For eternal seconds he peered through the murky green water, arms sweeping, legs forcing him to go deeper along the cliff. Waves pummeled him. His lungs screamed for air, even while his feet went numb. He could feel his strength being sapped by the cold.

  At the moment when he knew he must surface, something soft tangled around his fingers. He grabbed a fistful of cloth. He turned toward the surface, pushing off a rock to gain momentum, dragging her after him. She gave him no help, limp as a rug. It was probably too late. Of all the stupid accidents, falling off a dock.

  His head broke the surface, and he sucked in a great lungful of air. The girl’s face lolled out of the water on his shoulder, her mouth open, eyes closed. He wrapped his arms around her middle and squeezed. Water gushed from her mouth, her eyes popped open, and she moaned. Relief surged through him at her coughing and wheezing. She wasn’t dead, at least not yet.