The Marriage Masquerade

by Erica Vetsch

  He spun in the water to locate the dock. The current had taken them more than twenty yards away and they were getting farther all the time. Nick swiped at her long, clinging hair that tangled across his face, obscuring his vision.

  Men swarmed the dock, scrambling to get the lighthouse rowboat launched.

  The girl seemed to suddenly become aware of her circumstances. She stiffened, screamed loud enough to drown a foghorn, and tried to climb on top of him. His head went under, water filling his nose and eyes and ears. She clawed at him, flailing and swinging. Her elbow connected with his cheekbone, sending stars exploding through his vision. Stupid girl would drown them both.

  When he resurfaced he clamped his arms around her, pinning her flailing limbs to her sides. “Stop it, you little fool!”

  She seemed not to hear him, screaming and going under, writhing as he tried to kick hard enough to keep them above the waves. His shoulder hit a submerged rock, and his grip on her loosened. He reached out for the rock with one hand, the other grasping her wrist, tugging her toward him. White ringed her eyes, her hair straggling over her face and shoulders. He could barely feel her wrist in his grasp. The rock allowed him a moment’s breather, even as a wave splashed over them.

  When she screamed again, he did something he had never contemplated before. He let go of the rock for an instant and slapped her with his open hand across her cheek.

  Stunned, her scream died. He used the moment to pull her toward him again, clinging to the rock. She subsided. Had he knocked her senseless?

  Oars smacked the water, and before she could regroup for another bout at drowning him, Clyde’s face appeared over the edge of the rowboat.

  “Take her.” Nick knew his lips must be blue, they were so stiff. Strong arms lifted the woman over the side of the boat. They reached back down for him, and to his shame, he was too cold to assist himself. They lifted him like a child and settled him in the rocking craft. The wind on his wet skin and clothes bit colder than the lake. His teeth chattered, his muscles cramping.

  “Hang on, Nick.”

  He huddled on the bottom of the boat, shivers wracking him. The woman lay only inches from him, eyes closed, skin white as new snow. Hanks of gold hair clung to her pale features, and her long lashes, gathered in points by the water, lay against her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in short gasps. At least she was still alive. Which was more than he could say for the way he felt.

  “Almost there, Nick.” Clyde swung the oars to turn the boat alongside the pilings.

  Strength trickled back, sending pins and needles into his hands and feet. Nick stumbled onto the dock. Someone threw a jacket around his shoulders. He brushed him aside, teeth chattering. “Take care of the girl.”

  Clyde lifted her, still limp, onto the boards. Jenkins appeared with a blanket to cover her.

  “Got to get her … up the hill.” Nick shoved his dripping hair out of his eyes, his hand trembling. Shivers wracked him until he thought he’d never get his boots back on. His soiled boots seemed a small matter now. He struggled into them, the leather sticking to his wet socks and legs.

  The Jenny Klamath gave a toot of the whistle. The captain eased her away from the dock, evidently intent on keeping his schedule, a near drowning or not. Jenkins swung aboard at the last moment, waving back at Nick with an apologetic smile.

  Clyde and Nick loaded the woman onto the handcart used to haul supplies up the track to the lighthouse at the top of the cliff. Nick sneezed and coughed, his lungs protesting their dunking. Silt stung his eyes, blurring his vision. Frigid water dripped from his clothes. They lifted the cart handle and began the trek through the trees, the iron tracks of the cart path glinting where the sunlight dappled through the pines.

  four

  Annie pressed her hand against her chest, coughing. Her hair hung in dripping rats’ tails. Every movement brought an unpleasant gush of water from her clothing and shoes. But nothing could compare to the guilt and embarrassment sloshing through her. As if it wasn’t bad enough to throw up on someone, she had to nearly drown him.

  The cart rumbled and bumped over the ground, winding up a steep grade through trees and into the open. The wind rippled over her, chill fingers stroking her skin. She lay shivering, her body wracking with cold.

  The two men stopped the cart before a two-story brick house. The younger one, red hair blazing, grinned at her. The older one, her rescuer, reached into the cart and scooped her up like a child. What little breath she had fled. She should say something, protest that she could make her own way up the steps, but her teeth chattered so hard she couldn’t form the words. His arms held her secure, and she found her eyes closing, her head tipping to lie against his shoulder.

  His boots clomped on the steps. Then a screen door squeaked and banged shut. She really should pay attention, but all she could concentrate on was the cold.

  “Oh, dear, what happened?”

  Annie’s eyes flew open. A tiny, white-haired woman with dark eyes stood beside the stove.

  “This is the new housekeeper. She fell in the lake.”

  Indignation rose in Annie’s chest. She had not fallen in. She was pushed.

  Before she could say anything, her rescuer continued. “I’ll leave her to your care, Imogen. And you might want to give her something for a bilious stomach. She doesn’t seem to have taken too well to boat travel.” Without another word, he dumped—well, eased—her into a straight-backed kitchen chair and strode out the door, like a man glad to be done with an unpleasant task.

  The screen door squeaked again, and the redheaded fellow tossed Annie’s valise in where it landed with a thump. “There’s a trunk at the dock with your name on it. I’ll fetch it up as quick as I can.” A flash of white teeth and a multitude of freckles and he was gone.

  The elderly woman tut-tutted, stoking the fire and pulling the teakettle forward. “Oh, you poor thing. You must get into dry things immediately. Let’s get you up to your room. I’m Imogen Batson. What a poor welcome you’ve had.”

  Annie followed her employer up the stairs. Imogen took each step slowly. Annie couldn’t help but wonder what such a delicate and fragile woman was doing at a lighthouse station.

  “Now, you get into dry clothes and come down for a hot cup of tea.” Imogen showed her into the bedroom. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

  “Ana—Annie. Annie Fairfax, Mrs. Batson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Annie. Call me Imogen. We don’t stand on much ceremony around here.” Imogen closed the door behind her.

  Water dripped in a circle from Annie’s skirts. Weariness rolled over her, making her fingers clumsy. She peeled the drenched clothes off and let them fall in a sodden heap. Two coarse towels hung on the back of the washstand. She plucked them off, rubbing her skin hard to restore circulation. Then she rummaged through her valise. When she couldn’t find what she sought, she dumped the contents onto the bed in a jumble.

  Dressed again, though sans her soggy shoes, she draped a towel over her shoulders to keep her wet hair off her blouse and ventured downstairs.

  Imogen waited in the parlor. “You sit here by the fire, and I’ll get you some hot tea.”

  As she warmed by the fire with the cup of tea Imogen prepared for her, shame spread over Annie. The man who saved her life—that poor man she’d almost killed—had dumped her on Imogen like a puppy that had been naughty on the rug.

  “How are you feeling, dear? Such a dreadful thing to happen, falling in the lake like that. It’s a wonder you survived. God was surely looking out for you, having Nick close by. A blessing, it was.” Imogen tucked a hot water bottle into the chair beside Annie and pulled an afghan up around her shoulders. “The water’s terribly deep there at the base of the cliff. And it’s not long since ice-out.”

  Annie breathed in the aroma rising from her teacup. So his name was Nick. It suited him. “I’m not sure he would share your opinion.” Her teeth only rattled a little against the porcelain. After all the trauma
of the day, Annie had no more energy than a dust rag. Her escape from Michaelton House early that morning seemed to have happened in another lifetime.

  “I have a feeling we’re going to do well together, you and I.” Imogen patted Annie’s shoulder. “Are you warming?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Annie smiled. Imogen reminded her a bit of Hazel: kind, uncomplicated, easy to be around, by turns starchy and sweet. Perhaps this job wouldn’t be so hard after all. Her fears of getting a mean taskmistress of an employer seemed unfounded.

  Imogen took the chair across from Annie and picked up her tatting. The shuttle poked in and out of the white lace slowly in the older woman’s hands.

  How many times had Hazel tried to teach Annie to tat? Annie had no patience for handwork—snarling thread and pricking her finger more than she stitched. She’d rather read a book, taken away to exotic, exciting places in her imagination, than in the words of the old nursery rhyme to “sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam.” Hazel had relented and done the sewing for Annie, allowing Annie to read aloud while Hazel worked.

  Homesickness weighed her shoulders. When would she see Hazel again? When would she sit beside a fire and read aloud to someone eager to hear the adventure of a good book? She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Do you think Nick will be all right?”

  Imogen nodded. “He’s a tough one, that Nick Kennedy. And private. Keeps to himself most of the time. But a good worker. My Ezra says he’s never seen a man so careful to follow all the rules. Never shirks a duty. I doubt a dunking will set him back.”

  Annie breathed a prayer of relief. Though the accident wasn’t her fault—after all, she’d been knocked into the water by a flying mailbag—she would hate to think she’d caused her rescuer any permanent damage. She couldn’t bear something like that to happen to her again. Echoes of the panic she’d felt when she hit the water fluttered through her. All her worst fears and memories collided, and she had to force herself to breathe slowly. She set her cup aside, afraid she might drop it.

  “Imogen, please tell me about my duties here.” Her gaze traveled over the simple parlor, noting the rag rugs, the white lace curtains, the brown sofa and chairs, everything clean and shining. So normal and ordinary, it calmed Annie once more.

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear about that now. Time enough in the morning to start work.”

  “No, really, I’d rather know now. Otherwise, I won’t sleep well wondering.” Annie didn’t want to admit she had no idea what tasks a housekeeper might do in a place like this. The housekeeper at home walked around like a prison warden, keys jangling from the chatelaine on her belt, a permanent persimmon pucker on her lips as if disapproving of even the air she breathed. The maids scurried at the sight of her, and only the butler remained undaunted by her ramrod posture and formidable face. Annie avoided her as much as possible. Hazel and the housekeeper were at permanent daggers drawn where Annie’s room and possessions were concerned.

  “There’s the cooking, the cleaning, and the laundry—those are the main things. Then we do a bit of gardening, and if need be, we help with the light. The light comes first here, always. From dusk to dawn the beacon must shine.” A gentle smile creased her face. “You’ll come to love Old Sutton. I’ve lived around lighthouses so long I find it difficult to rest comfortably unless I fall asleep to the steady flash of a beacon.”

  Annie didn’t care about the light at that moment. Her thoughts centered on one thing—cooking. There was no cook here? Cleaning she could probably do—dusting, even mopping—but cooking? Annie had never so much as boiled water for tea before. How was she supposed to cook meals?

  Don’t panic, girl. You can do this.

  Perhaps she could find a book of recipes at the general store. Her confidence climbed back up a notch. A cookbook would solve all her problems. “How many people live on Sutton Island, and how far is it to town?”

  Imogen glanced up. Her delicate eyebrows came together. “There is no town on Sutton Island.”

  Annie sat up, the blankets dropping away from her shoulders. “No town?” Her heart bumped an erratic beat.

  “Annie, Sutton Island is uninhabited except for the people needed to man the light. My husband is the head keeper, Nick is first assistant, and Clyde Moore is the second assistant. Then there’s you and I. That’s all.”

  Her mind froze. Five people. No stores, no church, no neighborhoods. No roads, no sidewalks, no milk delivery to the door. What had she gotten herself into?

  “Didn’t the inspector tell you when you applied for the job? We’re eight miles off shore. Halfway between Two Harbors and Split Rock where they’re slated to build a lighthouse. The closest town of any size is Duluth.” Imogen picked up her tatting again, but an arrow of concern remained between her brows. “You’ll get used to it. Supplies are delivered by one of the lighthouse tenders, on either the Marigold or the Amaranth, though if there is a passenger to be dropped off at the island the Jenny Klamath will stop. If we need the ferry to pull in for some reason, we run a flag up at the end of the dock to let her know. And there’s always plenty to do here. I never seem to get it all done.”

  Annie threaded her fingers through her hair to aid the drying. Five people, miles from any town. She, who had never lived outside Duluth, now perched on a rocky island in the middle of Lake Superior. Still, it might not be so bad. Her father would never think to look for her here, and the chances of running into someone who would recognize her were on the slim side.

  “I think you should spend the rest of the afternoon in bed. We don’t want you coming down with a cold. I thought I heard Clyde taking your trunk upstairs.” Imogen tucked her handwork into a basket beside her chair. “I’ll feed the men tonight and bring you up a supper tray. You can start your duties by cooking breakfast in the morning. The men like to eat at seven.”

  Breakfast for five people by seven tomorrow morning. Annie gathered her blankets and trekked up the narrow stairway. She’d have to come up with a plan, for to admit she couldn’t cook would invite Imogen to send her packing back to Duluth and her father. Surely breakfast couldn’t be that hard….

  Nick tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. A shaft of light raced across the room. He’d grown used to it by now, but the first few days had driven him nearly mad. The thin curtains did little to filter the powerful beam. He’d best close the blind if he wanted to get any sleep before his shift started at two. The green shade rattled down, blocking most of the light. At regular intervals, a white frame showed around the fabric then vanished.

  His body ached, both from his lifesaving gambit this afternoon and from returning to the dock to help Clyde stow the boat. The girl invaded his thoughts. He scowled in the darkness then winced as his eye stung. She’d nailed him with her elbow. Good thing she hadn’t knocked him out with the blow or they’d both have gone down to feed the fishes.

  What was a girl like that doing on Sutton Island? Seasick and unable to swim, and from the look of her, barely old enough to be on her own. What were her parents thinking to let her take such a remote job?

  His split knuckle throbbed. Scrubbing his boots hadn’t done his hand any favors. He still couldn’t believe she’d been sick on him.

  She wouldn’t last, not here. He gave her two weeks, just until the ferry returned and they flagged it down to pick her up. She’d be waiting on the dock with her bags packed, if he was any judge.

  That water sure had been cold. Cold like he hadn’t felt since …

  Sleep crept over him.

  Wind shrieked through the broken window, carrying swirling snow and icy pellets of spray. The captain huddled shoulder to shoulder with his men in the cramped pilothouse. The storm surge slammed the side of the ship, rolling her, pounding her against the shoal.

  He lurched, his ribs throbbing, inhaling daggers with each breath. He’d lost feeling in his feet long ago, and now the cold crept up his legs. He shivered, ice hanging on his eyebrows and lashes, his breath a frosty plume t
hat rimed his collar. Would the storm never end?

  Then the deck heaved beneath his feet as he picked his way over ice-encrusted hatches and lines to the stern, clinging to the rail while surf surged over the ship. Low clouds scudded across the sky, the wind blowing them back out on the lake after the receding storm. He had to get to his crew in the stern. They would be all right if he could just get to them in time.

  The men clung together, tied to the deck to keep from being swept overboard. The man nearest him had his face covered with his coat. The captain’s hand trembled, but he forced himself to look.

  He recoiled in horror. It wasn’t a crewman. His brother’s face, encased in a blue-white pallor, stared blankly up at him, frozen to death. His gaze darted from one face to the next. Jonathan … every face was Jonathan’s. Dead, frozen, killed by his own brother’s careless stupidity.

  “Murderer!”

  “Killer!”

  “Coward!”

  The accusations came from everywhere, hurled at him on the wind like shards of glass, slicing, ripping, shredding his soul. A mighty wave swept over the broken vessel, dousing him in frigid water, sweeping the bodies toward the rail.

  “No, Jonathan, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me! Jonathan!” He tried to hang on to the body nearest him, but the lake pulled and sucked, tearing in a relentless battle until he lost his tenuous grip on Jonathan’s sleeve.

  “Jonathan!” He clawed and kicked, trying to swim in the icy waves, trying to grab Jonathan before he was towed under by the lake.

  A giant seagull flapped over him, cawing and beating its wings. A blast of light hit his face, blinding him.

  Nick woke, gasping, bathed in sweat. His heart bucked and surged. The window shade had snapped up, the cord and ring still swaying against the window. Another shaft of light coated the room and was gone.

  The nightmare. Always the same, always horrible, always leaving him wrung out and exhausted.

  He sat up and rubbed his hand down his face. Several deep breaths later, he assured himself that the dream wasn’t real, that he hadn’t killed his own brother. Jonathan was very much alive, probably at Kennebrae House sleeping beside his bride, Melissa, at this moment.