by Erica Vetsch
“Tools are kept in the assistants’ quarters. Right this way.”
“Fine. I’ll come back for the house inspection.”
They crossed the clearing, Nick careful to keep pace with the inspector. He refused to walk behind the pompous little man.
They passed the front porch of Ezra’s house. From within, a pot clanged against metal and a mutter followed. He shrugged away his unease. Surely Annie would have everything under control there.
Annie scrunched her eyes up tight and sucked on her throbbing finger. In her haste to get the dirty dishes out of sight, she’d pinched her finger in a door. Hot tears smarted at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. There was no time to cry.
She wrestled with the window over the sink, trying to get it open to rid the kitchen of the stale smoky smell. Slow footsteps overhead indicated Imogen moving about, no doubt dressing and putting up her hair.
Her hair! Annie’s hands flew to her straggling bun. Being outside in the wind had tousled it, and tearing about the house hadn’t improved the job. At least this was one task she was comfortable with. Though Hazel had usually done Annie’s hair for going out, Annie had enjoyed styling her own hair most days.
She sped up the stairs to her bedroom and grabbed her hairbrush from the dresser. The pins snarled in her hair, her fingers clumsy in haste. She brushed it then began the process of winding it up into a perfectly relaxed knot. She winced when a hairpin jabbed her scalp, but in moments every lock was in place.
Looking behind her in the mirror, she screwed up her face at the mess. Never having had to care for her own belongings, she had scattered possessions hither and yon last night and this morning in her search for a suitable outfit. Good thing the inspector wasn’t likely to come up here. The very idea of a strange man invading a girl’s sleeping quarters!
Imogen met her in the hall, her face pale, her fingers chilly when she grabbed Annie’s hands. “Did you get the kitchen squared away?”
“There wasn’t much time. I did the best I could.” Annie helped Imogen down the stairs. “You should’ve stayed in bed.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll sit in the parlor. You’ll have to be in the kitchen, but don’t say much. Dillon doesn’t like back talk, and he won’t overlook anything.”
“I’ll hold my tongue.” Even as she said it, Annie wondered if she could. She wasn’t accustomed to stifling her words.
Annie got Imogen settled on the sofa and went into the kitchen. She arrived none too soon.
Nick held the door open to allow a small man to precede him inside. “This is Inspector Dillon. Inspector, Miss Fairfax.” Nick stepped inside and leaned against the wall beside the door. He crossed his arms, his face impassive.
A shiver raced across Annie’s shoulders at the intense way Nick’s eyes bored into hers. She licked her lips, and when he gave her a quick wink, she giggled.
“Madam? You find something amusing?” The inspector crossed his wrists behind his back and rocked heel to toe, pausing on his forward movement momentarily, as if trying to make himself taller. He gave an obnoxious suck on his teeth, the air whistling in moistly. The clipboard stuck out from one hand.
“Ah, no, I’m sorry. Pleased to meet you, sir. Won’t you make yourself comfortable? Would you like a cup of tea?” Annie winced at her rapid-fire words.
“No, thank you. This is not a social visit. Just keep out of my way.”
Annie backed up until she ran into a counter. Her hands suddenly seemed to be too large and in the way. She put them behind her and gripped the rolled edge of the enamel sink.
“I’ll start with the pantry. I’d like to see the inventory of goods.” The inspector held out his hand, tapping his foot on the bare kitchen floor.
Annie shot a look at Nick who shrugged. She had no idea what the inspector wanted.
“Well? Where is it?”
“I … I …” She shook her head.
“Hmm.” The clipboard came up and he dug a pencil from his pocket. “No inventory sheets.”
Annie closed her eyes. Surely Imogen had them somewhere. Her eyes shot open when the pantry door squeaked.
Dillon disappeared, and soon, the sounds of tins clanking, stone crocks scraping the floor, and glass tinkling filtered out.
Nick moved to her side. “Inventory sheets?”
Her heart accelerated at his closeness. He smelled of soap and lake breeze. “I haven’t seen any. Do you suppose it’s important?” Her voice rasped low. “How did the rest of the inspection go?”
“No idea. He doesn’t say much, just barks his questions and orders and struts on.” His voice held a laugh, and when she looked up into his eyes, he grinned at her.
Was it hot in here?
“I have a bad feeling about this. I’ve only been here one day. Surely he can’t expect me to know where everything is. That’s unreasonable.”
“The inspector seems to deal in unreasonable.” Nick straightened up.
Dillon emerged from the pantry, his mouth in a hard line. “Someone”—he glared at Annie—“spilled oatmeal on the floor. And there are several pots missing, as well as the washtub.”
Annie gulped. Before she could speak, Dillon began yanking open cupboards and drawers. Cutlery clattered, wood scraped, and Annie’s nerves stretched.
Please, please, please, God, if You’re listening, don’t let him—
Too late. The inspector opened the oven door. Annie grimaced. The dishpan, stacked high with dirty pots and dishes, cowered in the oven where she’d shoved it out of sight only a few minutes before.
“What is this?” Dillon puffed up with outrage. His small white forefinger pointed first to the dishes then to Annie. His chin lifted until he was staring down either side of his narrow nose.
Hot embarrassment shot through her. She looked at the floor, not wanting to see Nick’s reaction.
“Get these out of here.” Dillon tapped his foot.
Annie stepped forward, but Nick put his hand on her arm. In two strides he crossed the kitchen and slid the washtub from the oven. Annie answered his inquiring look by nodding toward the counter beside her.
Dillon gave them each a sharp glare then pivoted on one heel and entered the parlor.
“Thank you.” Annie choked on the whisper.
“You’d better follow him. I’ll be out on the porch.” His kind smile shot warmth through her that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
She found Dillon and Imogen in the front room. Imogen, though pale, held herself regally, the match of any inspector.
Dillon seemed to realize this, for he treated her with a deference that had been decidedly lacking in his behavior toward Annie. But his eyes never stopped moving, calculating, assessing. “I’ll just check a few more things, Mrs. Batson, then the men will convene to the fog-house to discuss issues at this station.” He bowed quickly then ducked out of the room.
“How did it go in the kitchen, dear?” Imogen laid her head back against the chair and sighed.
“He found where I’d stashed the dirty dishes.” Annie spread her hands wide.
A soft chuckle escaped Imogen’s lips. “You didn’t put the dishes in the oven, did you? That’s the first place they look.”
Annie laughed ruefully in return. “I wish you’d have told me that sooner. I’d have hidden them in my room.”
“They wouldn’t be safe there either. He’s checking the bedrooms right—”
“Miss Fairfax!” For such a little man, he had a loud voice.
Dread and hot anger gushed through Annie. She grabbed her skirts and hustled up the stairs. How dare he!
He stood in the doorway to her room, his face red, eyes blazing hot enough to start a fire. “What is the meaning of this?” He held up one of her petticoats.
The sight of Dillon holding her undergarment knocked all sense of caution out of Annie. She snatched the item from his hand. “Sir, this station may belong to the Lighthouse Board, but the Board does not lay claim to my personal ite
ms. I will thank you to stop pawing through my possessions. It is unseemly.” Annie stood to her full height, topping the inspector by several inches. She refused to cower, and she refused to allow him to push her around any longer, the picky prig.
His mouth gaped and his eyes glassed over until he resembled a fish fresh from the lake. His nostrils flared, a dull redness suffusing his cheeks.
Annie tightened her lips. She’d gone too far. Imogen had only asked that Annie hold her tongue, and what had Annie done? Lashed out like a cornered badger at the first opportunity. She waited for the hammer to fall, for Dillon to order her to gather her strewn belongings and get off his island.
They stood toe-to-toe for a moment longer. Then, to her surprise, Dillon whirled and stomped down the stairs without a word.
Annie walked on unsteady legs to the bed and sank down, causing the springs to squeak. Her heart thundered against her ribs and her breath came in quick pants. She’d faced him down, but now what? Would he write her up in some wretched report? She’d be lucky if he didn’t send her packing on the next ferry south.
She looked about her room. Her traveling costume from the day before huddled in a damp and sorry heap where she’d stepped out of it. Petticoats and stockings snarled together in a pile beside her valise, which lay on its side open and spilling out her spare chemises and drawers. Her trunk stood open, a heap of clothing piled in the tray.
Heat scorched her face at the thought of any man, much less the insufferable inspector, seeing her possessions in such disarray. She rose and, for the first time in her life, began folding and putting away her own clothing.
eight
Dillon made his departure midafternoon. Though everyone but Imogen assembled on the dock to see him off, he spoke only to Mr. Batson.
Nick stood off to the side, watching, impatient for the inspector to be gone. The routine of Nick’s day had been thrown awry, and he was anxious to get it back on track. And his stomach growled. He’d had nothing to eat since yesterday evening but an apple. Dillon had kept them talking in the fog-house through the lunch hour.
He wondered how things in the house had gone after he left. Annie stood at the head of the dock, not venturing out over the water, her hands clenched at her waist, the wind blowing her skirt and hair. She didn’t look at Dillon, or anyone else for that matter. A thrust of pity for her jabbed him. She was too young, too green for this job. What had driven her to take this position, so obviously wrong for her?
Dillon’s nasal voice punched into his thoughts. “The lighthouse, fog-house, and fuel stores are all in fine condition. I commend you on their orderliness and cleanliness.” He rocked on his toes, mauling another toothpick in his teeth. “The buildings and grounds are in excellent condition, better than I had expected considering how early in the season it is.”
Clyde shot Nick an eyebrow-wobbly look, grinning through his freckles. The kid had a reckless zest for life that made Nick smile. Oh to be that naive again, to roll through life with few cares, little baggage, and a sense of adventure.
“However,” Dillon went on, “the domestic side of things is another matter altogether. The kitchen, pantry, and sleeping quarters were disastrous.”
Nick glanced at Annie. She winced, seeming to shrink a little with each barb. He had a sudden urge to go to her, to put his arm around her and tell her it would be all right. Where had that come from? She was nothing to him. Why then did he have the desire to shove his fist through Dillon’s face for upsetting her?
“Because housekeepers are so difficult to obtain for remote stations such as Sutton Island, I am not going to fire Miss Fairfax at this time, no matter how much she may deserve it. Mrs. Batson tells me she is satisfied with Miss Fairfax’s work, though I don’t know how she could be. No, I’m not going to fire Miss Fairfax, but I am putting her on notice. I will return to inspect the station again, and if I find anything out of place, her employment will be terminated. From this moment on, Miss Fairfax is on probation. And while she is on probation, I will be looking for another candidate to fill her position. Should a suitable housekeeper apply, I will replace Miss Fairfax. Is that understood?” He tossed his toothpick onto the dock and dug in his pocket for another. The breeze flapped the papers on his ever-present clipboard, and Nick imagined himself ripping the clipboard from Dillon’s hands and tossing it into the lake.
Ezra nodded, eyes sober, glancing between Dillon and Annie. “I understand. Thank you, Inspector. Are you sure you won’t stay for some lunch?”
Nick looked heavenward. That was tempting things. If Annie cooked him a lunch anything like her breakfast, Dillon might set her adrift in a rowboat to find her own way back to Duluth.
“No, no, not this time. I can still inspect Two Harbors if I leave now. Good day, Batson, and don’t forget what I said about a new housekeeper.” Dillon clambered aboard the launch, sat stiffly upright in the bow, and pointed his face toward the Marigold lying at anchor a few hundred yards offshore. The launch puttered away, plowing through the waves, taking the inspector to wreak havoc elsewhere.
Nick laughed when he realized everyone on the dock had let out a big sigh of relief.
Ezra’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I always look forward to that man’s departure.”
“What a way to live.” Clyde hopped up onto a barrel of kerosene and gently drummed his heels against the metal side. “Folks never glad to see you come, always happy to see the back of you. What makes him so disagreeable?”
Nick unbuttoned his heavy wool tunic and slid out of the sleeves. Ezra did the same, and removed his hat as well.
“I try to be a little more understanding of him than most, I suppose.” Ezra threaded his fingers through his flattened hair. “I met him once in Duluth, with his wife. She must be twice his size and has the disposition of a mule with a toothache. That man is oppressed, henpecked, and altogether dominated at home. I suppose he had to exert his will somewhere, and he takes it out on the folks in his employ.”
Nick tried to imagine Dillon’s domestic situation. It boggled the mind.
“I’d be nicer to people then, if it was me.” Clyde hunched his shoulders. “‘Cause I would know how it felt to be bossed and pushed around.”
“I think I would, too, though I can’t see either of us as henpecked husbands.” Ezra smiled. “Imogen isn’t the bossy type, and I imagine you’d have more sense than to marry someone like Mrs. Dillon in the first place. How about we get these supplies up the hill and stowed away … according to regulations.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in humor.
Nick tossed his coat over a crate and picked the box up to move it to the cart for transport up the hill. A tiny part of him felt sorry for the inspector, and a larger part felt grateful to have escaped the same fate himself. Who knew what kind of woman his grandfather had picked out for him? Just because she was the daughter of Grandfather’s crony didn’t mean she wasn’t a shrew.
Annie still stood at the head of the dock, staring out over the water toward the Marigold. A sort of forlorn resignation rested on her pretty features, drawing down the corners of her eyes and mouth.
“Don’t take it to heart, Annie. A few dishes in the oven aren’t the end of the world.”
She nodded, blinking her brown eyes hard a few times. A deep sigh escaped her lips as the lighthouse tender weighed anchor, gave a blast of the horn, and headed southwest to Two Harbors. “If that’s all it was, I wouldn’t be too worried. I lost my temper with him and made him look foolish.” Her mouth quirked up. “Inquisitive, nosy, bothersome man. I wish he had stayed to lunch. I’d have fed him some of my oatmeal.”
Nick laughed, surprised at her ability to joke about something that had angered her only a short while ago. Were all women this mercurial in temperament?
When he turned around from placing the crate on the cart, Annie was making her way up the footpath, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder toward the lake. Probably making sure the nasty little inspector wasn’t returning.
Clyde grinned. “Smoke signals. Great idea.”
“Only fair. A little warning makes all the difference.”
Nick slung the mailbag into the cart. A little warning. If he’d had a little warning about the storm last fall, he’d never have left the harbor. He wouldn’t have been caught in the storm, and he wouldn’t have found himself in the Lighthouse Board’s employ, subservient to a tyrannical inspector.
Another glance up the hill. Sunlight gleamed off her golden hair. And he’d never have met a feisty girl named Annie Fairfax.
Sunday dawned clear and bright. Imogen, feeling better this morning, gave Annie a cooking lesson. Pride glowed around Annie’s heart when the men sat down to an edible meal for the first time since her foray into the culinary arts. Black frills decorated the edges of the fried ham, and the eggs were past hard, but the biscuits more than made up for any shortcomings. They were light, hot, and fluffy, just begging for honey.
When the dishes were cleared away—washed this time, not stuck in the oven—everyone gathered in the parlor for Sunday services. Annie entered the room last, her Bible clutched in her hand, to find the only available seat was on the davenport between Clyde and Nick. She sat between them, trying to make herself small so as not to touch either of them. Her shoulder brushed Nick’s. She glanced up to see him staring down at her, intense and focused. Her mouth went dry, and she dropped her gaze to her Bible in her lap.
Ezra prayed. He spoke formally but as if he prayed often.
Annie wondered what it would’ve been like to grow up with a man like Ezra as her father.
“Our text for today is found in Proverbs 18:10. Nick, would you read that for us?”
Nick opened his Bible, the onion papers rustling like poplar leaves in a breeze. “‘The name of the Lord is a strong tower: the righteous runneth into it, and is safe.’”