by Barbara Dan
"Will you be holding a memorial service for your husband?" asked Mary Ann Rhees, not willing to let the conversation drift into silence.
"Truthfully, I haven't given it much thought." Lydia knew precisely what she would like to do to Frank Masters: Purge all memory of him from her heart and soul. But private thoughts of vengeance were not fit to share in polite company.
"Of course, you must have a great many concerns about the future, now that he's gone," said Mrs. Rafferty, on a fishing expedition.
"Of course." Lydia took another sip.
Mrs. Rafferty flushed a delicate pink beneath her fleshy dimples. Over the years her beautiful young neighbor had never seen fit to confide in a soul, and it genuinely grieved her, for she was convinced that, behind her reserve, Lydia had a heart as warm as the tropics where her husband's ship had so often sailed. Why, only last spring, when she was down with la grippe, Lydia had come to her rescue, sending over food for her boarders, and sitting up with her for two nights. Only a truly caring person was capable of such kindness!
After several more attempts to pry information out of her had failed, Lydia set down her tea cup and rose. "Ladies, I really must go. I have a prior engagement."
"I'll see you to the door," Mrs. Rafferty offered.
As they drifted onto the porch, saying their goodbyes, Bruce MacGregor charged up the steps, his hair windswept and his brown eyes gleaming. He paused long enough to doff his cap. "Ladies, excuse my haste. The fish are biting!" He left them staring at his handsome backside, as he sped upstairs to his room on the second floor.
Mrs. Rafferty shook her head and laughed. "Mercy sakes! Now there's a man for you!" she said. "Always in a hurry. I never saw so much energy in such a large package."
"Indeed." Lydia was careful not to sound interested. "Goodbye, and thank you for the tea," she murmured, taking her neighbor's hand.
"Please remember, my offer of help is sincere."
"You are most kind." Carefully lifting her skirts, Lydia descended to her waiting carriage. If she hurried, she might be still in time to help the library committee select a few suitable books for the children of New London.
As she took up the reins and set her horse into motion, she smiled, thinking about the tea party she had just left. Mrs. Rafferty and her friends really ought to save their sympathy for someone who needed it. For what possible difference could her husband's death make now?
* * *
When Mr. Harris came to call on her that evening, he brought her husband's lawyer with him. Together they had taken the trouble to compile documents and statements outlining in detail the true nature of her husband's financial situation.
"Mrs. Masters, I wish I were the bearer of better news," said Peter Bradshaw, his manner businesslike but kindly.
"This house is my husband's only asset?"
"Yes, and it has a mortgage of ten thousand dollars."
Most unexpected and unwelcome news, indeed! Lydia had hoped she would at least have a roof over her head. She moved restlessly around the room, adjusting pictures on the parlor wall, even though they did not need straightening, while she reviewed the disturbing facts. She paused before her husband's portrait, wishing Frank's image could speak some final word of consolation, repentance—anything.
Robert Harris cleared his throat. "I thought you knew about his gamblin' debts."
"My husband was always full of surprises." She came back and sat in a rigid caneback chair facing the two men. "No matter." She shrugged. "Just tell me where to sign over the deed."
Harris shook his head. "We didna bring the papers with us. It's in my office."
She stood up. "Then I shall come to your office tomorrow morning. Let it not be said that I ever welshed on a lawful debt."
"Ah, lass, I wish all this weren't happenin.'" Robert Harris sighed.
"So do I," she said, outwardly calm. "There are no other assets?"
"Perhaps a couple of thousand in goods at the warehouse. Hardly enough—"
"Well, then, there's nothing more to be said. I shall see you at ten, Mr. Harris."
She saw them to the door and handed them their hats.
Bradshaw hesitated. "I realize it will take some time, Mrs. Masters, to find another place to live."
Instantly Lydia thought of Mrs. Rafferty's boarding house. In a pinch, it would do. "I have a little pin money set aside. I should be able to find something in a few days."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Masters."
She closed the door and stood with her back to it, surveying the stark interior. The furniture was of good quality, but since none of it appealed to her, she would feel no great loss in parting with it. It was the last link between her and her father, who had gone to his grave two years before, believing her marriage to Frank Masters to be a union made in heaven.
And how could she blame him, when she'd let herself be swept off her feet in a moment of giddy infatuation? What did a naive seventeen-year-old know anyway? Dazzled by the face of a god, and all her friends swooning with envy, she had wanted so desperately to believe that anything he told her was true. It felt like it happened a thousand years ago, and it was all such a lie. Frank held it all in the palm of his hand when he married her: The fattest dowry in Salem, and the most naive bride on the marriage block. Frank Masters, cast from the same mold as that mythic figure, Narcissus, dream-maker, dream-breaker.
Fighting off the heaviness that weighed down her spirit, Lydia crossed the parlor to straighten the chair used by Mr. Bradshaw. She had no idea where to turn. Her brothers, all older, were seafarers; most of them married with families of their own. She could never impose. Besides, she valued her independence. Somehow she must start fresh, without memories of Frank Masters and this house to haunt her any longer.
Her eyes lifted to the golden-headed portrait of her late husband, hanging on the parlor wall. "Damn your corrupt soul forever!" she told his ghost. She snatched the painting from the wall and slammed it over the back of a chair. Viewing the portrait's destruction with satisfaction, she swung around, scanning the room. She despised everything this house represented: All the lies, all the unhappiness. Frank's secret had held her prisoner here, forcing her to suppress all the natural longings of her heart for eight impossibly long years!
So Frank's creditors wanted the house, did they? They could have it! Laughing a little crazily, she beat the frame and oil canvas against the chair back until it was beyond repair. Then she stripped the other paintings, the prim crewel mottoes, and other pretentious decorations from the wall. One by one, she piled them in the fireplace, until the plastered walls were bare and the fireplace could hold no more. Even though it was still unseasonably warm, she struck the flint and set a match to the entire pile.
Not content to stop there, she stormed through the house with a tornado's vengeance, ripping everything that reminded her of her husband from the walls and adding them to the blaze.
Upstairs there was nothing of her husband's in her own bedroom. He'd never spent any time there. Damn him to hell! He had enjoyed using her money, if not her body, for his own good pleasure. Well, his debts would not send her to the poorhouse! For if there was one thing she did well, she knew how to keep house. Somewhere in this town, she would find honest work. Only this time it would be without any romantic delusions. All she wanted was a decent wage for a job well done, along with an occasional "Thank you kindly!"
She sailed through the upstairs hallway to Frank's room and flung open the door with a forcefulness that cracked the plaster behind the knob. She gathered his clothes, all carefully hung with sweet cloves and herbs the way he liked them, and pitched them down the stairwell.
Tromping downstairs, she nearly tripped over the untidy heap of his personal effects and clothing. She dragged everything over to the fireplace and kept stoking the flames until every last shred was consumed. It was the most enjoyable thing she'd done in ages! She wanted him out of her system—forever! She knelt, watching the fire eat away at his clothes, but she was s
till left with bitter memories.
The clock struck quarter past twelve.
Emotionally drained, she got to her feet, intending to go upstairs and crawl into bed. She was just setting the screen in front of the fireplace when the door knocker pounded.
Lydia stood stock still in the center of her parlor, her heart thudding almost as loudly as her late night caller. Who could be calling at such an ungodly hour? She was tempted to ignore the summons altogether, but it crossed her mind that it might be important. Why else would someone call in the middle of the night?
Taking a deep breath, she wiped her sweating palms against her skirt and walked into the hallway. Out of long habit, she glanced in the hall mirror. The light spilled over her pale features. Her silver-blond hair was a complete horror, flying in every direction, her eyes reflecting back her wild frame of mind. Well, it couldn't be helped. She pressed her lips together and opened the door.
Looming over her in the darkness was the shadow of an enormous man.
Trembling, Lydia shank back. "Y-yes?"
Bruce MacGregor stepped forward into the light. "Are you all right, Mrs. Masters?"
Lydia gasped, suddenly afraid. "You! What do you want now?"
"I was out walking and smelled smoke. September seems a bit early for fires so late at night, so I decided it might be wise to check on you, in case anything was wrong."
"If you thought I might have set the house or myself on fire, you needn't trouble yourself further, Captain McDermott—"
"MacGregor, ma'am. Well, as long as you're all right, I'll be on my way." He hesitated, his dark eyes studying her. "You're quite certain everything is all right?"
Lydia touched her hair self-consciously. "Quite. Despite what you must be thinking."
He looked relieved. "For a moment there, you looked as if you'd seen a ghost."
"Hardly. I have better things to do than chase disembodied spirits at midnight. And in the future I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my business. I am quite able to take care of myself!"
She slammed the door in his face, slipped the bolt, and started up the stairs. What an impertinent man, she thought, to disturb her peace at such an hour! Indeed, he had hit uncomfortably close to the truth. For even with Frank's clothing up the flue, she still had to contend with his ghost.
Reaching the landing, she stole to the window in time to see Bruce MacGregor walking backward down the path, his lips pursed. He paused to shake his head beneath the hickory tree, his face in shadow. What must he be thinking? Holding her breath, Lydia drew back behind the curtain, praying he hadn't seen her spying on him.
Her hands pressed against her breast, she watched him finally turn the corner and continue on his way back to Mrs. Rafferty's boarding house on Denison.
* * *
Lydia awoke groggy and still exhausted following her partial exorcism. Alarmed to find the sun shining so brightly, she slipped into French mules and a robe. She pulled a hairbrush through her hair, gathering its thick unruly strands into a tidy bun, and headed downstairs.
Glancing at the clock, as she rushed through the parlor, she nearly panicked. It was after nine! Shocked by such sloth, she grabbed a crust of bread and rushed back upstairs. She mustn't be late to her appointment with Robert Harris. Dressing hurriedly, she went out to hitch the horse to her rig. The sooner she settled her husband's affairs—and a most unpleasant bit of business it was!—the quicker she could get on with her life.
By the time she drove up in front of the warehouse, the sun had melted everything except her backbone. Wisps of hair were plastered to her face, and her bodice felt sticky with perspiration. The humidity did nothing for her disposition either. Not that she intended to take it out on Mr. Harris. She certainly bore him no ill will. Moreover, it was pointless to hold a grudge against a corpse. If she wanted to be angry at anyone, it should be herself. She was the fool who married Frank Masters.
On the docks and inside the dim warehouse, inventory clerks, tradesmen, dockhands and sailors created a hubbub of activity. Lydia found herself dodging stevedores who had neither the time nor the inclination to make way for anyone, as they brought in crates off of a large merchant ship. Taking herself out of harm's way, she scanned the crowded wharf. The noise and confusion threatened to sap what energy the heat had left her.
Robert Harris stepped forward, beaming. "Ah, dear lady, you are right on time!" he said, leading her into his office and removing a stack of papers from a chair, offered her a seat.
"Mr. Harris," she snapped, mopping her brow. "It's hot enough in here to cook brains, so let's dispense with unnecessary pleasantries, shall we, and get down to business."
Taking his own sweet time, he finally pulled a quitclaim deed from a cubbyhole on his cluttered desk. "Here we are."
"If you were better organized, you could find things with less wasted motion," she said.
Harris studied the attractive young woman across the desk from him. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but she had the devil's own tongue, she did. Mrs. Masters seemed bound and determined to get his goat this morning. He grinned at her shrewdly. "Aye, but since it has no legs, it wasna goin' anywhere, so where's the sense in that?"
"It occurs to me that if you had taken the time to insure my husband's cargo, I might not be in this predicament," she told him, sitting rigidly on the edge of her chair.
Harris's faded blue eyes snapped indignantly. "You keep your nose out of my business, young lady, and I'll not be tellin' you how to run a house!"
Lydia closed her eyes briefly with a sigh. "Mr. Harris, I apologize. I'm not here to argue. Where do I sign?" She bent over the paper, dipped the pen in his ink well, affixed her signature, and blotted it. Then she stood up and started for the door.
The old man's heart softened, seeing the slumped shoulders. "What are your plans, lass?"
"I hope to find work as a housekeeper. I'm sure there must be a family in town who requires someone with my qualifications."
"Well, I wish you good fortune, Mrs. Masters. Like I said, I dislike bein' a party to this whole sad affair."
Without looking in his direction, she nodded, her slender hand on the doorknob. "Tell Mr. Bradshaw I hope to be gone by the end of the week."
In the shadows Bruce MacGregor straightened, watching Lydia Masters march resolutely through the crowd. There goes a woman with a deep, dark secret, he thought, wiping the sweat off his brow with his bandanna. She carried a chip on her shoulder bigger than the crate he had just set down, yet there was something about her he couldn't quite put his finger on. He had half a mind to find out what else she was hiding behind that thorny exterior.
Och, but he must be taking leave of his senses! He was sailing for Havana as soon as he gave the British ships blocking the harbor the slip. The last thing he needed was to stick his nose where it wasn't wanted.
Harris bore down on him with a happy grin. "Nice haul, Bruce!"
"Already counting your profits, eh?" Bruce teased.
"Aye, lad, 'twill make up for the loss I took on the Silver Dolphin."
"Next time you'll carry insurance, you old skinflint!"
"That I will." The old warehouseman shook his head ruefully.
"Wasn't that Masters' widow comin' out of your office?" Bruce asked.
"Aye. Hardly gave me the time of day. Not that I blame her."
"I guess she set you straight, hm?" MacGregor started down the dock to his ship. "Come along, Robbie, if you want to talk. I've still got some unloadin' to do."
As they went aboard the Angelic Lady, the crew was bringing up cargo on a hoist from the foreward hatch. "Easy, lads," Bruce called, striding over to lend a hand. "These goods came all the way from Liverpool. I'd like to see it get off this ship in good condition."
"What's your next trip bringin' me?" asked Harris, awed by the young giant's agility. Bruce could move an armoire as effortlessly as if it were a feather mattress.
"Cuban cigars, rum, sugar, bananas. Maybe I'll run into an Englis
h merchantman and sweeten the pot." He cracked a grin. "I'll be back by the end of November, if all goes well."
"I'll give you a good price, Bruce." The old Scot trailed behind him toward the warehouse.
"Aye, or I'll be seein' Bennett over in Groton." Bruce set down a huge crate next to the rest of his cargo. "Well, that about does it, Robbie. A few small crates, and we're done." He drew his kerchief across his dripping brow, then jammed it in his back pocket. "Damn, it's hot! I think I'll head over to Old Paddy's. Care to join me?"
"Don't mind if I do."
The two men made straight for the tavern and ordered whiskey. Sprawling in his chair, Bruce grinned lazily at Harris. "Caught me some fine bass yesterday, Robbie."
"I suppose your landlady's already dished 'em up for supper. Or did you think to save me a couple?"
Bruce laughed. "I'll be goin' out again tomorrow morning. If my luck holds, I'll drop by an' pay my respects to your missus."
"She'll be tickled to see you. She has a soft spot in her heart for ye, lad."
"She loves strays, you mean. She's a fine lady, Robbie." He raised his glass in salute.
"It's time ye found a woman of your own, Bruce."
"No, thanks!" said Bruce. "I'm not nearly desperate enough to think of marriage again."
"So you plan on hangin' around Mrs. Rafferty's till you're an old codger like meself, eh?"
"Looks that way." MacGregor signaled the barmaid for another pour.
"What about your house out on the Point?"
He shook his head. "The agent doesn't hold out much hope. Too neglected. He says no self-respecting woman would want to move in, the way it sits."
"What's wrong with it, lad?"
"Hell, I don't know. He says it 'doesn't show well.'" He shrugged. "I don't think the place has even been swept out since the carpenters finished up inside."
Again Bruce was struck by a pang of regret. Together he and Angela had walked the land, drawn up plans, and seen the outer stone walls go up. Two years later, the house still stood vacant, a silent monument to a shattered dream.
But the materials had been bought by the time the tragedy struck, and the laborers contracted for, so Bruce had gone ahead and finished it. Originally he'd planned to dispose of it and pour the proceeds back into his business. But no buyer had come along. The hurricane of 1811 had hurt a lot of people financially, and not long after, the nation had been plunged into war.