by Barbara Dan
As Wayne guided the tired looking horse away from the curb, Lydia sank gratefully into the cushions and closed her eyes. Between her harrowing voyage and the baby kicking, she suddenly felt as if she had barely survived a punching match.
* * *
When she arrived at the MacGregors' stone "castle," she awoke with a start as they entered the port-cochêre outside the kitchen. Entering quietly, she found Alice Graham, Patience Harms, and Sarah Mullens bustling about, preparing breakfast for a small army. Despite the summer weather, the hearth was in full use, its slow cook fire radiating heat, and the delicious aroma of cinnamon cookies and porridge drifted in the air.
Lydia, who hadn't eaten , suddenly felt ravenous.
"Good morning, everyone!" she said, smiling.
Sarah looked up, nearly dropping a tray of cookies. "Mrs. MacGregor!"
"Lydia—oh, thank God, you made it home safely!" Alice Graham rushed to embrace her.
After she had given and received hugs and kisses all around, Lydia turned to embrace a bevy of young women who streamed into the kitchen, attracted by all the commotion. She never knew she had so many friends!
"My goodness, what a rousing welcome!" She laughed breathlessly. "How is everyone?"
"Never better," said Sarah. "Did Josiah tell you?
Lydia shook her head. "No, what?"
"We're getting married next month! Papa finally agreed."
"Josiah is a fine man," Lydia said, genuinely pleased.
Next it was Alice's turn to play inquisitor. "Where's Captain MacGregor? My husband is most anxious to meet with him."
"No doubt they will run into each other at the waterfront," said Lydia. "Bruce captured a large number of prisoners that need to be turned over to Colonel Rathbun." Suddenly it dawned on her that Alice must have known all along where her husband had gone. All her guilt had been for naught. Ah, well, the best kept secrets!
As the baby flexed, causing a slight twinge, she pressed the heel of her palm against her stomach, and instantly another cat slipped out of the bag, as every eye fastened on her thickened waistline.
Prudence Harms blurted out, "Why, ma'am! You're in a family way!"
Frankly amused by their shocked expressions, Lydia calmly patted her stomach to acknowledge her baby's rambunctious ways. "Yes. Very active, like his father."
Patience came forth with a brimming cup of tea and a plate of plump raisin cookies.
"Thank you." Lydia helped herself and offered the plate to Wayne, who made short work of a dozen cookies. Finally having caught up on the latest news, she excused herself, gesturing to her baggy clothes. "I need to freshen up."
"I'll send up hot water," Alice said.
Slipping away from her friends, Lydia paused to speak a word of greeting to the men on cots in the dining room. The odor of disinfectant soap and carbolic acid smelled heavenly, after Halifax Citadel and life aboard a codfish schooner. Never again would she complain, she vowed.
Recalling that Bruce would soon be home, she sent word to the kitchen for Wayne to join her in the parlor at once.
"I have something very special I need you to help me with," she told him and outlined her plan. It wouldn't be easy, amidst such bedlam, but she knew where she and Bruce could spend a quiet evening together.
* * *
Her errand with Wayne completed, Lydia was halfway up the stairs when Dr. Trowbridge caught up with her. "Young lady! I just learned from Miss Prudence that you were home. Why, if I'd had even the slightest inkling—"
"Please, Doctor," Lydia said wearily. "My husband has delivered all the lectures I can stand, and not nearly as politely as you."
"Well, I'm glad you're back, and none the worse for wear," he said in a gentler tone.
Lydia glanced down at her rumpled shirt. "I see you haven't lost your sense of humor," she grinned. "I look dreadful!"
"You look radiant," he argued gallantly. "I must tell you, Mrs. MacGregor, from the moment the rumors first began to fly, everyone has been praying for your safe return."
"Oh, dear!" Lydia's eyes widened with alarm. "Then the whole town knows? I doubt I shall ever live this down!"
"There are worse things than being called a patriot." Dr. Trowbridge beamed at her, before resuming his role as her medical advisor. "But that doesn't mean I approve. The risk to you and the baby—"
"We are in fine fettle, I assure you." Lydia's eyes sparkled. "In fact, I was just on my way upstairs to rest."
"Just what I would have prescribed. Now you hop into bed and stay off your feet for the next week," he advised.
She patted his whiskered old cheek. "You remind me so much of my father."
She trudged upstairs and, finding her bath waiting, shucked her rough seaman's garb. She sprinkled handfuls of rose petals in the hot water, and then, taking a volume of poetry from her nightstand, she slipped into the luxurious warmth of her bath with a delicious sigh. What lovely plans she had for Bruce this evening!
* * *
After loitering around on deck most of the morning, Bruce was relieved when Colonel Rathbun finally showed up. "Graham told me you'd be bringing in a load of prisoners," Rathbun said with a hearty handshake.
"Come aboard, sir. You're welcome to them."
Together they watched the soldiers go below to round up prisoners. "You and your wife are fast becoming a legend," Rathbun said. "A few months ago, I confess I would never have suspected her of such patriotic fervor."
"I never doubted her loyalties, Colonel," Bruce chuckled, "but when she stormed Halifax Prison, I admit she caught me by surprise."
"No doubt." Rathbun's eyes twinkled with merriment. "Bruce, I wonder if you might share your ideas for improving the town's defenses."
Bruce ran a hand over the back of his neck. He didn't wish to appear reluctant, but he had more pressing matters to attend, namely his wife. "You mean, now?"
Rathbun clapped him on the back. "Lord, man, I'm not in that big a hurry! I know you're anxious to get home to your sweet little bride. How about tomorrow?" With a wink, he touched the brim of his hat and he and his men marched the prisoners back to Fort Trumbull.
* * *
By the time Bruce wrapped up his business, a splash of crimson was already painting the westering sky. A sense of uneasiness dogged his steps as he wandered into Harris's warehouse. All afternoon he endured interruptions by seamen stopping by to praise his virtuous wife for her many kindnesses. This happened so often that Bruce had begun to wonder what else she had done that he hadn't heard about yet.
"Had a hard day, lad?" Robbie Harris asked.
"The absolute worst."
Harris studied the tall Scot standing in his office, arms akimbo and a scowl on his face. If ever he saw a storm brewing, 'twas the one facing him now. "Bruce, a lot's happened since you sailed out of here last December," he said.
"Aye, so it appears." Bruce nodded. "I understand you helped my wife find the Isobella, and then gave her damn near everything she needed to sail it into Halifax."
"Always glad to help out a friend," Robbie chuckled.
Harris knows more than he's telling, Bruce thought, trying to read the twinkle in his friend's faded blue eyes. "What else has my wife been up to? You might as well spill it."
"Well, you have several—er, house guests, you might call 'em."
"House guests!" Damn! Had Lydia moved a bunch of relatives in on him? "And me about to walk in the door like this." He indicated his bedraggled appearance.
Robbie clucked his tongue disparagingly. "Ye could stand a wee bit of sprucing up."
"Where can I get a bath and a haircut at this hour?" Bruce groaned, for the barber shop had closed hours ago.
"You're welcome to stop by my place," Robbie Harris offered. "We still have a few of your things, an' I daresay the missus can find you a spare razor."
Knowing it would never do to set foot in a house full of company, looking the way he did, Bruce agreed. "Let's go then. I'd like to get home at a decent hour."
> "By all means, lad, by all means." Harris began to lock up. "Come along. We'll get you fit for company in no time."
By the time Bruce had bathed and trimmed his side whiskers, his outlook had mellowed considerably. A generous helping of Mrs. Harris's steak and kidney pie filled his belly, and the Harris children, excited to have a "real hero" at the dinner table, hung on his every word.
His spirits well fortified, he mounted the horse Robbie had lent him and headed out Ocean Avenue. Ready to beard the lioness in her den.
Sure enough, the house was ablaze with lights when he arrived. Music and laughter floated through the open windows onto the verandah. His wife, it seemed, had lost no time inviting in the neighbors to welcome him home.
Aye, that Harris is a crafty soul, trying to draw old Bruce off the scent, he thought.
Touched by this proof of his wife's fond regard, Bruce trooped up the front steps and into the vestibule, fully expecting a party. Instead, what he found was . . . his house, converted into a field hospital! Standing in the parlor entrance, he surveyed row upon row of military cots. More than a dozen wounded men lay about the room in various stages of recovery, attended by young women in primly starched dresses and aprons.
The place reeked to high heaven of strong medicines and lye soap, although, by and large, it was a peaceful, well ordered scene that met his eye. In one corner, a checker game was in progress, and a few men, able to sit up, were conversing with their nurses and each other.
In the dining room, a few ambulatory patients were gathered around the piano, which he himself had installed for his wedding. They were singing sentimental ballads and patriotic hymns.
Bruce was still a silent spectator when Prudence Harms walked up behind him. "Captain MacGregor," she exclaimed. "Welcome home, sir." Impulsively she rose on tiptoe, giving him a peck on the cheek.
"Miss Harms," he acknowledged. "What's going on here?"
"Oh, didn't you know?" she gushed. "Mrs. MacGregor invited all our sick and wounded sailors to stay here till they're fully recovered."
Bruce's mind was mellowed just enough by Robbie's whiskey that it took a few seconds for all this to register. "How . . . how long has all this been going on?" he asked, letting Miss Harms steer him into the library, where a similar scene greeted him.
"For months and months," Prudence said cheerfully. "We have more patients upstairs."
"More," he echoed hollowly.
"The ladies who serve as volunteers live on the third floor, of course."
"I see." Bruce shook her gently off his arm. "Thank you for showing me around, Miss Harms," he said with what he felt was remarkable self-control. "I think I've seen enough." Again he glanced about, thinking that a man in a rowboat hit by a tidal wave could not feel more dismayed.
He trudged heavily upstairs, letting his wife's latest surprise sink in. Where had she found the time and the energy to rescue him, with all this going on? When he left in December, he had hoped the house would keep her occupied. But this? Great God Almighty! It was a wonder his hair didn't turn white with the shock.
Reaching the master bedroom, Bruce pressed his ear to the door. All quiet inside. He smiled tenderly, thinking of her delicate condition. Poor darling needed her proper rest. He would just slip into bed without disturbing her. There would be plenty of time to lay down the law in the morning.
There was only one problem with his plan: Lydia wasn't in bed.
Bruce lit the lamp and surveyed the massive fourposter. A man's brand new velvet robe and slippers was laid out on the tidy counterpane, along with a note. Wondering what further mystery awaited him, he held her note to the light and read her flowing script:
"Bruce, my love,
Please join me on the housetop,
away from all the distractions.
—Lydia"
Giving pursuit, Bruce snatched up the robe and charged down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The ladder groaned beneath his weight, as he swiftly climbed the last few steps to the rooftop and widow's walk. He stuck his head through the doorway and saw the night sky. Lights in the house below made all but a few stars invisible.
For a second, he wondered if he were in the right place. Then he heard the swift rustle of a woman's perfumed gown behind him. He spun around in time to hear the door close behind him and a heavy bolt slide shut, barring retreat.
Two soft arms encircled his neck, pulling his face down for a warm kiss.
"Lydia?" he whispered against her lips.
"You don't recognize your own wife?" she teased.
"So this is your secret hideout," he chuckled. "The rest of the 'castle' appears to be under siege." Taking her hands, Bruce raised her fingertips to his lips. "I got your note and came at once. Thank you for the slippers and robe. They're beautiful."
"Put the robe on for me, Bruce," she urged, her fingers already working the buttons on his shirt. Happy to oblige, he let her slip the crisp linen from his broad shoulders. She watched eagerly as he slipped into the rich maroon velvet, smoothing her hands over his shoulders to check the fit, and then stepped back with a pleased smile.
"Oh, Bruce, it's just the way I envisioned it!"
"But how did you know what size to make it?" he asked. Rarely had he found a seamstress who didn't throw up her hands in defeat after trying to fit a man of his height and build.
"You left a few articles of clothing behind, which I used to make patterns," she explained, adding with a twinkle, "Often I had to rely on memory," and Lydia demonstrated how many spans of her tiny hands she measured from the nape of his neck to his waist. She stood on tiptoe and showed where she came to on him. "You see?" She smiled mischievously.
"You seem to have taken my measure with astonishing accuracy." Bruce smiled.
Lydia stared boldly down at his lower parts in the dim light. "My memory served me so well that I made you a complete new wardrobe. Tomorrow I'll show you. Waistcoats, coats, and shirts, in assorted colors. Yes, and I made you trousers, very comfortable, yes, and two woolen sweaters."
Rocking back on his heels, Bruce stared at her in amazement. "You did all this for me?"
"I spun the wool myself from carded wool brought in by wagon from Worcester," she bragged, clasping her hands behind her back. "I wove most of the material myself, too."
"How did you manage all that, along with making baby clothes and caring for a house full of invalids?"
Lydia shrugged. "I haven't made any baby clothes yet. But my husband cannot go about with patches, missing buttons, and a tear in his stocking." She shook an admonishing finger at him. "You know how people talk!"
"I'm sure they'll say MacGregor's quite the dandy, when they see me all rigged out." Deeply moved, he drew her into his arms.
Lydia ran her hands over the velvet lapels of his robe. "Better to make them jealous, than have them say I neglect my husband."
"But you will make the wee tyke some clothes?" His brows knit together worriedly.
"I have some fine wool set aside. I’m sure I'll find a spare moment or two before summer's end." Lydia rose on tiptoe to tickle his neck with her tongue.
"See that you do, wife," Bruce counseled, laying on a touch of his Scottish burr. He cradled her soft womanly curves against him in a slow rocking motion, his nose buried in her perfumed hair.
For the longest time, they stood contentedly gazing out toward the Sound together. A few miles out, stern lights from the Ramillies and the Narcissus reflected across the water, ghostly reminders of how near the threat of invasion lurked. Yet here on the stone turret of their house, Lydia and Bruce felt far removed from the strife.
"So my golden-haired princess looks down from the ramparts, awaiting the return of her bungling husband from the wars," Bruce chuckled. His fingers lightly brushed her slender throat and trailed down her arms, caressing the silky negligée she wore.
"My hero," she whispered, gazing up at him with adoring eyes. "You have conquered my heart."
In time, t
he lights and noises of the house subsided below, and the stars formed a canopy overhead. Out of long habit, Bruce took a sighting, tracking the constellations, until he came to Cygnus. It hung in the sky like a benediction.
He kissed her, and she sighed softly, then slipped away into the shadows. The scratch of a flint sent sulfur wafting on the breeze, and then a taper flared, bringing her ripening figure into sharper definition. She bent to light several fat candles arranged on a pewter tray supported by a flat granite pedestal. A relish tray of fruit and cheese stood nearby.
"There!" she said cheerfully. "Our little love nest."
The rooftop now brightly aglow, Bruce discovered several thick mattresses piled atop each other on the stone floor. The bed she had prepared looked soft and inviting, covered with geometrically busy quilts and two long bolsters braced in the corner, with several large pillows encased in gleaming satin. Such careful preparations spoke volumes about the woman now beckoning him to her side.
"Ah, Lydia," he breathed, bewitched nearly out of his mind with desire. "You make me forget everything but my incredible need for you."
Giving him a mysterious smile, she reclined upon a colorful background of deep rich patchwork fabrics. Her pale green negligée spread about her; her pale body glowed in the candlelight like a delicate butterfly resting in a bright bed of posies. She patted the space beside her. "Perhaps you'll decide never more to roam."
"I'd like that, truly I would," he said, stepping closer. He noticed that Lydia was becoming quite adept at exhibiting her extraordinary charms. Her breasts rose and fell beneath her diaphanous gown, the rosy nipples already aroused. Arching sensuously, she tossed her head, so that her flaxen hair spread like a fan over the pillows behind her. She rolled on her side, preening before him with a knowing smile. Bruce had never seen her quite so sure of herself, and he delighted in the blossoming of her femininity.
"Whatever you desire shall be yours," she promised, gesturing for him to join her.