“Does he still feel that way now you are grown up?”
“He does, and is now justified as silver fox pelts are bringing in good money, more than he ever dreamed of.”
“What about your mother? Does she feel the same way?”
“Mama was sentimental, like me, but she would never go against Father's wishes.” Grace registered the past tense with a pang, but felt it inappropriate to offer condolences when she didn’t know when it happened. “She didn't like to anger him and hid her own feelings. She died trying not to bother him and slipped away before he noticed.”
“Is that why you chose shipping as a career instead of the family business?”
He nodded. “Ever since I was a boy I’ve always loved the sea and became fascinated with boats and ships of all kinds. I spent hours at the harbour watching them come in, using the money I earned from chores travelling back and forth on the ferry all day. The skippers knew me by name. When I left university in Halifax, I used an inheritance from my mother to buy a share in my first steamship. I’m now a partner in a few cargo vessels and I even own two leisure craft outright. It hasn't always been easy, especially when you take into account the Texas hurricane.”
“I've come across two people since I arrived here, both of whom lost relatives in that storm.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He nodded slowly. “One of my ferries was damaged beyond repair, which proved to me that nothing is certain in this life.” He released a long sigh and massaged his forehead with one hand before glancing up at the clock. “Goodness it's two in the morning. I cannot believe we’ve been here so long.”
Faint stubble had appeared on his chin since he first arrived, his usually immaculate hair in disarray from his hand repeatedly being pushed through it, the streak of silver loose and curled onto his forehead. His slightly dishevelled appearance stripped the years away, making him almost boyish, though she still didn’t know his age. Mid to late thirties maybe? Older?
“What about you?” His smile was warm and intense. “I cannot see you being like my mother, suppressing your dreams and intelligence beneath a veil of meek domesticity.”
“I did to some extent. It would have been harder still had I not been able to see through that veil to what beckoned me. It was what I held onto but made me more discontented as well. I’ve found it though, in the Grace and Favor.”
“You had to come to the other side of the world to do it.”
“I didn’t have to. I chose to. That way I didn’t have to keep looking over my shoulder. I only regret one thing.”
“Which is?”
“That I will never see the look on Angus MacKinnon’s face when he learned I was finally out of his reach.”
He laughed, the joyful, uninhibited laugh which knotted her insides.
Grace stared at her lap, giving herself time to formulate her next words. ‘Strangely, I don't mind talking about the MacKinnons with you. The only other person I feel so comfortable with is Aoife.”
“You feel at ease with me?”
“I do, yes. Which surprises me. We don’t know each other very well.”
“Thank you, because you, Mrs McKinnon, make me as nervous as a sixteen-year-old.”
“Why? I’m not as complicated as you imagine.”
“You’re still something of an enigma. Since our first meeting on the SS Parisian, you’ve occupied a good deal of my thoughts.” He braced his shoulders against the wall and eased his neck, oblivious of the effect his words had on her.
She fidgeted in her seat, telling herself he couldn't have meant what he said in the same way she heard it. He was simply being kind. She had not seen him at all during the week’s voyage from Liverpool. But then that wasn’t surprising since he travelled in First Class and she spent most of her time with Aoife in steerage.
“So tell me what the story is with Emily,” she began, mainly to hide the flush she could feel creeping up her neck. “Are you one of her former beau’s?”
“Good God, no!” Jardine straightened, turning shocked eyes on her. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
She shrugged. “Women’s instinct, perhaps?”
“Emily is an opportunist,” he said. “Though I’m, reluctant to tell stories about a woman. It smacks of ungentlemanly behavior.”
“I’ll not tell a soul. Though I’m someone who likes to know her enemies. If you have any weapons in your arsenal, I might be able to use, I would appreciate it.”
“You really are full of surprises aren’t you, Grace?” He chuckled, his gaze roving her face. “All right, because she does seem unsettled by your very presence. Emily came to the Island on a vacation four years ago as a lady’s companion to the middle-aged wife of a New York Banker.”
“Really?” Grace’s eyes widened. A Companion. No wonder Emily had wanted to reduce her to the status of a governess. “Do go on.”
“On meeting John, she discovered how wealthy he was and when the couple returned to New York, she stayed behind. She gave John Cahill a sob story about being abandoned and having no money, but when I made enquiries, the banker informed me Emily left them without notice and the wife, whose health was delicate, was distraught at losing her. There were also a few personal items missing from the mistresses’ luggage which Emily claimed to know nothing about.”
“Did you tell John Cahill that, or did you allow him to be deceived into being her rescuer?”
“I wrestled with the dilemma for a while but decided to tell him. He wasn’t at all shocked, nor even surprised. As I said before. He knows what he’s got with Emily. A few weeks later, he married her.”
“You disapprove?”
“Not exactly. He grimaced, as if the question was still under debate. “As long as John wasn’t under any illusions, it’s entirely his own business. My main problem is John is a dear and close friend, which means I’m often forced to spend time in Emily’s company being fawned over. I hate it, but John treats it like entertainment. Mary avoids her at every opportunity too as the woman is so false.” His laugh turned into a wide yawn and he eased his back against the seat. “I suppose they both made compromises, which if they make them happy, who am I to criticize?”
“You could say that’s true of us all,” Grace mused, recalling her own circumstances. “You look tired,” she said, more relieved by what he had said about Emily than she should be.
“I am, but then so must you be? You're a working woman these days, not a lady of leisure.”
“I'm all right.” She belied this statement with a yawn. “I'm not even hungry, although I haven't eaten since luncheon. I'm too worried about Isla.” The reason they were there came back to her with force. “They would come and tell us as soon as they know anything. Wouldn't they?”
“I do hope so, Grace.” His hand slid across the bench where her hand lay. He laced his fingers with hers and gripped her hand.
Grace dared not look at him, hoping to prolong the moment. If she met his gaze now, he might realize what he was doing and embarrassment would make him move away. At the same time her chest hurt with a truth she could not avoid. She loved this man, but he was lost to her. And worse, if Isla died, the pain would separate them forever.
The hours ticked by, during which the muscles in Grace's back cramped from sitting in the same position. Sister Conceptua brought them tea and toast at around six in the morning, which was received gratefully. The nun returned to collect their dirty plates just as a door at the far end of the hall opened and Dr Bateman emerged.
“Mr Jardine!” He strode briskly along the corridor towards them. His face grim.
“Oh no, please no,” Grace muttered under her breath, both hands gripped on the edge of the wooden bench on either side of her knees, aware of a vast empty space beside her as Andrew left his seat.
She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the doctor’s face was unreadable, his voice low and rapid. Andrew listened in silence, nodding now and then, his gaze on the floor.
With a final
nod he gave the doctor’s hand a firm shake. The doctor inclined his head, turned and strode away.
Andrew walked back slowly to where she sat - too slowly.
She squeezed her eyes shut, only aware that he bent over her when she felt his warm breath on her forehead.
Raising her head, she looked into his eyes, mere inches from hers.
“Her fever has broken, Grace,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s going to be all right.”
She exhaled a held breath and slouched forward, the tension draining from her tight muscles as she let the tears come.
He lowered himself onto the bench, his arms closing around her shoulders and pulled her sideways into his embrace, his weight pressed against her side as she sobbed gently.
She covered her face with both hands and whispered through her fingers. “I look terrible when I cry.”
“You could never look terrible. Distress makes you vulnerable, but so lovely.”
She swallowed a sob as fat tears squeezed between her eyelids and onto her skirt, leaving dark droplets on the pale fabric. “I could have been wrong about the serum. Then you might have lost her.”
“We can only be thankful for that and ignore the rest. There's nothing to be gained by 'what if's,’ Grace. You were right, the serum was her only real chance; I see that now. Without it she would certainly have died. I would never have blamed you for the outcome.”
She didn't quite believe him. In his place, would she have been quite so magnanimous if things had turned out differently? Would anyone?
“We must tell Mary.” Embarrassed, Grace pushed him away and swiped tears from her cheeks. As if on cue, Mary appeared from around the corner at a run. She looked refreshed after her rest, but her hair was awry and her gown a mass of creases. Grace realized for the first time what a crumpled, messy figure she must look, having huddled on the bench all night.
“Have you heard anything? How is she?” Mary grasped Andrew's shoulders as he rose to greet her, staring into his eyes with such pleading, Grace had to look away while he explained.
“It's good news. The antitoxin seems to have reduced the swelling. Isla's throat is no longer so badly constricted.”
“Then she'll be all right?” Mary asked, her eyes welling with tears.
“She has a way to go before they can call it a full recovery, but the doctor is pretty confident.”
“Oh, thank the Lord.” Mary buried her face in Andrew's shoulder, the lapels of his jacket gripped in her hands. “I've had the most terrible thoughts since last night. I was convinced we would lose her.”
Andrew stroked her back, whispering in her ear words Grace couldn't make out, but could imagine. Mary straightened, visibly recovering herself. She released her death grip on Andrew's jacket and took a step back. “Can we see her?” Her voice was strong and in command again.
“Dr Bateman said it would be all right for a few minutes. Though she isn't awake.”
“I don't care. I just want to see her.”
Andrew slid his arm around Mary's waist and led her toward the door Dr Bateman had disappeared through.
Forgotten, Grace turned away and slipped quietly through the main doors into a street waking up to a summer morning.
A tang of salt filled the air and seagulls called from the harbour a block away, while smaller birds chirruped in the trees lining the street as she strode back to Prince Street. Her eyes blurred with her own tears which she blinked back, thrilled that Isla would be well again, though a deeper sadness broke through her smile as she walked, causing a tightness in her chest. By the time she reached the hotel, she had decided to take up Maud's invitation to visit her in Cavendish.
A change of scenery was exactly what she needed.
Chapter 22
The MacNeill Farmhouse, Cavendish Village, Queens County
The buggy Grace hired to take her the ten miles from the station at Hunter River to Cavendish Village swayed precariously with each bump, the wheels juddering over deep dips in the soft earth.
“This red clay is easy to cut roads in but tough to travel on, Miss,” her driver declared cheerfully as the cart canted alarmingly to one side, sending clouds of red dust over her skirt from her knees down to her boots.
Despite the uncomfortable ride, the scenery was spectacular, with miles of verdant fields bordered by lush woods, the verges bursting with wildflowers while birds wheeled and dived overhead beneath a clear sky.
“The McNeill farmhouse, Miss.” The driver nodded at a lone clapboard building behind a picket fence in an almost deserted road. A plain, utilitarian building which doubled as the Cavendish Post Office, it fitted with Maud’s description of her stern grandparents, its stark rooflines softened by the summer foliage of the nearby trees.
After assisting her to the ground, the driver circled the cart and retrieved her bag from the flatbed, setting it down on the road before leaping back onto the seat. With a final backward wave, he turned the cart full circle in the road and headed back the way he came. Grace watched him disappear in a cloud of dust, hoping he would remember to return and take her back to the station on the following day.
She paused at the gate, both hands braced in the small of her back to ease her sore muscles just as the door of the house opened and Maud approached at a run.
“You’re here at last!” She encircled Grace with both arms, threatening to throw her off balance. “I've been waiting all morning for you to arrive. Was it a truly horrible journey?”
“Not really,” Grace lied, summoning a smile. “Only the last part, but more than worth it to see you.” The prospect of enduring it all again tomorrow loomed but she pushed it away. “I was sure we would get lost as there were so few road signs, but the driver found his way by using schoolhouses as markers.”
“That's because there are over four hundred of them so you are rarely far from one.” Maud tucked one arm through hers, hefted Grace’s bag into her other hand and led her through the main post office. The room held a desk on which a scale sat to weigh letters. Behind it hung a bank of wooden pigeonholes into which the mail was sorted. They were all empty now as the thoughts and news of the writers had been distributed to be pored over with their breakfast oats and tea.
“Come into the kitchen. It's cosy in there and we can sit and eat while we share our news. Not that I have much news.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Grace asked, removing her hat, which Maud took from her and placed on a hook by the door.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, you are my guest. Besides, it’s all prepared.” She flitted about the room as she talked, collecting cups and plates from the wooden dresser which she arranged on the neat table.
Maud had taken some trouble with luncheon; prettily dressed dishes of cold meats, sliced tomatoes, cheeses, and freshly baked bread had been put together with much thought and were perfect for such a hot day.
“I’ll take a plate in to Grandmother when we’ve eaten,” she said in response to Grace’s question about the health of her maternal grandparent. “She finds this weather tiring. And to be honest, I've looked forward to your coming so much, I don’t intend to share you.”
Leaving her to it, Grace wandered to the writing table, the surface empty except for a pristine notebook and pencil.
Attached to the wall above the desk was a photograph of a girl, her soft features in profile, and a flower pinned above her ear. “Who is this?” Grace traced the girl's face with a finger. “Is she someone you know?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Maud came to stand beside her, wiping her hands on a cloth. “She’s an actress called Evelyn Nesbit. I cut that picture from an American magazine. I'm using her as my muse for Anne.”
“Anne who?” Grace frowned, then memory returned, and she gasped. “Oh, Maud, you're writing your novel?”
“I am, and since the McNeill’s and Campbell’s have left me to my own devices this summer, I cannot tell you how glad I am to be set free to write, stroll to al
l my favorite places and dream. Anne has become quite the chatterbox. I can barely get all her thoughts down before they dance away again on the wind. On other days she's infuriatingly silent, then she will wake me in the middle of the night and I have to light a candle and scribble it all down on paper before it flies right out of my head.”
“Tell me how you see her.”
“She's an orphan, brought up in an orphanage in Newfoundland, or maybe New Brunswick, I haven't decided.” Maud dragged out a chair and perched on the edge, the cloth draped across her lap “A child who is homely looking apart from the rich color of her hair, which is like fall leaves. Her head is full of contradictory and yet profound thoughts which will enchant or infuriate everyone around her. She has a unique ability to make people see everyday things differently, her unhappy past concealed beneath a veil of optimism.”
“I would love to read it.” At Maud's start, she added, “Not until you’ve finished it, naturally.”
“That's the problem. I never quite know when it's truly finished.”
“When you’re a published author, I shall be the first to buy a copy and ask you to sign the flyleaf for me.”
“You are more optimistic than I, Grace.” Maud sighed. “Sometimes I feel Anne’s story will never be shared with anyone.”
“Have more faith in yourself. You’ve already achieved some success. This book might be the next step.”
“I hope so.” Maud discarded the cloth with a smile. “Even as a child I felt that no matter what my obstacles were, I had a capacity for success. As an orphan yourself, you must have felt the same on occasion, Grace?” She posed the question without false sympathy and a genuine interest in the answer.
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