by Carla Kelly
She put the deed to her lips, wishing she knew what lay ahead, and then grateful that she did not. From somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered something old Lord Thomson had told her. In one tiny, indiscreet moment, she had complained to him about her sterile life, where nothing happened and nothing would. He had only nodded and told her of a Spanish proverb: ‘“Patience, and shuffle the cards”, my dear,’ he had said. ‘None of us knows what lies ahead.’
She stared at the ceiling, wondering what it was about her that had appealed to Rob Inman. He knew all her deficiencies and shortcomings. He had taken her scolds and nags in his stride, amused by them almost, as though he was humouring her. Maybe it was something only he could see. She would have to ask him some day.
* * *
Rob was standing in the sitting room, rocking back on his heels, watching the snow fall. He clasped and unclasped his hands, and she could imagine him standing just like that on a quarterdeck. She would have preferred a man who stayed at home and didn’t require the world’s oceans to earn his bread, but as inexplicable as choosing him had been, equally hard to understand was why people did what they did. She would love him no matter what.
‘I love you,’ she whispered.
The words came out of her mouth so softly that she could barely hear them, but he turned around and smiled.
‘I told you I have the best hearing of anyone on the
Orontes,’ he reminded her. He held out his arms.
She would have walked into his embrace without a qualm, but a shadow stopped her: one shadow, then another through the storm.
Rob stepped back from the window, alert. ‘Let Emery get the door, Gracie. It’s just Lord Thomson coming to wish us a Happy Christmas.’
‘That’s a crock,’ she muttered, angry at herself to look down and see her hands balled into fists.
Rob briefly covered her hands with his. ‘You’re more protective than a mother cat,’ he told her. ‘It’s Christmas. We are here together—parolee and, um, parolee-keeper—obeying every jot and tittle of Lord Thomson’s conditions.’
When Lord Thomson came into the sitting room, Rob stood up and held out his hand, which the marquis ignored. Standing right behind his employer, Nahum Smathers glowered at them both, which sent little armies of gooseflesh marching down Grace’s back.
‘Happy Christmas, Lord Thomson,’ Rob said, withdrawing his hand. ‘I truly hope it is a good season for you and Lady Thomson.’
It was quietly said. Lord Thomson pressed his lips tight. Grace couldn’t overlook the red flush that rose from his neck, bloomed on his cheeks and passed on to his scalp, with its thinning hair. The marquis looked at her, or tried to. Rob deliberately stepped between her and Lord Thomson, as though he had the power to protect her. You brave, foolish man, she thought, taking heart from his own courage, which seemed almost second nature.
‘I have a word for Grace Curtis,’ the marquis said.
I can be brave, too, she thought. ‘My lord?’
Some tiny spark within her was suddenly weary of men like the marquis, who thought themselves superior, simply because they were born with pedigrees they had not earned. Even Sir Barnabas Tutt, butcher and landowner, had worked hard for his title. In the short second while Lord Thomson tried to stare her down, Grace saw clearly Sir Barnabas’s superiority over this fool.
‘It is merely this,’ the marquis said, slapping his gloves from one hand to the other. ‘I have no intention of paying you one groat of that thirty pounds until that infamous will has been in effect for a year.’
‘And Happy New Year to you,’ Rob said, amused.
‘I have sufficient for my needs, my lord,’ Grace replied, feeling calm in that odious man’s presence because she found herself looking at him through new eyes. You, sir, are the toady, she thought. Rob Inman is worth ten of you and so am I. Why did I never see that before?
Perhaps her face was too expressive; Rob had said as much. Never mind, though—Lord Thomson’s gaze was directed over her shoulder, where a portrait—and not a good one—used to hang, before his spite landed it in some dark corner of Quarle’s attic. What a small man he was.
Smathers was looking at her and she returned his gaze, determined not to let him frighten her. There was nothing in the curl of his lip to indicate anything but animosity. If she hadn’t already weighed his character and found it wanting, she might have thought she saw a grudging admiration in his eyes. No matter—she was likely wrong. All she wanted now was for the two unwelcome guests in the dower house to quit it.
‘Don’t let us take any more of your valuable time on this most blessed of holidays, when people generally try to think well of each other,’ Grace said, her voice as serene as she could make it, because she knew Rob Inman had her back. The reality of his love seemed to bloom before her with all its promise. She need never fear anyone, since Rob Inman had chosen her. ‘In fact, let me show you out, my lord.’
What could he do but leave? She held out her hand graciously, indicating the door to the sitting room, imagining herself ushering out an unwelcome guest at her home—her home and Rob’s home—on Orange Street in Nantucket. He had described it to her in detail, so she could almost see the highly polished floor of fir, the rag rug in front of the fireplace, and the high-backed chairs with cushions Elaine
had made.
Lord Thomson looked her in the eyes then, and she took an involuntary step back. There was no disguising his dislike. I pray I will never strain so hard over thirty pounds, she told herself, as she refused to let him ruffle her new-found equanimity.
It gave her enough courage to put her hand briefly on Smathers’s arm as he turned to follow his master into the snow.
‘Mr Smathers, did you deliver a letter to the dower house yesterday, while we were all at the bakery?’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘You must have given Emery the slip.’
‘It’s not a hard thing to do, Miss Curtis,’ he replied, not giving her an inch. He turned to face her, his hand on the doorknob and Lord Thomson calling to him, demanding his presence. ‘Yes, I took a letter into your bookroom.’
‘It was money from Mr Selway, who—’
‘The elusive Mr Selway, who dodged you in Exeter, a few months ago.’
She couldn’t help her intake of breath. Had he followed them to Exeter? Was he that clever?
Smathers seemed to read her mind. ‘Don’t attempt a deep game with me,’ he told her. ‘You will lose.’
He looked over her shoulder and she knew Rob was behind her now. He executed a mocking bow. ‘Happy Christmas to you both. May I give you some New Year’s advice?’
‘We can hardly wait,’ Rob said.
‘Captain Duncan, there is a Chinese saying, “If you are ignorant both of your enemy and yourself, you are certain to be in peril”.’ Smathers turned into the wind without another word.
‘Bastard,’ Rob said, settling his hand on her shoulder after she closed the door with more force than she should have.
Grace leaned against him, relishing the feeling of a man’s strength to protect her from the Ugly Butlers of the world. ‘He knows something about Mr Selway.’
‘He just wants to frighten you,’ Rob said.
He’s doing a very good job then, Grace told herself as she turned the key in the lock.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Her world changed again four days later. Grace knew she would always remember the moment, because she was cutting gingerbread men and idly dreaming of doing precisely that in her own Nantucket bakery. She was beyond the point of scolding herself for her extravagant daydreaming. Things had changed.
She worked alone, content, because she found solitary biscuit-making soothing. Rob and Mrs Wilson were talking in the back room, and Mr Wilson had taken the day’s supply of doughnuts to the coffee house. Apparently Quimby’s usual bakery-shop patrons were still recovering from Christmas, because the shop was empty.
It was just as well. She couldn’t hear what Mrs Wilson and Rob we
re talking about, but she heard him laugh from time to time, which pleased her. He had spent a good portion of the past few nights after work just standing at the sitting-room window, hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring into the darkness.
‘I’ve been too long away from home,’ was all he would say, when she asked him. Generally he ended up with his arms tight around her, but she couldn’t reach that deep core of sadness inside him, a captive American yearning for liberty. No wonder her heart lifted to hear him joking with Mrs Wilson, whom no one ever accused of being a jolly sort. Even she was trying to lift his spirits.
She was considering the merits of blue versus red piping on the gingerbread men when Mr Wilson ran into the shop, out of breath and panting.
‘Mr Wilson?’
Mr Wilson, who never hurried anywhere, bent over until he could breathe, then straightened up and held out the latest broadside from Exeter.
‘Belgium,’ he managed to gasp.
‘Belgium?’ she repeated, mystified, taking the paper he was waving at her. She scanned the article, which occupied most of the broadside’s front. Her breath came more rapidly, too, as she understood what it all meant. The war was over. Diplomats from England and the United States had signed a peace treaty on Christmas Eve in Ghent, Belgium.
‘Rob?’ she called. ‘Rob!’
He came into the room, concern in his eyes, and his hands balled into fists. ‘Grace?’
She waved the newspaper in front of him, much as Mr Wilson had done to her. Rob grasped her hand to stop the frantic motion and read the article, a slow smile crossing his lips. He read it over again, savouring it even more than she did. When Rob finished, he sighed, as though he had been holding his breath for two years, then took her in his arms.
Grace gladly held him close, eager to press against his chest and rest her head there. His heart was hammering at a rapid rate. ‘It’s over, Rob, it’s over,’ she murmured.
Mrs Wilson read the paper she had pried from Rob’s grasp, devouring each word. Rob held Grace off for a long look, then kissed her.
Mrs Wilson observed them, something close to triumph in her eyes. ‘High time,’ was all she said. Whether she meant the peace or the kiss, Grace neither knew nor cared.
Mr Wilson managed a huge sigh of his own and looked at Grace. ‘I suppose you will be giving me your notice soon and asking for a glowing character,’ he said, trying to sound stern and failing. ‘Taking your doughnut receipt with you, Captain?’ he asked Rob.
The sailing master put his other arm around Mr Wilson. ‘Sir, you will have the sole claim to Yankee Doodle Doughnuts in England. Let the imitators beat a path to your door.’
Rob looked out of the window then, a frown creasing his forehead when he saw Nahum Smathers standing in his usual place across the street. It had begun to rain, but he took the newspaper from Mrs Wilson and darted out of the door before Grace could stop him.
She watched him, a smile on her face, which froze when she realised he wasn’t to so much as budge out of doors in Quimby without her accompanying him. ‘Ro…Captain,’ she said, following him. ‘Wait!’
She saw Emery leave his spot several shops down by the elm tree, making for Rob, too, as though to stop him before he reached Smathers, whose expression of surprise turned to something she could not interpret. She ran as both Smathers and Emery moved towards Rob, bent on gloating over the news at the Ugly Butler’s expense.
She wasn’t sure what happened then. In his own excitement to collar Rob Inman, Smathers stepped in front of Emery, tripping the man. Both men went down, Smathers coming up swearing and Emery looking around in surprise, shaking his head to clear it.
‘You’re a brave man to trip an old fellow,’ Grace said to Smathers, sitting in the middle of the street with a look of real distaste on his face to see her arm linked through Rob’s now, tugging him back to the bakery.
Rob didn’t go quietly, but waved the paper in front of Smathers’s face as he sat there fuming. ‘It’s over, Smathers. Just a matter of time now before a bunch of us show a clean pair of heels to your puny island.’
‘You think so?’ Smathers said, every word bitten off and spit out. ‘Think again, fool.’
Rob just smiled. As Grace helped Emery to his feet, Rob released the newspaper to let it float down into Smathers’s lap.
‘It’s over,’ he repeated. ‘Get used to it and look for another job, Smathers. Someone besides Lord Thomson must need a skulker. You’re eminently qualified.’
He turned on his heel.
‘If he was an enemy before, he is a bigger one now,’ Grace whispered, watching Smathers. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
He shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? He’ll be a mere memory soon.’ He looked over his shoulder and held out his hand to Emery. ‘Are you all right, old fellow?’
‘Just my dignity,’ Emery muttered. ‘Will Smathers go away now, do you think?’
‘We can hope.’
* * *
Once the news was out, everyone in Quimby seemed to find an excuse to visit the bakery. Lady Tutt even came by with her own copy of the paper, ready to explain to anyone who would listen that the terms of the treaty—status quo ante bellum—meant that any land or property acquired during the course of the struggle would revert to its respective side, restoring all to life before the war.
Rob could be generous, even with Lady Tutt, which warmed Grace’s heart. He listened to her officious explanation, nodding gravely. ‘That’s a load off my mind.’
‘Perhaps you can advise your president not to attack Canada again. It’s for his own good, mind.’
‘Next time I see him, Lady Tutt,’ Rob said, which satisfied the woman.
* * *
Dinner was a quiet affair. Emery had a limp, so Grace made him bathe his foot in warm water and Epsom salts while she prepared the simple meal. ‘Your little contretemps with that odious Smathers was a timely reminder to Captain Duncan of the danger of attempting anything rash before we hear from Mr Selway,’ she told the former yardman, as she peeled carrots. ‘We cannot be too careful.’
‘I dare say we cannot,’ Emery agreed, wiggling his foot and wincing. ‘I shouldn’t leave my foot in Epsom salts during dinner, Grace,’ he said.
Grace laughed. ‘Lady Tutt would not approve, but we are a little more ramshackle here at Chez Dower House!’
* * *
Rob’s exuberance had turned introspective by nightfall. He continued his perusal of the darkness outside the sitting-room window as Grace knitted. He stopped his pacing and looked at her. ‘Everything as it was before the war, eh? Then Captain Duncan would be alive and the Orontes would be sailing to the Caribbean for sugar cane.’ He shook his head. ‘I wonder, my love, if everyone—winners and losers—feels this way when a war is over. I feel so sad.’
Grace put down her knitting . He sat beside her and took her in his arms. He kissed her, then nuzzled her neck, which made her sigh and raise her chin so he could do a more thorough exploration.
‘There’s a hawthorn tree outside my bedroom window on Nantucket,’ he murmured, his hand on her breast now. ‘In the spring, blossoms cover the bed, if the wind blows.’
‘And this is apropos of what?’ she managed to say, as she unbuttoned her dress, suddenly glad this morning that she had decided to wear the dress that buttoned down the front.
‘Nothing. I just thought of it,’ he said as his hand went inside her dress and he caressed her breast with gentle fingers, then with his lips. ‘Gracie, you’re so soft.’
‘Very glad to know that,’ she said. Nothing but her own desire made her arch her back then, giving him more room to explore both breasts. Warmth and heaviness seemed to be gathering between her legs now in a way that was pleasant and frustrating at the same time. He wasn’t even touching her there yet, but she wanted him to. Grace, the man has only two hands, she thought, and it made her smile.
He looked at her, his eyes bright. ‘What’s so funny?’
Someh
ow, her dress had been pushed up to her hips and she was lying on the sofa now. ‘I was thinking of those Indian statues—you know, the ones with four hands.’
He laughed. ‘You’re a rascal.’
‘Who knew?’
‘I did. You’re irresistible.’ He was unbuttoning his trousers now. ‘Gracie, my love and my wife—as soon as possible—prepare to be impressed.’ He laughed softly. ‘Or not. Does it matter?’
He stopped, alert. ‘Damn. Emery.’ He stood up, buttoning his trousers, as her hands went to her own buttons. ‘I’ll just stand at the fireplace with my back to the door and gaze into the flames. Men in high blood aren’t too subtle.’
She felt her face flame red, grateful, at least, that his nuzzling had been confined to her breast, and not her face, where whisker burn would be hard to ignore. She stood up and shook down her dress, then reached for her knitting, which had ended up halfway across the room. She put on her calmest face as Emery entered, even though her heart pounded in her recently explored chest.
‘Grace—oh, Captain, I didn’t know you were still up.’
She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t require Rob’s full attention.
Rob nodded, from his position in front of the fireplace. ‘Just winding the clock,’ he said. ‘D’ye need me for something?’
‘Not at the moment.’ Emery held out a letter to her. ‘I found this just inside the front door.’ He winked at her. ‘Maybe a secret admirer?’