by Lorri Dudley
“You need to give your father a…”
A fat tear slipped from her eyes and landed on the fingers that held her wrist.
Harrison glanced at his hand. With his other, he tipped her face up to look at him.
“Blast.” He released her wrist, and she turned her whole body away from him. He countered by sliding his chair around to face her.
She squeezed her eyes tight, as if doing so would stop the torrent of waterworks fighting for release. He sat there with his knees lightly brushing the outside of her legs. The slight touch unnerved her, and caused a strange coiling and uncoiling sensation within her stomach. What was he waiting for? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? The familiar rush of anger welled up, and she opened her eyes.
Relief flooded Harrison when he caught the glint of wrath behind Georgia’s despair. Anger he could handle, but tears undid him. A smile tugged his mouth, and he softened his voice to a rolling purr. “There’s my girl.” The glimpse of angry hurt in her eyes made him think perhaps she wasn’t an opportunist.
Georgia’s haughty behavior must be a defense mechanism. He saw that now. She was protecting herself from pain. She must have suffered a deep loss when her father left. Harrison recognized it, because he’d built similar walls. “I’ll give you credit. You’ve got fight in you. It’s what’s gotten you through, isn’t it?”
She didn’t respond.
“Anger can fuel you, but it won’t ever fill you. When it’s spent, you’ll be left empty.” He cradled the side of her face, using his thumb to wipe away the wet track of a fallen tear.
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you know.” He dropped his hand back into his lap. “My wife was murdered.”
He paused when her lips parted with a delicate intake of breath.
The words had startled her, but he could tell from her expression that she already knew. His stomach soured, not toward Georgia, but at life in general. All that remained of his vibrant Laura was juicy gossip.
The dark cloud of memories threatened, but he forced himself to continue. Maybe his story could help Georgia. “I wanted revenge on the men who did it. I wanted them to die. They destroyed my life and terrified my son.”
She gasped. “The night monsters.”
He flinched. “Max told you about them?”
She nodded. “He thought I saw them too, the night of the storm.”
Harrison closed his eyes. When would the nightmares stop? “Max had been standing at the window waiting for us to come home. He saw me wrestle with one of the men and heard the shot that killed his mother. Max remembers seeing the dark shadows moving and the loud noise. He’s been afraid of thunder ever since.” He paused, bracing against the pain that still gripped him.
“What happened to the men?”
Harrison paused. He didn’t want to say too much and reveal his identity. Crime was frequent in a large city, but if she recognized the story, then he and Max would no longer be able to live a simple island life. “One died from consumption in Newgate. The other got away, despite the large sums of money I paid to investigators.” A bitter laugh rang in his ears, and it took a second before he realized it was his own. “A killer goes about his normal life like nothing ever happened. Yet I walk around with a hole in my heart and constant reminders of my loss.”
“Is that why you came here, to escape the memories?” Her blue eyes, no longer clouded with tears, held his own. Concern lined their depths, touching him in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“For the most part, yes.”
She gently placed a hand over his. “I’m sorry.”
Pain washed over him. How could he even consider returning to London, despite the King’s summons?
“What was the other reason?”
“I was …” How could he make her understand without revealing who he was? “I used to have a desirable position, and some women were willing to go to great lengths for the security of marrying a man with such a”—he searched for a word—“stable occupation.”
“What did you do in England?”
“I…” Harrison licked his lips. “I sort of managed a large estate.”
Georgia nodded. “You were a steward?”
“Estate manager, steward, something along those lines.” He pulled his hand away. “What I’m trying to say is that I know you’ve been hurt, but give your father a chance. If you let your walls down, you’ll find out how deeply he loves you. Only don’t wait too long.” His throat tightened. “His days are numbered.”
She nodded, but he tried to communicate the urgency with his eyes. “You haven’t seen the full effect of the ague yet, but your father fell ill last night.”
Her face paled, and he quickly interjected. “It’s not your fault. Nothing you said or did caused his relapse. It comes and goes like a storm, but the sickness takes a toll. Don’t be frightened when you see him. He’ll come out of it. He’s a strong man, and having you around has made him stronger. You’ll see.”
Her eyes widened into two blue orbs, but she nodded.
“I need to fix the damage done to the schoolhouse.” His eyes locked on Georgia. “Would you be willing to keep an eye on Maxwell while I’m gone?”
Georgia’s lips parted in surprise. Mr. Wells’ opinion of her must have changed over the course of their conversation. If he still believed her to be a conniving actress, he wouldn’t leave his son in her care. Would he? Her heart warmed. She straightened, somehow feeling taller.
“Certainly.”
“Watching Max isn’t difficult. He’s fairly self-sufficient. Just keep him safe and out of trouble. He’s in the library entertaining Fredrick.” He rose and strode to the door, holding it open. “Max?”
The boy bounded through, slid to a halt, and stood at attention. “Yes, Papa?”
“I want you to listen to Uncle Fred and Miss Georgia. Behave yourself.” He raised both eyebrows, crinkling his forehead. “You hear me?”
“Yes, Papa.” He raced back to the library.
Mr. Wells stood at the door for a moment, watching him. “He’s a good boy. The most precious thing in the world to me.”
He grabbed his jacket and hat and headed for the back door.
“Mr. Wells?” she called out, not knowing what she meant to say.
He paused, one hand on the knob, and turned back to look at her. “Call me Harrison.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Harrison, I—um, well—thank you.”
“Thank you.” His eyes warmed, and the white of his teeth gleamed behind a slow smile. “Georgia.”
He left, the door clicking shut behind him, but the way he’d said her name seeped deep into her being. It had flowed over his lips as a half-whisper, as if it had reverence, as if she had worth.
Her fingertips tingled, and she re-folded them in her lap. Harrison may be a meager schoolmaster on a small island who irritated her more times than not, but by a mere word, he’d made her feel something she hadn’t felt since she was a small girl in braids.
He’d made her feel valued.
She puzzled over it. How could she mean anything to him? He saw her the way most others did. What had he called her? Oh yes, an ambitious social climber.
She sighed. It was mostly true. What he didn’t understand was that she needed to marry an earl to avoid betrothal to Ashburnham, while still pleasing her mother and proving her value to her sisters.
Max’s voice from the other room reminded her of her promise. She sipped her tea as doubts crept in. She didn’t know how to entertain children. When her nieces and nephews visited their grandmama, the explosion of energy at their arrival and the ensuing chaos usually kept Georgia cloistered in her room until they left. She bit her bottom lip. What would she do with Max? Her mind drew a complete blank.
Had Harrison meant the entire day or merely the morning? She listened to the playful sounds emanating from the next room. Maybe he’d continue to entertain himself as he was right now.
; But what if he didn’t?
Things were different now. She’d earned Harrison’s trust in some small way, but it was still fragile. From the beginning, he’d had such a bad impression of her, and caring for Max was the perfect opportunity to gain Harrison’s approval. Which somehow seemed to matter now, much more than it had before.
She couldn’t fail at this.
Chapter 12
…How I wish you could see the beauty of the island. Glorious colors surround us in bright shades of pink, chartreuse, and turquoise. We are faring well, even Fredrick, but the fever comes on suddenly.
—From Lady Tessa Pickering to her sister-in-law, Nora Lennox
“Georgia?”
She was still mulling over ways to entertain Max when Papa called from the other room.
His voice sounded so strained and unfamiliar that her cup slipped from her fingers and clattered on the saucer, sloshing the liquid over the sides. She moved to the door, but her hand froze on the painted wood and refused to budge. She didn’t know what she’d find on the other side. She’d never seen her father in any condition other than healthy. In her eyes, he’d always be the robust man who’d taught her to bait a hook and hold a rifle. Her lips trembled at the image of him frail and gaunt.
She mustered her courage enough to push the door part-way open, and she found her father lying on the settee in the library. Despite the insufferable heat, he lay wrapped in a quilt tucked under his chin. Max sat on the floor nearby, moving a wooden horse in a galloping motion across the rug and making clip-clop noises with his tongue.
“Yes, Papa? May I get you something?”
She inched closer. His entire body shook, even though sweat beaded his brow. She fought down the panic that expanded her chest and made her stomach queasy. Jenneigh said this was typical. Everything would be all right. Lord, please don’t let him die today.
“Would you like some hot tea?” She hoped he didn’t notice the quake in her voice.
“Hattie is bringing tea.” He paused and closed his eyes as if regaining strength. How much effort had it taken him to say those few words?
She knelt beside him and put a hand on his arm. It felt clammy and cool to the touch. Just yesterday, he’d stood before her preaching, looking as healthy as a mule. Now, he seemed pale, feeble, and on the verge of death. She gulped down a breath. How quickly and completely the fever had ravaged his body.
His eyes opened, and she glimpsed the familiar twinkle, although weaker than before. “Don’t worry so, my dear. It will pass. God still has plans for these old bones.” He gestured for her to lean in, and she complied. “I don’t want Max to see me like this. These relapses frighten…” He broke into a coughing fit.
Helplessness swept over her as Papa’s body jerked with each racking cough.
Water. He needed water. She rose to her feet, but stopped mid-step as Hattie pushed through the door carrying a tea tray.
“Easy now, Mista Fred. Nice n’ easy.” She set the tray down and lifted a cup to his lips until he took a sip.
After a drink, he continued as if nothing happened. “And I want Max to remember me as I am, not as some sickly, old man. Take the boy and make a fun day out of it. Just the two of you. It would mean a great deal to me.”
Georgia turned to Hattie, unsure whether she should leave her father in his condition.
Hattie nodded toward the boy. “You two get now. I’ll tek good care of yer papa. Don’t you worry. Breakfast is ready. Have a bite, den be on yer way.”
Georgia spurred Max into the breakfast room and placed a bowl of warm oatmeal in front of him. He grabbed a spoon and heaped it full of the light-colored mush.
She sat across from him and watched the boy gulp his food with disgusting sucking noises. Her muscles tensed at the sound. “It’s bad manners to slurp down your food.”
He issued her a sideways glare. “You sound like Papa.”
Georgia peered out the window, all the while racking her brain for ideas of how to entertain a boy of eight years. She hated charades and would only use it as a last resort. She hadn’t seen a pianoforte in the house so she couldn’t play and have him sing. Besides, she only knew classical pieces. She heaved a sigh. Nothing else sprung to mind.
Max finished his bowl and leaned back in his chair, draping his arms over the sides.
“I don’t need a nursemaid to watch over me. I’m a man now.”
“That’s good because I’m not a nursemaid, nor do I ever intend to become one.”
Max delivered a single nod of his chin. “All right then. I’ll let you play with me today. What are we going to do?”
Georgia tilted her head and frowned at the insolent child. “What is it you typically do around here?”
A wry smile grew on his lips. “Hunt for land pike.”
Georgia swallowed. “Merciful heavens.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s something you can do on your own time.”
“Well, what can we do?”
What did boys do? They certainly didn’t embroider or discuss the latest fashions. “How about I teach you the dance steps for the minuet?”
He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“We can play cards,” she suggested.
“Nah, I did that yesterday.”
“Dress-up?”
He frowned. “I’m not a baby.”
Georgia sighed. What did she do at Max’s age?
She swallowed as a memory resurfaced of her father’s encouraging voice as he taught her how to aim his rifle. It was so vivid, as if she were once again enfolded in his supporting arms. He’d tell her to breathe and say, You can do all things, but remember, let God lead.
Max put his elbows on the table and rested his cheeks on the palms of his hands. His blue eyes watched her—waiting.
She wasn’t sure if Harrison would approve of her teaching Max to shoot, and she’d have to borrow a rifle.
She sat up with a bolt. “I’ve got it. Do you have fishing poles?”
Max’s face lit. He leapt from his chair and raced toward the door. “I’ll go grab them. You get some bread from Hattie.” The door slammed shut behind him.
In under ten minutes, they began their trek down the sandy path toward the ocean. Georgia carefully picked her way around puddles, mindful of her boots and long skirts. The tall grass-like leaves of the sugar cane, along with the vast ocean in the background, gave the surrealistic impression that, somehow, she’d shrunk into a miniature version of herself. This must be how an ant felt next to a pond.
Max led the way with the fishing poles bouncing against his shoulder and a large wooden bucket banging against his leg. She followed a few steps behind, swinging a basket of goodies packed for them by Hattie in the crook of her arm. The sun peeked over the top of Mount Nevis, raising the temperature a degree or two.
“My favorite spot is down around this bend,” Max said.
Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck. By the time they reached the shallows where the stormwater drained into the ocean, she could have wrung sweat out of the bodice of her gown.
The sun sparkled off the surface, refracting light in all directions, especially after the ocean breeze rippled the water. The bright aquamarine water still stirred awe in her chest. As they rounded a sand dune, what appeared to be a shallow lagoon actually dropped down quite deep. Colorful fish darted among the underwater plants. She scanned the shoreline, now dotted with debris washed up from the storm. Sea turtles dragged their heavy bodies onto the beach, slumping down to rest after battling the waves.
“Grab the bread, and we can use it to catch our bait.” Max separated the poles and a small net as she pulled one of the loaves out of their picnic basket.
They both ripped off chunks. Max pierced his with his hook and dangled it into the water. Georgia stood on the bank, neatly folding her hands in front of her. But as she watched him pull out one minnow at a time, her fingers itched to have a try. Instead, she adjusted her bonnet and smoothed out her skirts. Max st
ood a couple of steps in front of her, his eyes peeled for any movement in the water.
“I can tell you’ve done quite a bit of fishing,” she said.
“Papa and I are great fishermen. One time we caught a grouper this big.” He held his arms as wide as they could go. “It was ugly as sin. Its bottom lip stuck out like this.” He jutted out his lower jaw and pouted his lower lip.
Georgia smiled at the funny face. “It’s nice that your papa fishes with you.”
Max lifted an eyebrow and peered up at her. She’d seen his father make the same expression, and a chuckle welled up inside her.
“Aren’t you going to fish too?”
She gazed into the water, then down at the length of her gown. Funny, but she’d never fished in a dress before. Dresses were much more cumbersome than a comfortable pair of men’s breeches. But she’d have to manage.
Bending down, she removed her boots, rolled down her stockings, and tied her skirts up about her knees. Then she stepped into the clear tepid water and wriggled her toes. Her feet sank into the cool sand until only the tops showed.
“No, stop.” Max held his head with his free hand. “What are you doing? You’re going to scare the fish away.”
“Just wait and trust me. My papa used to fish with me too.”
“Truly? Uncle Fred?”
Her lips pressed into a brief frown at his familiar use of the word uncle. She pushed the negative thoughts aside. “Mr. Lennox,” she corrected, “and yes, he did.”
“He’s never fished with me. Said his heart’s not in it anymore.”
“What did he mean by that?” She grabbed the bread and tore it into smaller pieces.
Max shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he only liked fishing with you.”
She froze, letting the words sink in. Fishing had always been a special past-time for the both of them. “Do you want me to show you a trick he taught me?”
Max nodded.