Newcomer

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “And the nel—the. . .elephant!” Ruby cried. “I want to go inside the elephant.”

  “The elephant.” Gordon laughed suddenly. “I remember drinking sodas at the top—”

  “It’s not safe now,” Marigold cut in with such sharpness he jerked back in his chair.

  “That’s too bad.” Gordon set his knife and fork on his plate in an X, rearranged them into a cross, then returned them to an X, watching Miss Marigold all the time. “What else has changed?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She held his gaze. “I’ve only lived here since a year ago May.”

  “May I be excused?” Beryl folded her napkin next to her plate. “I want to go read the next part of ‘A Little Princess.’ ”

  “Of course,” Gordon said at the same time Marigold said, “Not until Ruby is finished eating.”

  “Those magazines with ‘A Little Princess’ in them have been around for over ten years,” Marigold continued. “They can wait for another fifteen minutes.”

  “I want my blackberry tart.” Ruby made a face and shoved the last green bean into her mouth.

  Memory flashed into Gordon’s head. Him as a boy, probably her age, aching for dessert, hating the vegetables on his plate. Both had become precious to him during his wanderings.

  “You don’t want your sweet?” he asked Beryl.

  “No thank you.” Beryl stood. “I don’t like berries.”

  “Beryl, sit down,” Marigold commanded.

  “Uncle Gordon said I could leave.” With that pronouncement, the girl stomped from the room.

  Ruby’s lower lip quivered. “Oh no, she’s being naughty. Bad things happen to naughty girls.”

  “No, no they don’t.” Marigold slipped her arm around the child. “Why would you think that?”

  “Why indeed?” Gordon scowled at the governess. “And Beryl isn’t being naughty. I told her she could be excused. Now cheer up, or Mrs. Cromwell will think you don’t like her cooking.”

  Ruby, however, looked pale and tense. She slipped out from under Marigold’s arm and mumbled a request to be excused. “I need to be with Beryl.”

  “All right.” Marigold looked pained.

  Gordon stood. “I’ll get the door for you.” He opened the heavy panel, waited for Ruby to head up the stairs, then turned back to the nurserymaid. “You’re right, Miss McCorkle. This upset to Ruby is a fine example why one of us has to be the authority around here, and, as their guardian, that is me.”

  “When you know nothing about them?” Marigold stood, her hands on her hips, her hair fanning out around her head like a lion’s mane. “When I have risked my future happiness for them, you want me to step aside and tell them to listen to you and not me?”

  “I haven’t seen that you do such a fine job of it, madam.” Gordon clasped his hands behind his back. “Beryl is insolent, and Ruby is anxious and seems to think her parents will come back. That looks like poor guidance to me.”

  “Poor guidance, Mr. Chambers, is leaving us in limbo for three months and making me stay here for three months longer than I ne–eeded to.”

  To his horror, her voice broke, her eyes sparkled extra bright, and her lower lip quivered.

  He set his jaw against the lure of feminine tears. “If you should have left three months ago, madam, then don’t let me keep you here. There’s still enough daylight left for you to pack and reach your destination before dark.”

  Three

  Marigold clapped her hands to her head, flattening out her hair as best she could. As though that would hold in the tidal wave of outrage surging up her throat like bile.

  “Mr. Chambers,” she said with exaggerated calm, “I would love to leave. I wanted to leave three months ago. I was planning on leaving the day after Ruby’s birthday, but your brother and sister-in-law were killed, you didn’t respond to the telegrams for weeks, and I wouldn’t abandon the girls any more then than I will now, to see them dropped into a school and left thinking no one loves them.”

  “That won’t happen for several weeks, perhaps months.” Gordon Chambers began to pace along a line of roses woven into the carpet. “I will have to sell the business and get my brother’s financial affairs in order. Selling the business this time of year may be difficult.” He completed a circuit and began the walk again. “I’ll have to speak with the lawyer. I’ll have to find an appropriate school.” He reached the far end of the room and faced Marigold, his eyes as cold as deep brown could be. “But I won’t keep you here.”

  “You can’t take care of the girls on your own. It’ll take time to find an appropriate governess or nurserymaid, even if you can find one who is willing to work for only a month or two.”

  “Mrs. Cromwell—”

  “Cannot take care of the house and oversee the girls’ education and care,” Marigold cut in.

  Gordon narrowed his eyes. “Do you have no respect for others, Miss McCorkle?”

  “Of course.” He was going to dismiss her anyway, so she added, “When the person deserves it.”

  “I see.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and clamped his lips together, but one corner twitched suspiciously.

  Marigold flung out her hands, sending what pins remained cascading onto the floor and her curls bounding about her head like corks on waves. “Mrs. Cromwell has already told me she will leave within a month of your arrival. She wants out of this climate before winter comes.”

  “Are you willing to stay until arrangements can be made?” Gordon asked.

  “I’m willing, but I can’t.”

  “Because you’ve decided to dislike me even before I arrived?”

  “No, because I can’t remain in this house alone without a respectable woman like Mrs. Cromwell here to lend propriety to the arrangement.”

  “Of course. I should have thought of that.” A faint flush rose along his high cheekbones. “Then what do you suggest I do?”

  “Stay, Mr. Chambers. Your nieces need you.”

  “I know nothing about children. I’ve lived aboard ships or in mining camps since I was eighteen years old.”

  “You can learn.” Marigold’s heart ached. Her passion for seeing their futures as secure as two orphaned girls’ lives could be, she pressed on. “You can keep the business in the family for them to have a heritage, keep this house so they have something familiar on school holidays, give them Christmas and summers here, as they’ve always had.” Her voice broke. “Give them as much of a family as possible so their lives aren’t wholly empty of love.”

  “But I can’t carry on my own life, make my own business and future, if I stay here, not that that’s any of your business.”

  “No, sir, it’s not.” Marigold clenched her hands at her sides to stop herself from throwing something across the room—preferably at his head. God wouldn’t honor such behavior. Nor would He want her to spew out the words blazing on her tongue. God would want her to—what? Grovel so Gordon Chambers wouldn’t send her away and make the girls lose one more person solid and secure in their lives?

  She gritted her teeth until her jaw ached. Her chin felt like carved marble. She could barely open her lips to speak. “Mr. Chambers, if you can find a respectable woman to take Mrs. Cromwell’s place, I will guard my tongue about my opinions and see to the girls’ welfare until”—every word felt like she was having to expel a cannonball—“until you can make arrangements for them.”

  “That must have cost you a year’s worth of your pride, Miss McCorkle.” He grinned.

  She flinched away from its charm and melting impact on her senses. And she kept silent.

  “If I don’t agree to your terms,” Gordon continued, “do you have somewhere to go?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  More than the girls had—a family, a sister getting married, an opportunity to mend the breach with Lucian, her supposed fiancé—if that were possible.

  “Mrs. Cromwell wants to leave in a month?” Gordon persisted.

  Marigold nodded. “Yes, that’s
when her sister leaves for Georgia. If she goes later, she’ll have to travel all that way alone.”

  “Then that gives me four weeks to work things out, doesn’t it?” He shoved his fingers into his thick, wavy dark hair. “Let us put our spat behind us and declare a truce, all right?”

  “For the sake of the girls, yes.” Marigold held out her hand to shake but couldn’t help adding, “It gives me four weeks to make you see that abandoning the children is not a good decision.”

  He laughed out loud, a rich rumbling exclamation of mirth. Then he strode forward and clasped Marigold’s hand with his warm, strong fingers.

  She started as though she’d touched a live electrical wire. He snatched his hand away and rubbed it on the skirt of his coat. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  Marigold perched on the edge of the nearest chair and stared out the window. She didn’t know how she could like a thing about him, not his eyes, not his smile, and definitely not his touch. She should scrub her hand—erase the sensation of his strength, the kind of strength of a man who could pull a lady from danger and hold her in safety and security.

  A lady? Didn’t she mean two little girls who desperately needed a permanent home, something to depend on in a world that had gone topsy-turvy for them in a single clap of thunder and stroke of lightning?

  Of course she did. She was merely tired and overwrought and thoroughly determined that nothing less than Gordon Chambers remaining in Cape May would satisfy her. Nothing else was the right decision. She would make him stay if she had to—had to. . .

  She’d think of something.

  Meanwhile, she had promised to help Mrs. Cromwell with the cleaning up so she could talk to Gordon Chambers herself. Then the girls would want a story before bedtime. Ruby would want her to hold hands until she slept. . . .

  Feeling like the rag with which she was about to do dishes, Marigold stumbled into the kitchen. Mrs. Cromwell had put the extra food away, but pots, pans, and dishes littered the worktable. Through the open back door, Marigold caught a glimpse of the housekeeper talking with Gordon on the porch. They held glasses of lemonade, and a plate of ginger cookies rested on a table between them. Their voices carried into the house. Though the words remained indistinct, the tone spoke of affection, kindness, and sorrow.

  Marigold rested one hand on the edge of the sink and closed her eyes. “God, please forgive me. I am still too selfish and wanting things the way I want them.”

  No sense of peace washed through her. She knew God didn’t approve of her stiff-necked pride, her certainty that she knew what was best for everyone. Yet she couldn’t help herself. Other people just made a mess of their lives. Mr. and Mrs. Chambers shouldn’t have gone out in the boat that late May afternoon. Marigold had told them of the weather, had predicted a storm. She felt storms coming in the place where she’d broken her arm as a child.

  Or rather, when one of the Grassick boys had pushed her out of a tree.

  Thoughts of her childhood friends made her smile. They were scattered around the country now like she and her own siblings—attending college and work, military service, and positions at the Grassick Glassworks.

  The glassworks, where she should be living with her husband, one of the glassblowers, and proudly displaying her inheritance passed down from a Grassick to her family nearly half a century earlier—the goldfinch bottle, the symbol of love, loyalty, constancy, and hope that had resided in her bedchamber at home since she and Lucian announced their engagement nearly a year and a half ago.

  A lifetime ago.

  She picked up a sturdy skillet and slammed it into the sink. Scrubbing away the remnants of food might help alleviate her annoyance at the man outside, whose rumbling laughter drifted in through the open door.

  “That’s right. Enjoy your homecoming that has cost me so much.” She gritted her teeth to stop herself from growling like the kitten.

  Suds lathering up her arms, she made herself sing, running through her favorite hymns. It helped keep her from dwelling on her anger with Gordon Chambers and pass the time through the onerous work of cleaning the kitchen.

  “Hark! The herald angels sing—”

  The rumbling laughter broke through Marigold’s recital with such a blow she gasped, choked, and coughed.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Gordon Chambers touched her shoulder. “I wanted to find out who has the angelic voice in here.”

  “Angelic you think?” She set her soapy hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Are you in the habit of laughing at things you consider angelic?”

  “No, ma’am.” He backed off as though frightened. “I was merely amused to hear Christmas carols in August.”

  “Christmas—oh.” Her cheeks heated from more than the steaming water. “I was just singing the songs I can remember without the words in front of me.”

  “Please, don’t let me stop you. I merely returned for more lemonade.” He glanced at the icebox. “Where are the girls?”

  “Playing in the schoolroom, from the sound of it.” Marigold glanced upward, where a series of light thumps, creaks, and an occasional giggle drifted through the floorboards. “They’re quite good about that, playing on their own, that is.”

  “Should I—um—take them some refreshment?”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you.” Marigold dropped the last plate into the dishwater. “But I’ll get them a snack when I’m done here. They’ll be ready for bed by then.”

  When he neither moved nor spoke, she looked at him again, eyebrows raised.

  “It’s still light out. Isn’t that too early for bed?” he asked.

  “Not when you’re six and nine.”

  “I didn’t know.” He swung toward the icebox. “How do we get more ice? This chunk looks nearly done.”

  “He comes by in the mornings and leaves it for us.” She couldn’t resist adding, “And I’m sure he’d like to be paid.”

  “As would you, I imagine.”

  “It won’t go amiss,” she hedged.

  She didn’t need the meager wages of a nurserymaid, but he didn’t need to know that. In fact, she’d rather he didn’t know that her family was probably as well-off or more so than the Chamberses. If he did, he’d ask too many questions. Marigold didn’t want to answer questions about herself.

  “I’ll visit the bank tomorrow,” Gordon said.

  “Grand.” Marigold lifted her now-red hands from the dishwater. “I’ll see to the girls. If you wish to say good night to them, please do so.”

  “I’ll think about it.” He retrieved the pitcher of lemonade from the icebox and retreated to the porch.

  He didn’t come up to wish the girls good night. Though Marigold read them a second story, much to Ruby’s delight, she heard no sound of footfalls on the steps leading to the top floor and nursery.

  “I told you he doesn’t want us,” Beryl pronounced in the middle of Cinderella.

  “He’s probably weary from his journey.” Although she was no doubt telling the truth of this, Marigold felt like a liar making excuses for the girls’ unfeeling uncle.

  In her own room, adjacent to the one the girls shared, she sank onto her knees and tried to pray for an extra helping of grace. A half hour later, cramped from remaining in the same position, she rose and readied herself for sleep. She knew God possessed it but wasn’t certain He would give her the amount of forgiveness needed to cover Gordon Chambers.

  Four

  Gordon escaped from the house at what he hoped was an early enough hour to avoid sharing breakfast with his nieces and their nursemaid, especially the nursemaid. No one had made him feel guilty with a look since the last time he’d seen his father. And the last thing he wanted right now was a reminder of the parent who had driven him from the house and ensured Gordon wouldn’t want to return.

  None of them, apparently, had planned on Gordon needing to return.

  But there he was, striding along the quiet street and headed toward the s
ea. Sunlight spilled through the branches of the trees, and a cool breeze off the sea stirred air that would later become oppressively hot and humid except near the water. The aromas of hot dog and sweetmeat vendors didn’t yet invade the fresh air along the boardwalk. With the tide coming in, only the sea itself scented the morning.

  Gordon paused at the edge of the sand and gazed toward the rising sun. As yet uninhabited by too many people in bathing costumes or women in hats so wide they surely limited the wearer’s sight, the beach formed the perfect view for a postcard. Gordon wished he owned a camera so he could capture this moment. It would better serve his memories of this place he should think of as home than the stormy winter day and voices shouting louder than thunder that plagued his dreams.

  “Life here wasn’t all strife and sorrow,” he told a passing flock of seagulls.

  They screeched at him, as though condemning him for not tossing them any bread.

  “I’ll remember tomorrow,” he promised.

  A pity his life had been full of promises he intended to carry out tomorrow. Tomorrow he would make a fortune on his own. Tomorrow he would return and show that fortune to his brother to prove he wasn’t a ne’er-do-well. Tomorrow he would remedy the financial problems plaguing his nieces and their household.

  He set his jaw. “Today, I’ll go to the bank. No, I’ll go to the boathouse.”

  The latter was closer. There, from a neat, whitewashed building set at the end of a pier near Second Street, visitors to Cape May had been able to take excursions around the cape and into Delaware Bay for thirty years. Gordon’s father had started the business when he grew weary of being a naval captain during the Civil War and then a merchantman captain. He’d made a lot of money doing both and found the peaceful seaside town of Cape May perfect for his young family and business dedicated to bringing people enjoyment in one of God’s greatest creations—the ocean. The early boats had all been sailing vessels. By the time Gordon left home, all were powered by steam, noisier, but able to go regardless of the winds and with fewer crew members.