by Deborah Hale
Her husband added, “Quite a stroke of luck that yer books weren’t ruined in the wreck, Chisholm. I wish I could say the same for the rest of the St. Bride’s cargo.”
They enjoyed a congenial meal together, accompanied by the sparkling wine of good conversation. The discussion ranged widely, and thanks to her tutelage from Harris, Jenny was able to bear her part. After dinner, Mrs. Jardine played on the pianoforte. When Harris told their hosts about the impromptu concert on the forecastle of the St. Bride, they insisted Jenny favor them with a song.
As they strolled back to Glendennings’ in the warm twilight of that August eve, Jenny breathed a sigh of mingled contentment and yearning. “That’s the way I’ve always dreamed of living. Everything so polite and elegant. Folks so agreeable.”
Harris slowed the pace of his walk even further. As an owl hooted in the distance, he raised his left hand and covered Jenny’s, where it rested on his right arm. The euphoria of the evening swept all his misgivings before it.
“I had a grand time, too, Jenny. But it wasn’t on account of the food, or Mrs. Jardine’s china, or even the music. I’ve been to dine in Edinburgh and with the Robertsons in Dalbeattie, but I never enjoyed myself like I did tonight. Having ye there—that’s what made it special.”
She turned toward him, gulping a wee breath to speak. Harris knew what she meant to say, but he would not listen until she had heard him out. Swiftly, but with infinite gentleness, he pressed his fingers to her lips. His senses reeled as he felt their soft warmth and the featherlight caress of her breath.
“Rail at me later,” he whispered. “For now, just let me speak what’s in my heart. Ye make any time of the day or night special to me, lass. Even if it’s just reading a book together or wandering down a path in the woods at sunset.”
She stared up at him with those eyes, so full of dreams. Harris could scarcely find his voice to continue.
But continue he did, for he knew this might be his best and only chance. “Things like that cost nothing. It’s having ye to share them that gilds every minute of my day, Jenny.”
Her lip quivered beneath his touch and crystal tears quenched the dreams in her eyes. Was it a good sign, or bad? Harris wasn’t sure. Either way, a great choking lump rose in his own throat. Unable to restrain himself further, he gathered Jenny into his arms and clasped her to him as though he never meant to let go.
“Must ye go to Chatham, Jenny? Must ye wed Roderick Douglas? Couldn’t ye stay here with me? Mr. Jardine wants to take me on as his manager. I know we’d be starting with nothing, but I swear to ye I’d work hard and make a good life for us.”
Was his imagination playing tricks on him, or was Jenny burrowing deeper into his embrace? He could barely discern the words she murmured.
“Ye mustn’t say such things, Harris. Ye’ve no notion of how much I…Ye don’t understand. I’ve given my word. Besides, Mr. Douglas paid for my passage and my new clothes. How would I ever repay him?”
Was that all that stood in their way? Harris threw back his head and began to laugh in a hearty gust of relief. “I’d repay him, Jenny. I’d repay Mr. Douglas every penny of what he spent, supposing he wanted to charge a hundred percent interest.”
Fearing his voice might break, he dropped it to a hoarse whisper. “And I’d still think it the best bargain I ever struck in my life, lass.”
“There’s more to it than that, Harris.” Jenny tried to push out of his embrace, but only feebly. He sensed she didn’t really want him to release her.
So he didn’t.
“Don’t fret yerself, lass. I’m not asking ye to decide tonight. I only want ye to think on it for a while. Once the St. Bride’s ready to sail again, ye can give me yer answer then. If ye choose to marry Mr. Douglas, I’ll go with ye to Chatham like I promised, and we won’t speak of it again.”
The thought chilled him, even in the lazy warmth of a midsummer night. Resting his cheek against Jenny’s hair, he murmured, “I give ye fair warning, though. I’m going to spend every waking moment between now and then trying to tip the scales in my favor.”
Before Jenny could reply, Harris heard a rustling on the path ahead, and the rapid slap of bare feet hitting the ground. An instant later, a small form barreled into them. In the gathering darkness, Harris could not make out the child’s features.
“There now, lad. Who are ye and where are ye tearing off to at this time of night?”
“Mr. Chisholm?” the child gasped. “Miss Lennox? It’s me. John. Father sent me to fetch Grannie Girvan. The baby’s in a bad way.”
“I’ll go along with ye to Girvan’s, lad,” said Harris. “Ye shouldn’t be out on yer own this time of night.”
“Thank ye, Harris.” Jenny fumbled for his hand in the darkness and squeezed it. “I’ll go to Maizie and see if I can help.”
As Harris and the boy set off toward the river, Jenny found herself perversely grateful for this distraction. The feel of his arms about her and the siren song of his entreaty had been almost too powerful an enchantment to resist. Worst of all, she could not decide for certain if she wanted to resist.
Remembering the Glendennings’ sick baby, she chided herself for welcoming the diversion. True, she wanted time to collect her wits, but not at this cost. Willing herself to concentrate on the situation at hand, Jenny hurried along the path to Glendennings.
She found the cottage in an uproar.
Tears streaming down her face, eyes wide with panic, Maizie held the baby as its tiny body jerked in alarming spasms. In the throes of its fit, the infant appeared to have no breath to cry.
The other children made up for that.
From their beds in the loft at one end of the cabin, they stared down, howling in distress at what was taking place below. Captain Glendenning paced the floor helplessly, his face drawn with worry. The stoic calm with which he’d braved the pirates and the wreck had evaporated in the face of this domestic crisis.
“It’ll be all right, Maizie.” Jenny tried to sound convinced of it. “Harris has gone with John for Grannie Girvan. They’ll be here directly.”
Mrs. Glendenning seemed scarcely to hear her. Gazing anxiously at the twitching baby, she spoke by dull rote. “He was no worse than usual, today. Then, when I went to feed him after supper, he was burning up.”
Jenny had nursed her younger brothers through a number of fevers and fluxes, but she’d seen nothing like this. Better to leave doctoring the child to Mrs. Girvan. Yet, she could not bring herself to stand about idle.
“Is the baby going to die?” Nellie wailed from the loft.
The other children.
It was a small thing, but worthwhile, to quiet them. Maizie might take heart without their plaintive keening in her ears. And Mrs. Girvan would surely work better without the distraction of a racket. Giving the frantic mother an encouraging pat on the arm, Jenny moved to the ladder and began to climb.
“Grannie Girvan’s on her way,” she told the children in a soft, soothing voice. She could not bring herself to assure them their brother would live, for she had grave doubts. “Now come back here and lie down. Here’s my handkerchief to wipe yer eyes, Nellie. Ye must help yer ma by being as quiet as wee mice. If ye’ll hush, I’ll tell ye a story to put ye to sleep. Things’ll look better in the morning, ye’ll see.”
Sniffling and wiping noses on the sleeves of their nightshirts, the children drew back from the lip of the loft and crowded around Jenny. Anxious thoughts and grim foreboding tightened her throat, but she fought down her own feelings to concentrate on calming the wee ones.
“What good lads and lassies ye are.” She smoothed back a lock of hair on one, patted another on the shoulder and smiled sympathetic encouragement to a third.
Keeping her voice low and comforting, she began to spin them a tale borrowed from Walter Scott. “Once upon a time, there was a brave knight, named Wilfred of Ivanhoe. Now Ivanhoe was in love with his father’s ward, the fair lady Rowena, but…”
The story pro
ved a potent diversion for the children, who seemed to forget what was happening in the rest of the house. Even the sound of the door opening and the muted urgency of voices below failed to rouse their interest.
While she concentrated on lulling the children with her story, Jenny kept an ear cocked to hear what was going on. She overheard Maizie sigh. “At least he’s still now.”
Old Mrs. Girvan clucked her tongue with the sound of hollow pessimism.
From the foot of the ladder, Jenny heard Harris quietly advise young John, “Why don’t ye get off to yer rest, lad? Ye’ve done a man’s work tonight.”
The sound of his voice made Jenny long to scramble down the ladder and throw herself into his arms. Suddenly aware of the children’s expectant gazes, she cleared her throat and continued with the story. When John joined them, his brother and sisters allowed as how Jenny might begin it again for his benefit.
None of them managed to stay awake until the end of the tale. Jenny was hoarse and stiff by the time the last one nodded off. She still picked up the sound of hushed voices and faint movement below. While there was activity, there must be hope.
A while later, the hiccup of a sob wakened her from a light doze. She heard Mrs. Girvan’s weary voice. “I’m sorry, lass. There was naught I could do for the poor wee thing. Get yer rest now. The other children’ll be needing you.”
Jenny shivered. Even a decent interval to grieve was a luxury in this unforgiving land.
“I’m sorry for yer loss, Angus,” said Harris. Jenny had not realized he was still there. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing to do now but build a coffin and dig a grave,” replied the captain in a tight, husky voice. “Ye can see Mrs. Girvan home, Harris, if ye’d be so good. Thanks for yer help tonight.”
“I wish I could have done more. I’ll be by in the morning with some wood from the yard.”
After a soft shuffling of footsteps, the cabin door opened and closed.
Captain Glendenning cleared his throat.
Jenny wished to heaven she was asleep. Or a thousand miles away.
“Don’t fret yerself, Maizie. There’ll be others.”
The reply was a quiet sound, something like a chuckle, but entirely devoid of mirth. It sounded more like a rasp biting against a knot of hard wood.
“Don’t expect me to take comfort in that, Angus. I never wanted this one.”
“Now, now lass. Ye don’t mean that. Ye’re worn-out.”
“Aye, I’m all of that. But I mean it just the same.” Maizie Glendenning sniffled loudly. “It’s indecent for a mother not to grieve her child. All I can think is how glad I am to be clear of his caterwauling from noon to night.”
The captain did not reply for a while. Then he said, “I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll go make the box.”
“Ye do that. And while ye’re at it, make one for me. I envy the dead their rest.”
Her stomach seething, Jenny glanced around at the children to make sure they were all asleep and had not overheard. Captain Glendenning might dismiss his wife’s words on the grounds of her exhaustion and grief. The children might not understand.
Or perhaps they might understand too well.
The way fourteen-year-old Jenny had understood her mother’s dying whisper. “Don’t fret for me, Jenny. I’ll be glad for a rest. Light out of here the minute ye get a chance, lass. But mind ye wed well, or not at all.”
Looking back, Jenny could now imagine Mother at her age. Starry-eyed because Alec Lennox had asked leave to walk her home from kirk. Full of romantic daydreams of the life they might share. She had seen a hint of it in Maizie Glendenning that very afternoon as she’d exclaimed over the dresses and plaited Jenny’s hair. Once upon a time, Maizie had primped and prettied herself for a call from a ruggedly handsome sailor. Felt her heart beat faster and her knees wobble like jelly.
And what did it come to in the end?
Exhaustion overcame Jenny again, and for a time she slept. The children began to stir when cock crowed.
“I didn’t hear the last of yer story, Jenny.”
“Is the baby going to get better?”
Jenny yawned and stretched out her kinks. Better to let the children hear the news from their parents. “Hush, now. I ken yer ma’s asleep and she needs her rest. Let’s see who can be the quietest getting yer clothes on and sneaking out of the house? If ye don’t make a sound, I promise I’ll boil ye up some porritch and finish telling ye what happened to Ivanhoe.”
Her offer proved a powerful inducement, for the children pulled on their clothes and stole out of the cabin with scarcely a sound. Maizie had gone to bed at last. Despite the bitter words Jenny had heard her speak in the night, she’d taken the baby with her, cradling the small, still form in her arms. The sight brought a queer ache to Jenny’s stomach.
There was no sign of Captain Glendenning outside, but from off in the forest, Jenny could hear the bleak sound of a plane shaving wood smooth. As she prepared the children’s breakfast and finished the story of Ivanhoe for them, her thoughts churned.
After what had happened last night, there could be no question of her remaining in Richibucto and sharing the fate of Mrs. Glendenning and her mother. However, she remembered the magical feel of Harris’s arms about her, and the compelling sorcery of his words. Could she risk staying here another month? Was her resolve strong enough to withstand his subtle blandishments day after day? Even when she knew he was casting a spell that would hold her captive and ultimately bring them both nothing but disillusionment and heartbreak?
“So Sir Wilfred regained his father’s favor and wed the lady Rowena and they lived happily ever after,” she concluded hastily. “John, do ye know how far it is to Chatham, by land?”
“But what happened to Rebecca?” the children demanded.
“Oh, she left the country with her father.” Seeing this did not satisfy her audience, Jenny added her own postscript to the story. “Later she married a rich merchant of her own faith and lived like a queen.”
“Chatham?” said John, as if her question had just registered with him. “I’ve heard Pa say it’s forty mile or more. Ye take the road to Aldouane and go on from there. Nobody much goes overland, Miss Lennox. It’s much quicker and easier by boat.”
“I see,” said Jenny. “Thank ye for telling me.”
Forty miles. After the hundreds and hundreds she’d come, it seemed like so trifling a distance. Only twice the way from Dalbeattie to Kirkcudbright, and she had walked that before in less than a day. If she needed to take lodging at an inn or a house, no matter. She still had several coins left over from what Roderick Douglas had sent.
Dispatching the children to pick more berries, Jenny marched resolutely to the shed where her trunk sat. Quickly she changed into a plain, serviceable dress for walking and put on a pair of stout shoes. When the St. Bride finally weighed anchor for Chatham, surely Captain Glendenning would think to bring her trunk. The only items she really needed to take along were her wedding dress and slippers and her money.
Securing the former into a fat but light parcel, she tucked the coins into her apron pocket and tied on her bonnet. She hoped Harris would not be too upset when he learned that she’d gone. With a qualm of guilt she recalled the painful story of his mother’s desertion.
How could she make him understand? She was doing this as much for his future happiness as for her own.
Chapter Nine
Harris did not miss Jenny until early that afternoon, when the Glendennings and their neighbors came together at Kirk Point to bury the baby. As the minister intoned the familiar words of the service, Harris scanned the small crowd for any sign of her. By the time they reached the committal, his panic had risen to an unbearable pitch.
“Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”
As the women of the community gathered around Mrs. Glendenning, Harris approached the captain. “Angus, did Miss Lennox get back to yer place last night? When we met John on the path, she
told me to go with him. She said she’d go on by herself. I never should have let her alone in the woods at that time of—”
Captain Glendenning stopped his runaway rush of words. “Don’t fret yerself, Harris. She came a while before ye and John got back with Grannie Girvan. She’s a capable lass, that one. There was naught any of us could do for wee Donald, but she went up to the loft and quieted the others, and that was worth a good deal.”
Harris’s initial breath of relief strangled again as he looked over the crowd one last time. “Do ye know where she’s gone? Have ye seen her at all today?”
The captain thought for a moment. Then, slowly, he began to shake his head. “My mind was that set on other things, I didn’t notice. Now that ye mention it, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the lass since last night. Maybe ye ought to ask the children.”
Those final words followed Harris, who’d already decided on that very course of action. Approaching the clutch of doleful little figures, he sank to his knees before them. “I’m sorry about yer wee brother. Ye were good lads and lassies last night when yer ma and pa needed the place quiet.”
As he took his next breath to ask about Jenny, the oldest girl piped up, “We cried at first b’cause we were scared, but Miss Lennox came and told us a fine story.”
“Aye, that was good of her.” Harris could not keep from smiling at the children. He could picture Jenny and him with a smart, willing brood like this. “Was she still there when ye woke up this morning?”
The children nodded with varying degrees of vigor.
“She made us porritch,” lisped the youngest.
“And finished telling the story of Ivanhoe,” said John. “Then she sent us off to pick berries.”
“After a while,” chimed in the younger boy, whose name eluded Harris, “Father came and told us the baby had gone to heaven. Then we had to go home and dress for kirk.”
“Did ye see Miss Lennox after ye got home?”
The four exchanged wary glances with one another.