Olivia had smiled sweetly. "We told Hester you would be here, safe and fine, but she fretted something awful."
The eyes of the elder Uphams fixed on Ariah and her face flushed guiltily. Everything changed then. Bartholomew's marriage could no longer be ignored, and an invisible wall rose between him and Ariah. The Uphams were wonderful. They welcomed Ariah and treated her graciously, but she was still glad when it was time to leave.
Now, sitting there in the wagon beside the road, Ariah was grateful for whatever private time she might have left with Bartholomew. At every curve in the road she had stiffened with the fear that around that corner, they would find Tillamook—and Hester—waiting for them like vultures over carrion.
As if he had read her mind, Bartholomew gently kneaded her fingers. "These last two days have been hard."
"For me as well." She leaned her head on his shoulder.
Bartholomew had spent his boyhood in Tillamook. It was home. For the first time in his life, that thought filled him with dread. He forgot the early days of pranks and high jinks with his brothers and sister. Swimming in the river, crabbing in the bay. Every stray cat and dog in the neighborhood—and a few who weren't strays—geese, ducks, a tame turkey, even a jackass, had trailed after him as if he’d a pocket full of meat scraps and dried apples. Which he often did.
First John married and moved away, followed by Mary and Calvin, and fifteen-year-old Bartholomew was left behind to shoulder chores they had all once shared. He had never blamed them. They'd had no way of knowing Martha Noon would fall victim that same year to a series of strokes. For Bartholomew, happiness ended with his mother's death. No more hugs. No more apple pie secreted away just for him. No more laughter. No more love.
With the work and responsibility for an entire dairy farm on his young shoulders, following his father's paralysis, Bartholomew had found little pleasure to enliven his days as an adult. Only the sensuous sway of an older woman's hips. The softness of a breast pressed into his shoulder as she reached across him to place a platter of meat on the table. The feminine glance that stayed a moment too long upon his mouth. Hester.
Already, as he sat in the wagon beside the road, he felt his wife's grasp on him tightening, sucking his soul dry. Stripping his life once more to the barest of bones. Duty. Honor. Responsibility.
Celibacy.
Panic raced through his veins, urging him to run. To take Ariah and disappear. Fight for your happiness, it seemed to scream in his ears. How he wished he could.
Without looking at Ariah, he nodded toward the curve in the road. "On the plain beyond that curve lies Tillamook. We'll be at Reverent Ketcham's house in half an hour."
Ariah's fingers tightened on his arm. "Oh, Bartholomew. Suddenly I feel afraid."
He looked at her, his mouth crooked in a wistful smile. "You? My outrageously impetuous nymph?" He ran a finger along the curve of her lip, pausing to explore the tiny mole that begged for his kiss. "I can't imagine you afraid of anything."
She wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t be again, if he could always be beside her, but saying so would only increase his pain. Instead, she put out her tongue and tasted his finger.
"Ariah, my sweet Ariah." He gathered her into his arms and she clung to him with a tenacity that told him all he needed to know of her feelings. After awhile, he drew back. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. He caught her chin on the edge of his hand and kissed her softly. Then he put her away from him, took up the reins and flicked them against the horse's flanks.
As the wagon jolted into movement, Ariah faced forward, back ramrod straight, hands gripping the edge of the wagon seat. Up ahead lay her future, and while part of her trembled at what it might bring, her youthful optimism and quick, curious mind burgeoned with hope.
♥ ♥ ♥
"That girl ain't nothing more than a slut."
Hester Noon snapped a dead twig off a rhododendron bush and viciously crumbled it between her thin fingers.
Bartholomew shoved his hands into his trouser pockets to keep from striking the woman. "Hester, I'll not allow you to speak of Miss Scott that way. She's your nephew's fiancée. How do you think he would feel to hear you call his bride such names?"
"She won't be his bride. Not if I have anything to say about it."
Bartholomew closed his eyes. Once, he had enjoyed Hester's soft southern drawl. Since their marriage he heard it only when company was about. Otherwise, her voice rose to a whiny shriek he had come to detest. Pain throbbed at the back of his head. The woman would not rest until she created trouble between Ariah and Pritchard. The boy was not strong willed. He not only allowed his aunt to walk all over him, he almost seemed to kiss her feet as she did it. Bartholomew let out a snort of disgust and strode several feet away. His nerves were more tightly laced than Hester's corset, and he felt a need for action, preferably something violent.
He glanced up as a flash of yellow caught his eye. Ariah stood at the library's French doors, taking advantage of the light to study one of the reverend's books. An avid collector of sea shells, Ketcham had recently published a work of his own entitled An Analytical Key For The Collection And Identification of Oregon Sea Shells. Obviously fascinated, Ariah was spending a good deal of time perusing the reverend's excellent library of books on Oregon wildlife.
Bartholomew didn't blame her. If he could, he'd bury himself in a pile of books as well. Anything would be better than listening to Hester rail at him for something he had no control over. Turning, he walked back to his wife. The light was fading fast now that the sun had gone down. He was tired and eager for his bed. It was the only place he could be certain Hester would leave him alone. "Marrying Miss Scott is Pritchard's decision, Hester. It's none of our business, and I won't allow you to interfere."
"Like thunder it ain't my business. My brother entrusted him to me when he let him come all the way here from Missouri to live with me. I will not let Otis down."
Bartholomew stepped closer and pinned her with a look that could fell trees. "Otis had no choice in the matter, and you know it. Pritchard came without his parent's knowledge, let alone their permission."
"But Otis let him stay, which proves that—"
"It proves only that your brother was smart enough to know when he was licked. What good do you suppose it would have done for Otis to order Pritchard back? Good hell, woman, the boy's of age. He can go where he pleases. And marry who he pleases."
"He needed a mother figure in his life, what with Euphronia dying when he was so young, and he chose me to come to."
"Poor fool that he is." Bartholomew started for the house. He'd done all the arguing he intended to do. Inside was a woman as sunny as the dress she wore, and he meant to absorb as much of her sweet spirit as he could, even if it was from across a silent and forbidding room.
Hester had different ideas. She grabbed his arm. "What do you mean by that? I done my best by that boy. He loves me."
Bartholomew whirled to face her. His dark eyes sparked like obsidian striking stone. "He fears you, Hester. No more, no less. You interfere with his marriage and I'll see to it the Reverend and all your other friends here learn of the more colorful parts of your past."
"No!" She backed away from his cold implacable glare until she came up against the rhododendron bush and could go no farther. Bartholomew kept coming, his enormous shoulders blocking out what was left of the fading sunlight.
"You seem to think you can bind all of us to you through fear, Hester, but don't delude yourself into believing that is the same as love."
Hester made a sound of derision. "I'd certainly never make that mistake with you, Bartholomew. There's no love in you, threatening me like that."
He leaned over her, forcing her back into the shrub until her thin face was framed by the thick, leathery leaves and he caught their faint scent. "Not for you there isn't. But you didn’t let that stop you from sinking your claws into me seven years ago, did you? Only it was honor that was my downfall. Not fear. Maybe yo
u should keep that in mind; fear is a much stronger incentive than mere obligation."
Her eyes were huge, the irises as green as the rhododendron leaves, and dilated with a fear he knew she would never acknowledge.
Through Bartholomew's shirt Hester could see the muscles of his upper arms and shoulders flex as he clenched his fists. He had the strength to snap her in two, and God knew she'd given him plenty of provocation. Yet she could not resist egging him on a bit more.
"And what about lust, Bartholomew? How far would you let your filthy lust drive you? To that harlot's bed? Did you take what she no doubt offered you, cuckolding my poor foolish Pritchard before he's even bedded her himself?"
His hand struck before his brain even registered the urge. Her hand flew to her cheek, as she straightened to face him. The red imprint of his hand on her flesh shamed him even more than the heated night he had spent with Ariah in his bed. His gaze lifted to meet hers and for an insane moment he thought he saw passion blaze in her eyes.
"Well." Hester brushed leaves from the ruffles that capped her sleeves like a child's pinafore. "We know now you ain't above hitting a defenseless woman, don't we?"
An apology was forming on his tongue, but before he could get it out, she added, "First time I've ever seen you act like a man. About time, I'd say."
Stunned, he watched her circle Anna Ketcham's herb garden and enter the house through the kitchen. A movement took his gaze back to the French doors off the library. A flicker of yellow skirts. Ariah had seen.
Mortified, Bartholomew hurried to let himself in through the French doors, only to find the room empty. He took the back stairs two at a time and got to the upper hallway in time to hear the door to Ariah's room click shut. Glancing about to make sure no one was around, he knocked and called her name. No answer. He turned the knob, found it unlocked, and quickly let himself inside. Ariah was seated in a nook built into the small bay window that overlooked the back yard. Her hands were clasped around her knees, her feet hidden under her skirts.
"Bartholomew, you shouldn't be here." She leaped up and flew across the floor to him.
He took her hands in his, and held them to his chest. "You saw, didn't you?"
"Yes."
Her gaze never wavered, showing neither disgust nor disapproval. He dropped her hands and clutched her to him in a tight embrace. "Woman, woman, woman, you are a treasure."
The words came out like a sigh. He felt at home in her arms, happy and at peace. How could he give her up, and go back to Hester? To live day after day with her freezing contempt, her bitter, negative outlook, her whining complaints.
Ariah belonged to him. How could he stand by and let Pritchard have her? Pain knifed through him until he thought he would die. Wanted to die. Viciously he shoved aside his tortured thoughts. Ariah would never be his and he had best get used to the idea.
Setting her away from him, he stared intently into her eyes. His voice was harsh with self-contempt. "Would you believe me if I told you I’d never hit a woman until today? Even with Hester, I've never lost control before, but—"
Ariah placed her fingers over his mouth, shushing him. "It was because of me, wasn't it?"
He opened his mouth to lie to her and found that he couldn't. "You'd have to be homelier than the south end of a two-ton sow to escape her jealousy, Ariah."
She turned away. "Maybe, but we both know I deserve her enmity, don't we?"
He shook his head as he moved to the window and braced a hand against the window frame while peering into the gathering darkness. "She's always been a bitter, spiteful woman. No doubt I'm partly to blame."
"I don't believe that. I've wondered a thousand times about your marriage, about what your wife was like. But once I met her, I felt I understood."
He swung about to stare at her, astonished by her gentle tone.
"She doesn't like herself very much, Bartholomew. She sees her own self-loathing in your eyes, and she hates you for it. What she needs is kindness."
"Huh! Kindness." He threw himself down on the window seat and gazed gloomily out at the vacant garden. "When she first came to live with us, she seemed so vulnerable, so . . .defeated. I felt sorry for her. Pa said I had the damn fool notions of a female. He was right. I saw Hester as a tragic heroine, suffering the injustice of an unfair world."
He chuckled but there was a dark edge to the sound. "When Pa died and she realized I wouldn't need her anymore, that she'd be without a home again, she—"
He sprang from the bench and went to the door. Matters were bad enough. He didn't need to give Ariah more reason to dislike Hester. Or reason to pity him either. With his hand on the knob, he paused. "Don't trust her too much, little nymph. Hester never forgets, or forgives."
♥ ♥ ♥
Ariah's trepidation mounted as they boarded the Henrietta I off Front Street, and the boat put-putted up Hoquarton Slough. Her stomach roiled as the boat moved beneath her. She looked over the side at the dark water and fought the terror. The slough didn't look like much more than a stream, but it widened once it merged with the Tillamook River. It broadened even more before emptying into the bay.
She hadn't expected the inlet to be so big. The spot Bartholomew pointed out as Bay City on the north bank was merely a dark blur. The south bank, where ferns and elderberry shrubs crowded the cliff-face, was much closer, but not enough to soothe Ariah's fear. If the boat had sunk in the river she might have had a chance to get to shore, but here, it appeared hopeless. The water was gray and murky, making her shudder as she wondered what lay beneath its riffled surface.
Up ahead, mist shrouded the spit which separated ocean from bay. The sky was overcast, somber and threatening. Gulls wheeled overhead, their melancholy cries filling her with loneliness. She shrugged her cloak more snugly around her slim shoulders, trying to cast off the dread that had descended on her as the time grew near to board the boat.
"It looks entirely different when the tide's out," Bartholomew said as he came to stand behind her.
"You mean the ocean tides affect the water clear in here?"
At his wry chuckle, she glanced at him over her shoulder. Hester, dressed in stiff black bombazine, her skirt so covered with black ruffles and bows that she looked like the inside of a hearse, scowled in their direction from her seat at the back of the boat where she was guarding her new étagère.
Ariah had been shocked by her first glimpse of Hester. The woman looked a good deal older than Bartholomew. She was gaunt, with limp hair and a mouth that turned down at the corners. The guilt Ariah had experienced before meeting Hester quadrupled. Ariah heaved a silent sigh. She must try harder to win the woman's friendship. For Bartholomew's sake.
"At low tide, this is all mud flats with only a few channels of water meandering through." Bartholomew waved his hand to indicate the entire inlet. "Travel has to be carefully timed with high tide or you could find yourself up to your knees in muck, dragging the boat across."
Ariah directed her gaze back at the murky water. "Is this actually sea water?"
"With five rivers emptying into the bay, it’s pretty much of a mixture." Bartholomew looked down at her white-knuckled hands gripping the railing. His expression softened. "How's the stomach? Are you still queasy?"
"Yes, very much so. I suppose you think me silly for being afraid of boats."
"I don't think it's boats you're afraid of, but drowning."
Ariah smiled. It was good to have him there beside her, safe and reassuring. "You're right, of course. Once when I was seven, my father took us out in a rowboat on the Ohio River. To me the water seemed so vast and the boat so small. I felt more vulnerable in that boat than I ever have, before or since."
"And you still do."
"Yes. I still do."
They gazed at each other, smiling, content simply to be close. Ariah felt the magnetism between them, the spark that always seemed to catch when they got close. She yearned for him to take her in his arms. The comfort and safety his presence offered w
asn't enough. She needed to touch him, and to know he felt the same way. But that could never be. Hester would see to that.
"What are you two looking at?"
At the sound of Hester's querulous Southern voice, Bartholomew casually stepped aside. "I was explaining to Miss Scott that the waters of the bay are made up of fresh water from the rivers, as well as sea water."
Bartholomew glanced back out toward the sea, feeling the excitement that always came with his first glimpse of the ocean after a trip inland. He tried to pretend Hester wasn't there, but he sensed her presence, the way he sometimes sensed danger. "Are you feeling well, Hester?"
"Of course I am. What are you incinerating?
"I'm not insinuating anything, Hester. Anyone can suffer sea sickness. It does not mark you as a—"
"I said," she interrupted in a voice slightly less genteel than the one Ariah had heard so far, "I ain't ill. You won't have the fun of seeing me rolling around in the bottom of this boat, moaning and groaning like a sick dog."
"Hester—"
Hoping to avert an argument, Ariah interrupted with the first thought that came into her head: "Are there any dogs at the lighthouse?"
Hester sniffed inelegantly. "Most certainly not. Dogs are not only obscurantly filthy but appallingly odoriferous as well. I won't have one near me."
"Been studying the dictionary again, Hester?"
Bartholomew's words were so soft Ariah wasn't certain she heard them, except that Hester glared at him as though she wanted to shove him overboard. With a rustle of her black bombazine skirts, she pivoted on her heel and cautiously made her way to her fancy new knick-knack shelf. Ariah turned back to the railing, her grip on the weathered wood tightening as the boat struck a swell and rocked. As she scoured the morning mist for a glimpse of the dock at Barnagat, she could still feel Hester's malevolent gaze on her spine.
How much did Hester's nephew resemble her? Ariah's fear of the water was edged aside by new qualms as her thoughts turned to her approaching marriage.
Last evening, after leaving Ariah in her room, Bartholomew placed their belongings in the care of the boat service and sent a message to Pritchard to meet them in Barnagat at the next high tide with the horses. Later he paid his brother Calvin a visit at the old Noon farm and returned the wagon and team he had borrowed for the trip to Portland. At any moment the Henrietta I would break out of the mist to pull alongside the small wooden dock of a town that was little more than a post office, a school and a few scattered homes. When it did, Ariah would at last meet the man she was to marry. The man who would lie beside her every night for the rest of her life.
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