Ariah's stomach heaved at the thought. She closed her eyes and prayed, Please, Lord, at least let us like each other.
"I'm relieved to see that Pritchard got my message."
At the sound of Bartholomew's voice, Ariah opened her eyes. The mist surrounded them, making the rocking boat seem as though it had been lifted into the clouds, a sensation that added to her nausea. But there, not more than fifty yards in front of them, was the dock. A string of horses waited nearby. Back from shore stood a small building silhouetted against a backdrop of evergreen trees as dark and somber as Hester's black dress—the Barnagat post office.
A slender young man exited the building and ran toward the dock, waving his arms. Ariah's heart picked up speed. Was this her future husband?
Children, brown as berries, with black hair and eyes, scrambled up from their seats on the dock and yanked in their fishing lines as the boat nosed in to the dock. But Ariah saw only the young man. He was slight, with light hair and eyes. Nothing like Bartholomew.
The thud of wood against wood abruptly brought her gaze back to the boat. Directly in front of her the dock bobbed up and down alongside the boat. Up, down. Up, down. Instantly, her stomach revolted. She sucked in a deep breath of salty sea air to banish the nausea. A keen wind whined inside her head, in her ears. Someone was yelling, "Uncle Bart. Hey, Uncle Bart," but the sound was distant and hollow.
"We're here, Ariah. You can get out of the boat now."
She recognized Bartholomew's voice and felt the warmth of his hand cover hers. Ariah swallowed hard. She focused on that large familiar hand until the queasiness ebbed. When she glanced up, he smiled gently.
"Let go, nymph. You're safe now."
But she couldn't let go. The entire world was whirling about her, spinning faster and faster.
There was a rustle of stiff fabric, followed by Hester's strident voice. "What's the matter with her, Bartholomew? She's blocking the way. I want to get out. And you have to get my étagère safely onto the dock at once."
"She's lost all her color, Hester. I think she's going to be sick."
Ariah saw Bartholomew's lips move, faintly heard his voice. Her stomach fishtailed inside her. As long as she could keep staring at him and avoid looking down, she could fight the sickness and the fear. She tried to breathe slowly and deeply, but all she could do was pant. Strong fingers were prying her hands from the railing. Inside her head she was screaming, No! No, I'll fall overboard. But no sound came from her lips.
"Is this her, Uncle Bart? Is this her?"
Ariah knew the voice belonged to Pritchard Monteer. At last, the time was here for her first glimpse of her intended, if only she could get her eyes past the water to look up. But she couldn't.
"Get that girl away from there, Bartholomew. I told you I want out of this boat. Now."
Ariah's mouth watered. Her stomach began to convulse.
"I'm doing my best, Hester. Brace her so she doesn't fall when I get her loose."
"Me? You brace her, you brought her here."
"What's wrong with her, Uncle Bart? She's turning green."
Ariah felt herself losing her grip on the railing as her fingers were pried away. The boat spun crazily. Everything inside her head went round and round. She must throw herself to the bottom of the boat or she would fall overboard. One hand came free and they began on the other. She couldn't hang on much longer. Left, throw yourself to the left, so when you fall you'll still be in the boat.
"Easy, Ariah, everything's all right. Hold her, Hester. I can't do this all by myself."
"Uncle Bart?"
Ariah's other hand came free. Shapes and colors flashed around her. She looked down, trying to find something to focus on, an anchor to hold her steady. The side of the boat bobbed up, down, up, down. Every time it went down, she saw black shoes and navy blue trouser legs standing on the dock. Bile rose into her throat, tasting of spoiled fish guts. She gagged it back. She was falling. Left, fall to the left. She lurched to the side and was caught by a strong arm around her middle, accidentally squeezing her stomach.
Ariah vomited.
A woman screeched. Ariah caught a glimpse of stiff, black ruffled skirts—very messy skirts—before she fainted.
Chapter Fourteen
The lighthouse station at Cape Meares was everything Ariah had hoped for, and more.
Although only two miles from Barnagat, the trip took a good hour by horse. More than once panic stole her breath as her horse slipped and she feared they would tumble backwards down the steep trail.
Creeks trickled through the forest like blood vessels in a hand. Seeps lay in every hollow, scenting the air with musty dampness. Giant Sitka spruce and hemlock enclosed the travelers in a fantasy world where branches reached out like petrified wraiths with arms clothed in tattered green velvet.
Ariah gasped at the sight of a full grown tree sprouting from the top of what looked like a thick wall encased in moss, where ferns and smaller trees had taken root.
"Look," she whispered in reverent amazement. "It's eerie, yet so beautiful. But why would anyone build a wall here?"
Pritchard gave the specimen a quick glance, and shrugged. "That's not a wall. It's an old fallen tree."
"They call them nurse logs," Bartholomew said from his place in front of Ariah. "Rain, fog and the humus provided by the rotting tree make a perfect breeding ground for moss and seedlings."
"I feel as though I've arrived in some strange new world, another planet. One of the stars, perhaps," she said, "where fairies dance naked in the moonlight and weave the fog into gossamer veils of silk."
Bartholomew chuckled. "Have to be the moon. A star would be too hot. And the fairies would be green and have antennae under those veils." He turned in his saddle to wink at Ariah. "Now, if you spot any nymphs getting ready to dance naked in the moonlight, let me know."
Hester snorted. "Lot of foolish talk, if you ask me."
Suddenly, they broke into the open. Before them stood a barn and two houses, their white paint and lead-colored trim sparkling in the sunlight. Beyond the buildings a barren finger of land stretched away into the distance, the top of the lighthouse barely visible at its tip. All else was the sea. Billowing clouds mirrored the ocean's grayness, making it difficult to discern where water left off and sky began. Excited, Ariah prodded her mount into a trot, past Bartholomew to the nearest edge of the bluff, where she reined in and slid to the ground.
Never had she expected it to be so beautiful, so awesome. Worked into a white froth, waves battered against the sheer ragged walls of the cliff that embraced a beachless cove directly below. The water receded, humped like a spitting cat, and attacked again. Each wave was unique. Some crashed angrily, spewing froth high into the air, others rolled in with calm precision and but a kiss of foam. Evergreen trees grew to the very edge of the plant-bedecked cliff-face. Water streamed down the rough mossy sides. The sea whispered a husky lullaby, accented by the raucous cries of gulls.
Two monoliths stood off the point of land like dark, sinister guardians. Seastacks, she thought, recalling Bartholomew's words about the rocks where sea lions, seals and birds took refuge. The wind flattened her skirts against her legs and snatched her bonnet from her head, leaving it to flap against her back from the ribbons around her neck. The action of the water and the gusts rocking her body were miserably reminiscent of the movement of the boat. Nausea threatened, but she swallowed it down. Beneath her feet lay good solid earth. She couldn't drown here.
"Aren't you afraid you'll fall off?"
Ariah whirled at the sound of the voice. Pritchard stood behind her, well away from the edge. His dark, double-breasted coat, with its gleaming brass buttons and the insignia on its collar, stood open to reveal a matching vest. On his head, instead of his Keeper's cap, he wore what appeared to be a little round box, upside down, with a stiffened flap over his eyes like an awning.
"Is the ground unstable?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Not when it's dry. But you
could lose your balance, you know. Sometimes the wind stops so suddenly you don't realize you've been leaning into it until you fall over."
She looked down at the swirling water far below, and shuddered. Her retreat was almost as hasty as her mad race to get there. Pritchard's hands were clasped behind his back when she joined him. He rocked on his heels, down, up, down, as though ill at ease.
"We had an unusual introduction, didn't we?" she said.
He grinned boyishly. "I don't recall any introduction at all."
Ariah smiled and held out her hand. "In that case, hello, I'm Ariah Scott."
"And I'm Pritchard Monteer.″
He took her hand in his and fidgeted with her slim fingers, seeming uncertain what else to say. His hands were small and, like his face, unmarked by life. When he spoke, the words came out in a rush, as though he feared he wouldn't get them out otherwise.
"I set the wedding for Saturday next. Reverend Ketcham has agreed to perform the ceremony . . .if that's all right with you," he added hastily, meeting her gaze with anxious eyes. "You do still want to get married, don't you?"
She felt an odd urge to straighten his collar, check behind his ears and take him to the kitchen for cookies. The hazel eyes might have been Hester's, except that his reminded Ariah of soft summer grass instead of tundra and icy glaciers. His brown hair was slick with pomade and parted down the middle, the way John Upham wore his. Except that Pritchard's refused to lay flat. It curled at the temples, like the wings of the angel Patera put on top of the Christmas tree each year. The memory brought a stab of pain to her heart. Deftly, she withdrew her hand.
"Don't you want to get to know me first?" she asked, thinking of the humiliating moment in the boat when she'd lost control of her heaving stomach. Bartholomew—dear, thoughtful Bartholomew—had taken them to a house where an Indian woman helped her clean up and change. Warm tea and a bit of rest had put her to rights. "I might do worse things than vomit on your poor aunt, you know."
His cheeks flushed with color. "I thought young ladies didn't discuss such unseemly subjects as body functions."
"Stuff and nonsense. If I can get sick in public and still be a lady, surely I can talk about it."
Thinking that over, he smiled. "It does seem rather silly that just talking about something natural and necessary should dictate what kind of person you are."
"Of course it's silly. But the world is full of ridiculous ideas. Like women being suited only to raise children when they could become perfectly fine doctors and lawyers."
Pritchard frowned. "But if all women took such notions, what would happen to the world? Nobody'd have any babies."
"Don't be absurd. A career would not necessarily preclude motherhood. Besides, not all women would want to be doctors or lawyers. There would always be plenty who preferred to stay home and be fat three-quarters of every year."
Her reference to the state of pregnancy brought the color rising once more to Pritchard's cheeks. Swallowing her amusement, Ariah suggested they join the others.
"Holy Hector! Aunt Hester will box my ears." He started back toward the houses, taking her horse with him. "There's unloading and putting away to do, and she said to tell you she expects you to do your share."
"I'm sorry, I never meant not to help." She hurried to catch up with him. "It's only that this was my first glimpse of the ocean and I was carried away. But I'm going to love it here, I know I am."
He came to a halt so suddenly that she nearly ran into him. The mare whinnied in protest. "Does that mean you'll marry me?"
She glanced at his eager, smooth-skinned face and wondered if kissing him would be as pleasant as kissing Bartholomew. He was no taller than she was. All she had to do was lean forward.
Pritchard gasped as her lips briefly met his. "Holy Hector!"
He took her by the arms and pulled her fully against him. His nose sideswiped hers as he sought her mouth. It was a wet, awkward kiss, and she found herself shoving at him to escape.
When he finally released her, he took off his cap, tossed it into the air and let out a whoop of joy. He ran a few paces toward the houses, before turning back. "I've got to go tell the others. We're going to have fun, you and me, wait and see. I'll make you glad you married me, Ariah, I promise."
Wondering exactly when she had agreed to marry him, and doubting the truth of his predicted happiness, Ariah picked up the reins of the forgotten horse. Could she be happy married to Pritchard Monteer? An image of Bartholomew with lantern light highlighting the hard muscles and curves of his naked body, danced into her mind.
Uncle Xenos would come after her. She knew it with a surety she could credit only to female intuition. It was difficult to believe her own uncle could kill her. Yet the memory of her father's bloodied and battered face argued that Xenos was capable of anything. If she didn't marry Pritchard, what would she do? Run someplace else? Keep on running the rest of her life, or until he caught up with her?
The mere thought of getting back on that boat and enduring another ride across the bay was enough to stiffen her resolve to see her original plan through. Marriage was the only sure answer, and she had only one candidate to choose from.
Her decision made, Ariah lifted her gaze to the house that would be her new home. Bartholomew stood in the yard behind the fence, staring at her somberly. Beside him Pritchard was waving his arms in excitement as he passed on the good news. Ariah didn't look to see how Hester took the announcement. It didn't matter how Hester felt. Ariah's only interest was in the man still standing by the gate. Even from where she stood she could tell his knuckles were white from gripping the wooden pickets. The same gentle hands that had strummed her body until it sang with unbelievable bliss now curled into angry fists. She wanted to go to him, to deny Pritchard's claim and assure him she would never belong to any man but him. But she could never be his; Bartholomew Noon was already married.
Bartholomew's gaze fell away. His head bowed, he released the pickets, turned and stalked off between the houses toward the barn. Ariah sucked in a deep shaky breath and let it out in a rush, feeling as if she had just been doomed to hell.
Pritchard waved and called for her to come. She went, but her feet dragged as though she were towing solid steel anchors behind her rather than a docile mare.
♥ ♥ ♥
Hester eyed the girl standing in the kitchen doorway and wondered how long it would take to tear out the mass of hair piled on top of Ariah Scott's head, golden strand by golden strand. The girl's skin was flawless, but it would age, the same way Hester's had. Hester only hoped to live long enough to see it. No, she didn't. She wanted Ariah Scott out of her life much sooner than that. Tomorrow. Yesterday.
"Is there anything I can do to help with breakfast, Mrs. Noon? I do want to make myself useful here," Ariah said.
"In that case, how about milking the cows?"
Taken aback, Ariah stared at the woman. "Milk the cows?"
"You know how, don't you?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't."
"You know how to churn butter? Make jelly? Plant beans?"
"No, I—"
"What the hell use are you going to be around here, then?"
"I can learn to do those things, can't I?"
"Yes, you can," Bartholomew said from the doorway where he had just entered from the porch. "But there isn't any rush. Is there, Hester?"
Hester caught the threatening inflection of his tone and glared back at him. Damn the man for interfering again.
"I'll show you how to do the milking tomorrow after you've had a chance to get your sea legs," Bartholomew told Ariah. He pulled back a chair at the table, indicating that she should seat herself.
"T'ain't necessary," Hester put in, determined to keep them from spending more time together. As long as Bartholomew provided the physical comforts Hester desired, and did nothing to prevent her from attaining the status she wanted in the community, she had never cared what he did. Knowing how he was about his precious honor, she had
felt safe as far as other women were concerned. But with the arrival of the slut sitting at her table, everything was different. "She can feed the chickens and accommodate the eggs instead."
Bartholomew gave his wife a satisfied smile, ignoring the misused word. "Fine. Now, what's for breakfast this morning?"
"Porridge," she said, pouring him a cup of coffee. "Or I could fry you a mess o' eggs."
"Eggs sound wonderful."
Ariah jumped to her feet. "Can I get them for you, Mrs. Noon?"
Scowling, Hester jerked her head toward the pantry set between the kitchen and dining room. "They're in there. I ‘spose you want me to fry you up some, too?"
Ariah opened her mouth to say yes, glanced from the glowering woman to the pan of prepared mush on the stove. "No, porridge will be fine for me, thank you."
Hester watched her husband's gaze follow the girl from the room as Ariah went to fetch the eggs, and her insides churned. Never had Bartholomew looked at her with such reverence and longing. Not even in the days before their marriage when he had been so hungry for her body she could almost smell his lust.
She had known the minute he got back from Portland that Bartholomew had feelings for the little tart. Feelings no married man ought to have. Now Hester speculated on just how far things had gone while the two of them were holed up at the Upham place so long.
If Miss Uppity Scott figured to have Pritchard and Bartholomew both, she was gonna have to rethink her plans. Hester had plans of her own. The girl had already taken all she was gonna take away from Hester Noon. Bartholomew could threaten her all he wanted about interfering between Pritchard and his bride, but there were more ways to scrape hair off a skunk than one, and back in the hills of Georgia, Hester had learned them all.
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