Winter Cottage

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  Claire closed the door behind her. She had several cards from ladies wanting to discuss a position in their home.

  Victoria twisted in her seat and faced her. “I’m glad for you. You work hard, and it’s wonderful that you’ll be acknowledged.”

  Claire approached. “I spoke to Jimmy today.”

  Victoria’s brow knotted, but she didn’t say a word.

  “He’ll marry you.”

  She started to brush her hair again in long, steady strokes. “He’s being foolish, of course. You know that.”

  “Do I?”

  A delicate brow arched. “Claire, tell me you’re not buying into this Romeo-and-Juliet fantasy. I could never marry Jimmy. He’s being honorable, but I must be practical for the both of us.”

  “What if there’s a baby?” Claire whispered.

  Pure laughter bubbled from her. “Don’t be so dramatic. That would not happen to me.”

  “Because you wish it to be so doesn’t mean that it will be.”

  Victoria turned back toward the mirror. “You’re worrying over nothing.”

  “And if I’m right? He’ll be off to sea and you’ll be alone. The war will ensure there are no trips abroad.”

  She looked up beyond her reflection to Claire. “You’re jealous because it’s not you. You want his baby in your belly and his ring on your finger.”

  “I do. I see no shame in admitting it.”

  “And have you told him?”

  Claire was suddenly angry, not at Victoria or Jimmy but at herself. She’d had moments she could have shared her feelings, but she’d been afraid to breach the silence and find rejection or, worse, his pity.

  “If you want him, you better find the courage,” Victoria said.

  “He doesn’t want me.”

  “Do you know that for certain?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suggest you find him. As you said, he might not return.”

  Claire’s anger nearly drove her mad over the next few days. She lost count of the number of times she walked toward the boathouse to see Jimmy and then lost her nerve.

  Claire heard her father had returned from his short voyage along the coast and would be in town for the next two days. She could easily have avoided him, but as she walked up to the Jessups’ for supper, carrying belated Christmas gifts for her brothers and the Jessups, she detoured. She wanted to see the cottage that she’d lived in for the first twelve years of her life. The home her whole family had shared before everything had unraveled.

  She gripped her small satchel of wrapped gifts. Her fingers ached as she walked along the sandy road. When the time came to turn onto the path toward her father’s cottage, she hesitated as her bravery waned. Drawing in a breath, she pressed on until she saw what remained of the Hedrick family home.

  The white paint had faded, and the red tin roof had rusted in the salt air. The gardens her mother had planted and cared for had long since succumbed to weeds. The yard was filled with scrap wood, an overturned boat, buoys, crab pots, and all kinds of clutter men liked to save. There were no lights on in the house, and the scent of bread baking was now just a distant memory.

  Claire knocked on the front door and waited. When she didn’t hear a sound, she twisted the knob and opened the door. The house was dark and smelled of mold and musk. “Father?”

  The silence enveloped her, making her feel less welcome. She stepped softly through the house, touching the wingback chair where her mother had sat and shown her the magic of needle and thread. She closed her eyes and could almost hear her laughter.

  Clenching her hands, she crossed into the kitchen, expecting the warmth she’d remembered but finding a cold cast-iron stove, dust on the floor, and the wooden family dining table now covered in ropes and pulleys. The only hint of life was an unwashed cup and bowl in the sink.

  Through the back window, she spotted her father standing on the dock that stretched fifty feet out into the bay.

  He was wrapping a rope around his arm, just as he had done a million times when she was a child. His broad shoulders stooped slightly, and the hair that peeked out from the knit hat was no longer a blend of salt and pepper but stark white.

  There was a part of her that felt pity for him. He’d been dealt a harsh blow when her mother died and he was faced with raising seven children with a merchant marine’s job waiting. He’d had only difficult options before him.

  But another part of her embraced the hard kernels of anger that had not softened over the years. He should have been more careful with her mother. He should have known childbirth was a dangerous undertaking for her when she’d almost died after her fourth birth. But he’d wanted a son. And when she finally gave him a son, he’d wanted another and then another. And she’d obliged until her body simply failed.

  The wind blew off the sound, billowing his jacket. He would be gone again tomorrow. She drew in a breath. “Father.”

  Gnarled fingers stopped winding the rope. He didn’t turn right away.

  “Father,” she repeated.

  This time he did straighten his body and turn. His face was thinner and more weathered than she remembered. A scar on his chin peeked through the thick gray stubble.

  Gray eyes narrowed.

  Did he know which of his daughters had returned? He’d farmed out his boys to the Jessups but had banished all four of his daughters.

  “It’s Claire,” she said.

  “Aye, I know who you are.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”

  “You look as angry as you did the day you left.” He dropped his head and, reaching for a rag in his pocket, wiped the dirt from his hands.

  She had been angry. She was still. But she refused to allow that emotion to dictate what she said now. “I brought you a gift for the holidays. I know they’ve passed, but this might be our only chance.” She stepped toward him and handed him a scarf she’d made and wrapped in blue tissue paper. “It’s not much.”

  “I don’t have anything for you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He studied the wrapped package in her hand for so long she thought he didn’t want it. Finally, he accepted it, and tore open the blue paper, exposing a green scarf knitted from thick wool.

  “My stitching is better now,” she said. “I made that for you shortly after I left. I thought we’d be home for Christmas and I could give it to you.” Her voice dropped. “I suppose I’m as stubborn as you. I was determined to give it to you.”

  With a trembling hand, he traced some of the knots. “Why did you make this for me?”

  “Mom always made you scarves.” She’d worked hard on knitting and had always been proud of the work.

  He fingered the green wool threads. “Come inside the house.”

  She followed him to the kitchen, this time not as jarred by the changes in her family home.

  “It’s not what it was,” he said, reading her mind.

  “How could it be?”

  He grunted and then vanished into the living area. She didn’t follow, not wanting to see any more evidence that the life she’d once loved was truly forever gone. Sadly, these images would be the ones that would linger.

  He returned holding a small ivory box that fit into the palm of his hand. It was made of whalebone, and its lid was covered in delicate triangular etchings. A small gold lock fastened in the front.

  “It belonged to your mother,” he said. “Or it would have. She died before I could give it to her.”

  She stilled, not trusting herself to speak. For so long she’d felt abandoned, alone, and lost.

  “When we sailed to New England, there were always whalers in the pubs. I crossed paths with one each year, and he was always on hard times. I’d buy him a few beers, and he’d give me a bit of his handiwork.”

  She accepted it from him and carefully opened it. Inside was a compass, only it was no simple tool. The tiniest of etchings created intricate patterns that not only marked north, east, south, and
west but also displayed very precise degrees between each of the major points. In the center was the image of a snow goose.

  “He made one for each of you girls. Each of the boys got knives. I gave the other children theirs, but you wouldn’t have anything to do with me after your mother died. You slapped my hand away when I offered it as you were leaving.”

  She remembered feeling so lost and afraid. She’d wanted nothing from him in that moment. It had been easier to be angry than acknowledge the pain she’d felt over losing her mother and family. A year later when the agony of loss had faded to a dull ache, she could admit she missed him and this town. She’d asked him in her first letters why he’d never sent for her, but of course he’d never answered any of the letters. “Why didn’t you ever send for me?”

  He lowered his head and cleared his throat. “I went to sea right away. I’ve not been back much since.”

  “We needed you.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You were best to live somewhere else. There was no life for you here without your mother. I wasn’t enough.”

  “You were.”

  “What kind of life would you have had, raising your six brothers and sisters and working yourself to the bone? You’d have been an old woman by the time you were eighteen. But now look at you. You look so fancy. The Buchanans have been good to you?”

  “Yes, they have, Father.”

  “I knew they would be.” He shook his head. “I almost didn’t recognize you when I first turned.”

  She closed the box. “I’m going to the Jessups’ for a late Christmas lunch. Come with me. We’ll see the boys together.”

  He shook his head. “No, Claire. There’s no place for me at that table.”

  “If there’s a place for me, then there’s one for you.”

  His face hardened. “No. But you go. Make sure the boys are minding Sally. Her baby is due any day.”

  Tears clogged her throat, and before she thought twice, she closed the distance between them and kissed him on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Father.”

  He sniffed and coughed. “You best get going. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  As she left, she sensed this would be the last time she’d see her father—standing on the front stoop of their old home, clutching the scarf.

  It was another mile of walking to the Jessup family’s farm. The winter winds quickly overtook what heat the sun provided. The cold sliced through the layers of her jacket, forcing her to burrow deeply as she made her way along the graveled road. Shoes designed more for style than function pinched her toes. Her cheeks were chapped from the wind, and she sniffled constantly to control a runny nose.

  The Jessups lived in a small house on the ocean side of the shore. They weren’t wealthy by the Buchanans’ standards but had done well enough, making their money fishing and selling Chesapeake Bay duck to the restaurants in Norfolk.

  She knocked on the front door and heard a peal of laughter and the clamoring of young feet. The last time she’d been home, the youngest of her brothers, Michael, had been four years old, Joseph five, and Stanley six. Claire should have come to see them right after her return but had been good at finding excuses not to see the children her father had struggled to keep close to him. She wasn’t proud about this and pushed the thought out of her mind.

  The door opened to Sally Jessup. Her belly had grown rounder since the dance, and her face radiated. “Claire, you have arrived! The boys are anxious to see you.”

  A loud thud echoed from somewhere in the house. A dog barked but sounded more excited than menacing.

  “It sounds like they’re full of energy.” Smiling, she stepped inside, savoring the warmth and the scents of spices, yeast dough, and roasting meat.

  “It’s a regular day by most standards. Let me take your coat.”

  Claire shrugged off the coat and allowed Sally to take it. “Thank you for having me.”

  “Of course. We’re family.”

  The house had low ceilings and whitewashed walls. The furniture wasn’t ornate but practical, each piece having multiple functions. In the main room, she found her three brothers in a tangle on the floor in front of the hearth filled with a crackling fire.

  In another corner was a handmade crib fitted with fresh linens. Claire’s father had made that crib for her, and he’d carried it to the Jessups’ house the day he’d brought his boys here. She’d been carrying Michael in her arms, and Joseph and Stanley had clung to her skirts. All three boys had been crying when she and her father had left. He’d taken her straightaway to the train station and told her he had made arrangements for her to live with the Buchanan family. He’d left her at the station and never once looked back.

  “Boys, get up.” Sally unfurled the knot of legs and arms and saw to it each boy was standing like a proper young man. “Claire, may I present my boys and your brothers.” She laid her hand on the shortest boy first. Michael was gangly at fifteen. He had red hair like their mother and a splay of freckles that made him look more imp than human.

  “Michael, you have grown.”

  He tugged at his shirt and pressed his head higher. “Thank you.”

  Sally then placed her hands on the shoulders of a dark-haired boy who had a long, lean face so much like their father’s people. “This is Joseph.”

  “Hello, Joseph.”

  “And finally,” Sally said, “the oldest of these ruffians is Stanley. Seventeen and now preparing for his first sea voyage.”

  “I’ll be sailing with Jimmy,” Stanley said with pride. “He’s to be our captain.”

  “Yes, he told me,” Claire said. She wanted to grab them all and sail back into the past. She wanted her mother to be alive and for her real family to be together again.

  Sally squeezed her hand. “It’s hard to let them grow up, but we must.”

  Claire stared at the faces of her brothers, each she’d helped deliver, and now found strangers looking back. Sally had done her best to write, but letters were a pale substitute for seeing first steps, baby teeth lost, or sailing lessons mastered.

  “You’ll all have to give me a minute, boys.” Unwelcome emotion tightened her throat. “It’s hard to reconcile the three young babies I remember with these strapping young men.”

  The boys regarded Claire with a mixture of curiosity and some trepidation. To the youngest two, she was not just a visitor but a potential threat to the only family they had known. “Where are our sisters?” Michael asked.

  Like her, they’d been sent away. “Jemma, Sarah, and Diane are still working in different cities. I’ve seen them from time to time. They’re doing well.”

  “When are they coming back?” Stanley asked.

  At least the sisters had some memories and a photograph to memorialize their mother. The boys had only Claire and the stories she could tell. “I don’t know,” she said. “I hope soon. It would be nice if all the Hedrick children could be together again sometime.”

  Joseph frowned. “We are Jessups.”

  Claire could have argued bloodlines and finer legal details, but as she stared at Joseph’s furrowed brow, so reminiscent of their mother’s, she chose not to spoil this rare visit with an argument impossible to win. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Sally said. “The boys know they were brought to me, but they’re mine.”

  Their real mother had clutched her oldest two boys to her breast after they’d been born and wept tears of joy. Claire had bottle-fed Michael herself, rocking him to sleep each night while the other two slept on a bed beside her. “I know Christmas Day has passed, but I have brought you presents as well as gifts for Sally and Eric. Would you like to see them?”

  “When Pa gets back from the dock. He’s checking on his boat,” Joseph said.

  “We always wait for Pa to return,” Michael said.

  “Then we shall wait,” Claire said. “Who would like to take these from me?”

  None of the boys rushed forward. Finally
, Joseph nudged Stanley, who stepped toward her.

  As she handed Stanley the presents, she wanted him to remember her and to wrap his arms around her. She wanted him to see how much she loved him. She wasn’t a stranger. She was his sister.

  Stanley took the gifts and handed them to Joseph, who was still boy enough to give in to curiosity and search for the package with his name. Under the watchful eye of Sally, the gifts were set on the corner table.

  The front door opened, carrying a bluster of wind and cold, and in stepped Eric Jessup. Claire smiled and took a step toward him, when suddenly Jimmy stepped over the threshold behind him. He pulled off his knit cap.

  “Look who I found wandering around the docks,” Eric said. “He said he expected to spend his last night in town packing, but I said that wouldn’t happen.”

  Sally laughed, waddling toward Jimmy and giving him a big hug. “Welcome. I knew if I sent Eric out searching, it wouldn’t be too hard to find you.”

  His arms came easily around her. “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Ah! There’s no such thing in the Jessup house. Everyone is welcome.”

  The boys didn’t need prompting to greet Jimmy. They rushed up to him, battering into him like buoys in a storm. Laughter rumbled in his chest as he captured Michael and Joseph in headlocks. Both boys whooped and hollered, but Jimmy held firm until he heard from both, “Uncle!”

  As he released the boys and straightened, his gaze settled on Claire. “Claire,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

  “Sally invited me. No better place to be on a chilly January day than with my brothers.”

  Michael tried to grab Jimmy’s lapel in a surprise attack, but he easily held the boy at bay. “I came by Winter Cottage last night. Mother fed me, but I didn’t see you.”

  “I retired early.”

  “Boys!” Eric said. “Come and help me get a few more logs for the fire.” Instead of waiting for an answer, he grabbed Joseph and Michael by the collars. Stanley had sense enough to follow.

  Sally followed her men toward the kitchen. “We’ll be eating in fifteen minutes.”