Winter Cottage

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  Beth moves the regular chair Mrs. B uses so that the young girl can push the wheelchair into the spot. She sets the brake and then takes the time to arrange the blanket on Mrs. B’s lap. Mrs. B has never been filmed in the wheelchair before. “All set, Mrs. B?”

  “Yes, thank you, Grace. I’ll ring when I need you.”

  The girl leaves and quietly slides the pocket doors to the parlor closed.

  “Rough night?” Beth asks.

  “I didn’t sleep well. Too many dreams.” She drags out the last word for effect.

  Beth knows Mrs. B wants to be asked about the dreams. But she’s enough of a diva to wait and be asked.

  Beth is glad to oblige. She’s grown fond of the old lady and likes to hear the stories about Claire and Jimmy. “Okay, I’ll bite. What did you dream about?”

  Mrs. B studies her manicured fingers. “You’re not really interested.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not.” She waves her hand dismissively.

  Beth arches a brow. “I didn’t think you played games, Mrs. B. I thought you were a straight shooter.”

  A bit of the moodiness chasing Mrs. B dissipates. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Beth shakes her head. “Please.”

  A spark of laughter flashes and, like a streak of lightning, is gone as quickly as it appears. “You’re saucy. You remind me of Victoria.”

  “You’ve said that before. What happened to her?”

  “She died an old woman several years ago. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, so this is the day of half answers? Are you going to tell me about Jimmy or not?”

  “First, child, tell me about that bruise on your wrist.”

  Beth tugs the sleeve again. “It’s nothing.”

  “So I’m not the only one who gives half answers.”

  She shrugs, acting like it’s not a big deal, hoping it chases away the memory behind the bruise. “This guy I’m seeing was playing around. He got too rough, and I bruise easily. He said he was sorry.”

  “Does he hurt you?”

  Beth flexes her fingers, wishing they didn’t tremble when she was scared. “No. Like I said, it was an accident.”

  “I had accidents like that once. My husband was always around when they happened.”

  She plucked at an invisible string on her skirt. “When my husband drank before we were married, he could be rather charming. But after I got pregnant and the stress mounted, he wasn’t so sweet when he drank.”

  “You haven’t talked about your husband much.”

  “Then today, I shall.”

  Claire

  September 1916

  The breeze from the bay did little to soften early September’s intense heat, which had blanketed the town for nearly two weeks. Claire had arrived in late April. The trip was not planned but necessary. Claire had returned to Winter Cottage to carry out her employer’s wishes.

  Today she had chosen a soft white muslin dress that hung loose and skimmed her ankles. Her red hair was tied up on top of her head with a white bow. She’d walked into town to visit the post office, hoping for a letter from Jimmy. He would send letters and trinkets to his mother when he reached ports, but it had been nearly six weeks since she’d heard from him. Claire always fetched the letters. The two would huddle together during the quiet moments of the summer days, and she would read to Mrs. Latimer.

  His last letters were full of short sentences. It rained today. Oranges in the port of Nassau. U-boat sightings two hundred miles north. Isaac and Stanley fare well. Tell Claire I miss her.

  Though the war had yet to pull America into the fight, she’d heard stories of more men joining the merchant marines. These men made supply runs that kept Britain stocked with fuel and food.

  Jimmy’s ship transported fuel, and already this year, the Mariah had made her third Atlantic crossing. If a ship could survive the two-week crossing to England, their cargos were sold quickly and the profits were bountiful for the company. But the threat of the U-boats, which had claimed dozens of ships, was increasing.

  Claire sifted through the rest of the mail. A large envelope from Mrs. Buchanan was postmarked California and addressed to Claire. She opened it and found several letters from Victoria’s cousin, Edward, which Mrs. Buchanan had quietly forwarded to Cape Hudson. Edward wrote Victoria almost weekly.

  Returning home, Claire pushed through the front door of Winter Cottage. The windows were open, allowing a heavy breeze to cut through the humid air. The rattle of pots and pans drew her into the kitchen, where Mrs. Latimer stood over a cutting board centered in the island. She was kneading bread.

  “Is there any news?” Mrs. Latimer asked, looking up. Sweat dampened her brow and her blouse. She didn’t like working in the kitchen in the summers.

  “Only letters for Victoria. How is she doing today?”

  “Upstairs, resting. Not happy with the heat.” Claire had also forgotten about the summer heat. She’d grown spoiled by summers in Newport, Rhode Island, with the Buchanan family.

  “I’m sure the weather is far lovelier up north than it is here. Tonight’s dinner is going to be simple. Bread and cold meats. I don’t have the fortitude to cook a full meal.”

  “That’s fine. No one has much appetite in this heat.” She nodded toward the stairs leading to the second floor. “How is she really?”

  “Miss Victoria is in a foul mood. Wishing she were home. Wishing she’d not been such a stupid girl.”

  “Perhaps the letters from Edward will cheer her up.”

  “That girl is a lucky one. If not for the threat of war, she’d be the center of gossip this summer. Everyone would be wondering why she missed the summer season.” Mrs. Latimer tsk-tsked. “If they only knew she wasn’t on a grand adventure with her stepmother but instead upstairs hiding her pregnant belly.”

  Two months after the night Victoria had slipped into Winter Cottage disheveled and careworn, Victoria had realized she was pregnant. She’d tried to keep it secret, but Claire was the first to notice. She’d been fitting the girl with her summer wardrobe when she’d noticed a slightly protruding belly. The average person would not have noticed such a slight change, but Claire, who was attuned to the bodies of the women she dressed, had. Mrs. Buchanan had been in the fitting room, and she’d seen Claire’s awkward pause. Her gaze had trailed to her stepdaughter’s belly, and she too had then been in the inner circle.

  In Claire’s world, a pregnancy would have cost her job. Her family would have shunned her, and she’d have been a pariah. But for Victoria, a girl destined by birth for a great marriage, this misstep required complete discretion. In a normal year, Victoria would have been sent to Europe for a grand six-month tour. But Europe was too dangerous with war.

  Several hideaways had been discussed, but ultimately Winter Cottage had been chosen. The residents, mostly supported by the Buchanans, had understood what to do. As far as the New York socialites knew, Victoria was in California.

  Mrs. Buchanan had asked Claire to accompany Victoria because she trusted her completely with the secret. And if anyone should ask, Claire could say she was making the girl’s wedding trousseau.

  No one in town had made a single comment when the two arrived in late April. Claire had been able to hide the girl’s growing belly for a time, but finally it had become impossible. Her tiny frame had nowhere else to hide a baby. Now she was weeks away from birth, and Claire was as many days away from returning to her old life in New York. When Claire had first arrived, she’d been counting the days until she could return to New York or Newport, but as the summer had lumbered on, she’d started to fall in love with Winter Cottage and the Eastern Shore again. She would truly miss this place.

  The rattle of an automobile pulled Claire toward the front of the cottage. It was a sleek blue roadster with nickel trim that glistened in the sunlight.

  Out stepped Robert, dressed in an army officer’s uniform that fit his lean, trim frame in a way that made him
look quite attractive.

  “What is he doing here?” Mrs. Latimer said. “He couldn’t know about Victoria, could he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Go and talk to him and find out. If he goes upstairs, he’ll discover Victoria’s situation. And you know how those two bicker.”

  Robert shrugged off his uniform jacket, carelessly tossed it on the back seat of the car, and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He’d never visited Virginia in the summer and clearly didn’t look to be enjoying himself.

  “I suspect he already knows about his sister,” Claire said. “He plays the party-boy part well, but he’s cleverer than his father gives him credit for.”

  “Well, find out. I have dough on my hands, and you just about grew up with the man.”

  Claire summoned a smile and went out the front door. She came down the steps. “Mr. Robert. What brings you to Winter Cottage?”

  He unfastened the collar’s gold stud. “I had no idea it would be so damn hot and humid. How have you and Victoria tolerated it?”

  “I’m sorry, not quite sure I follow?”

  “Don’t give me a quizzical look. I’ve not lost my mind. I’ve come to see my sister. I know my stepmother has been forwarding her mail here.”

  Claire stood very still, not sure how far to press the lie. “Who told you such a thing?”

  “Elizabeth’s maid is a charming young girl, and she let it slip Edward was writing Victoria. It took a little detective work to trace my sister to Winter Cottage, and I can tell by your face that I’m right. And in case you’re worried, Father still has no idea about my sister’s change in summer venue, though it would serve the pompous bastard right to know his angel had fallen.”

  A discreet woman knew when an employer was fishing for information and never rushed to confirm or deny. “And how are Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan?”

  “I’ll tell you over a whiskey.”

  “Does Mrs. Buchanan know you’re here?”

  “Pour me a whiskey, and I’ll tell you anything.”

  He followed her into the house and down the long hallway to the parlor. She and Mrs. Latimer kept the windows closed during the day and the shades drawn to hold in the cool air, but by late afternoon, the heat ultimately thwarted their best efforts, and the house grew stuffy and hot.

  In the parlor, she pushed back the thick green velvet curtain and tied it back. A twist of an iron handle released and opened the window, allowing in a warm, thick breeze. She continued to do this until all the windows were open.

  From the liquor cabinet, she removed a bottle of whiskey and a crystal tumbler. She filled the glass and handed it to Robert.

  He accepted, gulped it down, and handed her the empty. “Another, please, and you should have one too. God knows my sister has likely made you earn it.”

  She poured him a second glass and, despite her better judgment, poured one for herself. While he gulped, she sipped.

  “So how is she?” he asked. “Or are we going to keep playing this game?”

  “She’s fine.”

  He studied the amber liquid in the design cut into the glass. “I assume she’s pregnant. That’s the primary reason young girls go on unconventional holidays.”

  All he had to do was climb the stairs to the second floor and get one look at his sister and the jig was up. “Her time is near, and she’s not comfortable. The heat does not help.”

  He studied her over the rim of the crystal tumbler. “Do we know who the father is?”

  “She won’t say.”

  “I assume it’s not Edward. If it were, Elizabeth would have arranged nuptials posthaste, and that poor sop would have gladly chased her down the aisle.”

  She sipped more, enduring the smooth burn that eased some of the tension from her body. “She’s very tight lipped.”

  “A little late for that, don’t you think?”

  She swallowed a grin. His humor always had a way of cutting to the quick.

  He held up his glass to her. “You’re a good, loyal woman. I doubt anyone else could have gotten her out of the city and kept the secret so well. I assume Elizabeth is paying you and Mrs. Latimer well.”

  “She has always been generous with me.”

  “Is my sister at least contrite?”

  She regarded the amber hues catching the light in her glass while praying for the right words. “She has become quieter the last few days. The baby is active and kicks often. It’s all more real to her now.”

  His expression turned cold. “She’s not getting attached to it, is she? Because we both know she can’t keep it.”

  “She understands a plan is in place for the child.”

  “Who?”

  “I think it’s best I not say. The fewer who know, the better.”

  “Does Elizabeth know?”

  “She asked me to make arrangements, and I have. The baby will be fine.”

  He tossed back the last of the whiskey. “Well, tell Mrs. Latimer I’m here for the duration. Victoria is a twit, but she’s family, and family stays together. And it will be nice to have a secret from Father for a change.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is there a doctor in town?”

  “The closest is in Norfolk. But there’s a midwife. I visited her this morning.”

  “Excellent. Claire, how about you join me for dinner? You’re a clever woman, and I could use good conversation and maybe a game of gin.”

  Robert, in his own way, was charming. Perhaps it was the uniform, but she found the idea of dinner exciting. “Of course. What time?”

  “We’ll say seven.”

  “It might be a cold supper. Mrs. Latimer didn’t cook today.”

  “As long as there’s whiskey, we will be fine.”

  A loud scream from the kitchen cut through the house. Claire rose quickly and hurried across the house and into the butler’s pantry. She found Mrs. Latimer in a heap on the floor. She clutched a letter in her hand and was sobbing.

  Claire dropped to the ground and took the woman’s face in her hands. “What is it? Tell me.”

  Tears streamed down Mrs. Latimer’s face. “One of the sailors brought me this.”

  Claire slowly pulled the letter from Mrs. Latimer’s grip and carefully smoothed out the crinkles. The letter was from a shipmate of her father’s, a Mr. Rory Tucker, who was now convalescing in a hospital in the Bahamas. The Mariah had sunk in the Caribbean. Many of the men had died outright, including Isaac Hedrick, but Jimmy had pulled Stanley Jessup through the water to safety.

  Claire struggled to take in a breath as her head spun. The sea her father had loved so much had finally claimed him. “Jimmy and Stanley are alive,” she said.

  Mrs. Latimer shook her head. “Read on.”

  She scanned the letter, reading Mr. Tucker’s next account, which he said was confidential and not to be shared in the papers. Though Stanley had been sent back to Cape Hudson, Jimmy had joined the crew of the Reverie as captain after influenza had swept through their ranks. Two days after he took command, the Reverie had been low in the water, heavy with fuel and munitions, when another U-boat’s torpedo had struck the side. The ship had exploded instantly and sunk immediately. There were no reported survivors.

  She was transported back to the day they’d laid her mother’s coffin in the ground. She’d held a crying Michael close as her other siblings gathered around her. The bottom had fallen out of her life, and neither she nor her family was ever the same, but they’d all found a way to patch together the pieces.

  Now those stitches ripped and the fabric shredded.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, and she heard Robert ask what was happening. When she couldn’t speak, he laid his hand on her shoulder and asked again. She’d never heard him speak so gently.

  A breath shuddered through her. “Stanley is safe, but my father and Jimmy are gone,” she said. “Their ships sank.”

  “Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry.” Robert reached for Mrs. Latimer and, supporting her, wrap
ped her arm around his neck. Claire rose and took the old woman’s other arm.

  “My Jimmy. My Jimmy,” Mrs. Latimer wept.

  “I’m here, Mrs. Latimer. I’ll take care of you,” Robert said.

  The woman gripped Claire’s hand. “You won’t leave me, will you? You’ll stay with me?”

  Claire kissed her on the side of her cheek and dried her tears. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Over the next week, Claire spent time with Robert every day. He was patient with her melancholy and accompanied her on long walks along the beach. Mrs. Latimer had returned to Annapolis, Maryland, to be with her sister, leaving Victoria’s care to Claire. Robert joined Claire and Victoria for dinner each evening, and he was the one person who could buoy her spirits.

  The more time Claire spent with Robert, the more she saw him in a different light. He had a biting but funny sense of humor and reminisced about several hunting expeditions starring Jimmy, who had rescued several hunters either stuck in the reeds or nearly shot by an oblivious hunting companion. Claire relished these stories and grew closer to Robert.

  On the sixth day, a summer storm blew up the coast. The rain churned up the bay and soaked the ground while the wind rattled the windows and bent the old oaks that had seen many storms before. The storm also brought cooler temperatures that seemed to ease the swelling in Victoria’s ankles and hands.

  Robert and Claire were walking along a shoreline littered with driftwood. The sky was a deep blue and the breeze soft and cool.

  “I received a telegram from my father,” Robert said. “I’ll be leaving for France in a month. Father knows a general who needs an attaché, and time in the military would make a man of me, he says. Though we both know good and well that I won’t see any fighting.”

  “So your father knows you’re here?”

  “Ah, he does. And he now knows about Victoria.”

  “How?”

  “It doesn’t matter how.”

  Jimmy was now beyond any earthly retribution. “What does he plan to do?”