The Paper Marriage

by Bronwyn Williams

  At least she wasn’t lost. On an island so narrow one could stand in the middle and toss a stone in either direction and strike water she had only to walk long enough in either direction to reach a destination. Perhaps not the one she’d had in mind, but any old port in a storm.

  “As the good book says,” she added, smiling as an alternative to cursing or crying. If Crank were to be believed, every cliché known to man came from the Bible.

  Whatever it was she’d thought she’d seen in the distance was closer now. It wasn’t Angel dragging the cart, it was…

  Matt?

  “Oh, no, please.” She shook her head in denial as Matt, riding one of the mares, loomed up out of the shimmering heat.

  She stood there, shoulders slumped in defeat, and waited for the inevitable. He could yell at her all he wanted, but if he shook her—if he laid a single hand on her, she would fight back. She would hit him with her bundle of collard slips.

  “Decided to walk home, did you?”

  Warily, she said, “Actually, it wasn’t entirely my decision.”

  “Figured as much.”

  It was as close as he came to calling her stupid, idiotic, and all the other things she’d called herself. Without another word he climbed down, took the ruffled bundle from her hand and tied it onto the saddle. Then he boosted her up onto the mare’s back, an awkward process at best, and swung up behind her. Rose couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it. She considered the possibility of dying of embarrassment, but didn’t quite know how to go about it.

  Matt collected the reins. His arms pressed against her sides and she caught her breath and held it, but not quickly enough. He smelled of horse, of clean, male sweat, of lye soap and sundried linen. Even dying of embarrassment, Rose found something enormously reassuring in the familiar aroma.

  She smelled, she sadly suspected, of sweat and fear. And shame.

  His heart thudded slow and steady against her back. She straightened her spine away, but it was awkward, hardly a position she could maintain for very long, seated sideways as she was, on the mare’s sloping shoulders. With one arm, he pulled her back against him. Still not a word. The laws of gravity prevailed and she slumped against him, closing her eyes in defeat.

  Safe, she thought.

  Safe?

  Safe was the very last thing she felt as the heat of his body burned through the thin layers of her gown. He was hard as a rock…all over.

  Luther was greasing the cartwheels when they rode into the yard. He glanced up, grinned, blushed and went back to his work.

  No one spoke. Rose thought, this is absurd. She took a deep breath and said brightly, “How did you know I was in trouble?”

  Matt dismounted, reached up and swung her down to the ground. “Cart came back. You didn’t.”

  Well, of course. Nothing mysterious about that. Determined to make as dignified an escape as possible under the circumstances, she settled her hat on her head, took a single step, still holding on to her smile, and felt her knees buckle.

  Swearing under his breath, Matt caught her before she could crumple to the ground. Forced to cling to him until she could regain her balance, she felt something hard pressing against her belly. “Oh my, this is as bad as getting off that wretched boat.”

  His belt buckle? Is that what it was? Or…

  “Oh, my mercy,” she whispered.

  She heard the sharp intake of his breath—or perhaps it was her own. Stepping back, she turned away, but he caught her arm.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Hold still,” he said gruffly. To her amazement, he knelt at her feet. Numbly, she stared down at the top of his head. No hat. Thick, unruly hair, black, but shot with mahogany lights under the late afternoon sun. Her fingers trembled with the urge to touch him.

  And then he lifted her skirt.

  She slapped it down again, shocked to the marrow of her bones. Robert had—in broad daylight—she’d hated it!

  But right here in the yard, in front of everyone?

  The man was mad. “Stop that!”

  “Dammit, stand still, or you’ll have these pesky things climbing your drawers.” Carefully, he removed a cactus pad from her skirt, dropped it into a pail and reached for another.

  Rose shut her eyes as heat washed over her face. When his hand brushed against her lower limb she felt as if she’d touched a hot stove.

  By the time he was done there was a layer of cactus pads and sandspurs in the bottom of the bucket. “Luther,” he roared, “come set fire to these damned things.”

  He turned to Rose with a wicked smile. “Else the yard’ll be full of ’em. Is that what you wanted? Weeds growing all over Powers Point?”

  Ignoring his teasing, she said with as much dignity as she could muster, “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re very welcome.” When it came to mockery, the man was a past master. Now she knew why women wore stays and layers of underskirts, even in the hottest weather. She might not feel quite so vulnerable if she weren’t half naked, soaked to the skin with perspiration, her face burned to a crisp because she’d removed her bonnet to keep sweat from trickling from her scalp into her eyes. Her skirt was probably clinging to her damp limbs, but she didn’t dare look to see.

  “Hot some, ain’t it?” Luther observed, sauntering over to lead the mare away.

  “Hold on,” Matt said, and, reaching up, he untied Rose’s petticoat with its bedraggled bundle of cuttings. “You forgot these.”

  Why don’t I just lie down right here and die? A few years from now, no one will even remember my name, much less my shame.

  Face flaming anew with embarrassment, she snatched it from him, hiked up her skirt and trudged toward the house. It could happen to anyone, she told herself. A runaway mule, a shared ride. Being caught against a man’s body as he helped her down from the horse, feeling his arousal….

  Or his belt buckle, she still wasn’t sure which it had been, for by that time she’d been in such a state of agitation. And that was before he’d lifted her skirt.

  “Tell Crank I’ll be in for supper directly after I see to Jericho,” he called after her.

  Without stopping, she nodded and mounted the steps. She couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it.

  That evening, determined to put the entire unfortunate affair out of her mind, Rose borrowed Crank’s mail-order catalog. She would have liked to send for a pair of the high-topped canvas shoes and a lightweight straw hat, but even the two dollars and twenty-five cents for the shoes and the dollar for the hat were beyond her meager resources.

  She turned to the infants’ and children’s section. Annie had little enough as it was, and most of what she had was too small, hand-me-downs from some of the village women.

  Rose would have dressed her in silk saques and caps with the finest French embroidery if she could have afforded it, for she loved her dearly. While the hollow place in her own heart could never be filled, Annie had helped ease the pain. She could go for days now without thinking about how it had felt to wake up hurting over every inch of her body, and to be told that the baby she had carried for months had died without ever having had a chance to live.

  She was terribly afraid she would lose Annie, too. If there was one thing she’d learned about her paper husband, it was that he demanded honor and integrity in all his dealings. No one in their right mind would dare lie to him, not even Bess.

  Well…perhaps Bess could get away with elaborating on the truth, but the moment Rose confessed her own sins, it would be over. Her marriage, her tentative dreams. Matt would send her away. And the worst of it was that as much as it would hurt to leave Annie, that wasn’t the loss she dreaded most.

  How was it possible, she mused over the catalog, for one simple mistake to multiply until her whole life was affected? If she hadn’t married in haste and then lost her courage, Matt would be her acknowledged husband now. He would have gone to sea again, leaving her here with Annie. There was a time in the beginni
ng when she could have been content with that.

  Instead she’d lost her nerve, done something incredibly foolish, and now she was forced to live with the consequences.

  The next morning, having screwed up her courage once more, she rapped on Bess’s bedroom door. “Am I interrupting? I need to have a word with you.” And this time she refused to be put off with another excuse. “Now, not later.”

  “Had your breakfast yet?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Fried mullet. Forgot to salt the biscuits, but—”

  “Bess, please? You’ll be glad to know that I’ve decided to tell Matt the truth. Naturally, I’ll take full responsibility and claim the whole thing was my idea, but if he sends me away, I’d like to go back with you. The thought of making that trip alone is—Well, I don’t look forward to it.”

  Bess waved her toward a chair. Even this early in the morning, her typing machine was uncovered, a stack of paper on the table anchored by a glass paperweight against the breeze that blew through the open window.

  “Dick Dixon sailed up to visit while you were out gallivanting yesterday,” Bess announced before Rose could continue. “Says his son’s coming to visit.”

  “I heard about it. I meant to tell you.”

  “Met him last summer. Handsome young fellow, got a good job, too. You could do worse, Rose.”

  Rose blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bess, this isn’t one of your adventure tales.” Rose took a deep breath and said, “Listen to me, I’m going to tell Matt the truth and that’s all there is to it.

  “Young widow like you, nice-looking fellow like that—I’d set my sights on him if I was you.”

  Either I’ve spent too much time outside without a bonnet, or the poor woman has finally succeeded in pickling her brain with brandy. “I have a husband,” Rose said slowly, carefully, quietly. “We both know I have a husband, even if he doesn’t know it.” She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. “At least, he knows he has a wife, but he doesn’t know who she is. I mean—”

  “Just letting you know there’s options in case things don’t work out. Not that there’s any reason why they shouldn’t, mind you, but it’s not too late to back out. Still, Matt’s a fair man. He’ll give you a fair hearing. It’s up to you to make him understand.”

  “Understand what? That I’m a weak-minded coward?” Rose’s shoulders slumped. How could she make anyone else understand when she didn’t understand, herself?

  Matt was not in his office. She didn’t dare knock on his bedroom door. Ashamed of the sense of reprieve, she bathed Annie, dressed her and gave her half a bottle of milk. “Googoo,” the baby chortled, waving her fists.

  “All right, sweetums, we’ll go have our googoo.”

  As soon as she entered the kitchen, Crank began filling a plate. “Oh, please—only coffee for me, thanks.”

  He plopped it down on the table before her. “Waste not, want not, as the good book says.”

  Unwilling to hurt his feelings, she managed to choke down a few bites. “I’m really not hungry,” she said apologetically.

  “Left off the salt again, didn’t I? Man my age’s got too much remembering behind him to keep up with every grain of salt.”

  Whatever that might mean, Rose concluded, and forced down another bite of the cold, greasy fish while Annie waved her sticky fists. “Would you mind keeping an eye on her for me?” she asked, carefully placing her knife and fork across her plate.

  “I’ll teach her another one of my songs.”

  Another bawdy ballad, Rose thought. Thank goodness Annie was too young to understand the words. She would miss them all terribly, she knew. It would be like losing yet another family. First her parents, then her baby—Robert hardly counted—and then her grandmother.

  And now all this.

  Standing outside Matt’s office door for the third time in twenty-four hours, Rose smoothed her hair and brushed a wrinkle from her skirt. The knock she’d intended to sound bold and unafraid was barely loud enough to be heard.

  Clearing her throat, she called through the paneled wood, “Matthew? I’d like a word with you, if you’re not too busy—please?”

  The door swung open before she could lose her nerve and bolt. He was wearing another of the shirts she had laundered, this one so fine she could easily see the patterned dark hair as it swirled over the gleaming muscles of his chest.

  She swallowed hard, wishing her heart hadn’t taken up residence in her throat.

  Without a word he stepped back, gesturing for her to enter. She tried and failed to gauge his mood. Easier to read the dark side of the moon.

  “Sit down.” He indicated one of the spoke-backed chairs. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”

  A wave of terror swept over her, leaving her limp with dread. He knows, she thought. Bess has already told him.

  For several long moments, neither of them spoke. Like adversaries in a pitched battle, each used silence to measure the opposing force, waiting to see who would break first.

  “Have a seat.” Matt indicated a chair. Thus Rose won by default. Her mind raced, but her tongue simply refused to work.

  He lifted his eyebrows.

  She cleared her throat.

  Do it. Do it now! The worst he can do is put you on that awful mailboat and send you away.

  To her dismay, it wasn’t even the seasickness she dreaded most.

  Warm air drifted through the open window, carrying a hint of salt, more than a hint of horse. Closer at hand she detected the distinctive scent of shaving soap, books and something enticingly masculine.

  Closing her eyes, she barged ahead before she lost her nerve. “I can explain everything…” she blurted.

  Matt spoke at the same time, his words covering her own. “This won’t take but a minute…” He studied her intensely, making her keenly aware of her hastily pinned-up hair, her ill-fitting dimity, and sunburned face. At least, she told herself, desperately trying to hang on to a single scrap of self-esteem, she could no longer be called sallow.

  She stared at the shelves lined with books, at the brass instrument on the desk, at the stacks of correspondence there, some of it not even opened. Anywhere but at the man, himself.

  “Is Bess paying you a salary?”

  Her head snapped around. “A what?”

  “You heard me.”

  Confusion tangled with relief. What had Bess told him?

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “No, of course not.” Wrong answer. She caught her mistake and tried to correct it. “That is, I’m not actually working as a secretary while we’re here, and—”

  “Bess doesn’t need a paid companion,” Matt finished for her.

  How on earth could she answer that without giving away the whole wretched plot? She had to do this thing logically, to explain step-by-step how it had happened, how she’d come to deceive him, else he would never understand.

  “Well, now, you see—” she began hesitantly.

  “I’ll pay you the going rate for an able-bodied seaman. With back pay,” he added when her jaw fell slack.

  “An able-bodied seaman? Oh, no—I’m sorry, but—”

  “I always honor my debts. I expect no less from others.”

  “But you’re not in my debt.” Was he? She would’ve thought it was the other way around.

  “You’ve been taking care of Annie.”

  “Oh, but I love—”

  “Like I said, I honor my debts.”

  Bess, the wicked woman, must have told him. Now they were both toying with her like two cats with a single mouse. That must be the reason she had stayed on so much longer than she had planned.

  Rose felt betrayed. Bess, she knew, liked nothing better than stirring up a hornet’s nest, if only so that she could take notes and add another paragraph to whatever tale she was weaving. She was devious enough for most anything, as Rose had lea
rned to her sorrow, but Matt…somehow, she had expected better from him.

  “There’s not a bank closer than Manteo, and nothing to spend it on in the village, but you’ll have it when you leave.”

  And that was another thing. When she left. As inevitably she would, because even without their help she had mired herself over her head in this murkiest of messes.

  Clenching her fingers to keep them from trembling, she said, “Yes, well…I’m not at all sure about this seaman business, but you’ll do as you see fit, I suppose.”

  Was it her imagination, or was it amusement that sparkled in the depths of his eyes? “Yes, ma’am, I usually do,” he said, and Rose knew she hadn’t imagined his crooked smile, even though it lasted only a few seconds.

  Somehow, she managed to escape. Eventually, she even remembered to breathe.

  Finally, she even remembered that she hadn’t resolved a single thing.

  Chapter Eight

  Matt caught up with Bess just as she was putting on her hat and gloves to drive to the village. “Where the devil is she?” he demanded.

  “Where the devil is who?” Bess asked without blinking an eye.

  The woman was too guileless by far. “Don’t play the wordsmith, I can always tell when you’re up to something. You made a mistake, and now you’re afraid to admit it, is that it?”

  “Did I tell you Dick Dixon is fixing to retire? He was asking me just the other day what your plans were.”

  “Dammit, Bess, stop trying to change the subject, where the devil is my wife?”

  “Well, you’re not getting any younger, you know. Magistrate’s an important man in a—”

  “Bess,” he said warningly.

  “Oh, pshaw. Sit down, boy, I can’t think with you towering over me like a blasted lighthouse.”

  Boy. God, she still knew how to get under his skin. “Bess, I’m giving you a chance to clear your conscience. You misjudged the Magruder woman, didn’t you? Admit it. Instead of the paragon of all virtues you described in your letters, she turned out to be just like all the rest. Promise not worth the paper it was written on. Wouldn’t recognize the truth if it reared up and smacked her on the stern.”