Both Lydia and Devon laughed, and Lydia was grateful. Unknowingly, Millie had smoothed over a somewhat awkward moment.
Lydia was just about to say she'd look in on Polly and make sure she was all right when the insistent clanging of a bell echoed through the crisp, clean air.
“Food,” cried Millie, letting go of Lydia's hand and bolting back toward the big house overlooking the harbor and the brave beginnings of a town.
Devon smiled, but there was concern in his eyes as he and Lydia walked along the rutted road to the base of the driveway. “I know Brigham can be impossible—remember, I grew up with him—but he's a rare man, Lydia. Like you, he has a strength of spirit that carries him through experiences other people couldn't begin to survive.”
Lydia was struck by the implication that Brigham had suffered in some fundamental and poignant way, but she didn't know Devon well enough to pursue the thought. That would have been prying. “Perhaps that ‘strength of spirit,’ as you describe it, is really just plain, stubborn pride,” she said. She'd sounded bitter as she spoke, but the words were already out before she realized that.
Devon's response was gentle, and by that very fact it shamed her. “Is that what makes you so strong, Lydia? ‘Plain, stubborn pride’?”
“Maybe,” Lydia confessed, flushing. He was right; she held tightly to her pride, fearing that she would be weak without it.
When they were halfway up the brick driveway, they encountered Charlotte, who wore a flowing gauze dress and had draped herself in thin silk scarves of all colors. She stared dreamily ahead, not seeming to notice them, and Lydia was amazed.
She started to follow the girl, only to have Devon grip her elbow lightly and stay her.
“Don't worry,” he whispered, his eyes full of warm laughter. “Charlotte is pretending again—my guess would be that she's been reading some story set in Arabia.”
Lydia felt an upsurge of joy. After the horrors she'd seen in Union field hospitals and prison camps, it was wonderful to be reminded that young girls still played dress-up and cloaked themselves in dreams. Being in Quade's Harbor was like waking up to sunshine after a frightening and tempestuous night.
“Maybe she'll be an actress when she grows up,” Lydia speculated.
Devon touched an index finger to his lips. “Don't let Brig hear you say that. He has very conventional ideas where his daughters are concerned—he'd rather see them join the circus than tread the boards, I think.”
They had reached the house, and instead of using the formal front entrance, they went around to the back and stepped into Jake's kitchen. He'd set the big oak table next to the window for five, but only Millie was there.
Devon washed at the pump in the sink, while Lydia used a basin of warm water Jake had set out for her.
The meal consisted of cold meat, bread, applesauce, and vegetables preserved at the height of last year's gardening season. Charlotte drifted in midway through, like a beautiful ghost, and ate delicate portions without ever acknowledging the others at the table with so much as a look.
“We're invisible,” Millie explained in a stage whisper.
“Oh,” Lydia replied.
After they'd eaten, she helped Jake clear the table and tidy up the kitchen, but the cook refused to let her wash the dishes. Devon had gone back to his building project, Millie was curled like a kitten in one of the big chairs in her father's study, sound asleep, Aunt Persephone was reading in the main parlor, and Charlotte was still wandering about looking tragic. Lydia climbed the main stairway and tapped discreetly at doors until she found the newlyweds' room.
Polly was standing at the window, gazing out at the endless panorama of sea and sky and mountains. She was still wearing her dressing gown, and her hair trailed down her back in a gleaming tumble of dark curls.
“Polly?” Lydia inquired softly. “Are you ill?”
When the other woman turned to look at her, Lydia saw pain in the beautiful hazel eyes. A single tear slid down her cheek. “No. No, I'm well enough. Considering.”
Lydia stepped into the room and closed the door, even though Polly had not actually invited her. “Then why are you crying?”
Polly sighed. “It would seem silly to someone like you.” Lydia had told the other woman something of the suffering she'd seen in the war, while they were sailing up from San Francisco.
Lydia shook her head. “No one's troubles are unimportant,” she said.
Devon's bride suddenly covered her face with both hands, sobbed, and collapsed onto the edge of the bed. “Oh, dear God,” she wailed. “You don't know what I've done! He doesn't know what I've done!”
Lydia went to sit beside Polly on the mattress, cautiously putting an arm around the woman's trembling shoulders. “What is it?” she asked softly, certain the crime could not be anything really terrible. On the other hand, people often brought secrets with them when they came west; sometimes they were pursued by them.
Polly gave a mournful wail and wept on, so Lydia waited patiently. It was in her nature to give comfort, she thought fleetingly.
“Polly?” Lydia prompted, after a long time.
She swallowed. “I'm in love with Devon!” she choked out miserably.
For a moment Lydia was full of relief. Then she saw the look of torment in Polly's eyes. “Is that so bad?” she asked gently. “He's your husband.”
Polly shuddered. “No,” she said. “It was all a trick.”
Lydia just sat there, staring stupidly, horrified. “A trick?” she asked finally.
Polly bolted off the bed and went to the bureau with resolve. She began jerking open drawers and snatching things out, and for one awful second Lydia thought she was packing to leave Quade's Harbor, and Devon, forever.
“Polly, what did you mean when you said it was all a trick?”
The erstwhile Mrs. Quade disappeared behind a changing screen. “I shouldn't have said even that much,” she muttered. Then she peeked around the ornately carved maple frame. “You're not going to tell Devon or his brother, are you?”
By then Lydia's frustration had mounted to a dangerous level. “Devon Quade is a very fine man, Polly. If you do anything to hurt him, you'll have me for an enemy.”
Again Polly looked around the screen. This time her eyes were narrowed. “Say. You'd better not have your cap set for my Devon,” she said. “If you do, I'll pull your ears off!”
Lydia wasn't intimidated. “Is he ‘your Devon’?” she Persisted.
Again Polly's pretty face crumpled into tears. “I do love him, I swear it.”
“But you tricked him somehow,” Lydia pressed. “What happened back there in San Francisco?”
Polly came out from behind the screen, wearing a dramatic green gown that set off her dark hair and lovely pale skin. She turned her back and Lydia automatically began fastening her buttons.
“Nat Malachi and me, that's the man I've been with since I came out to San Francisco, we had a good business going. He'd pose as a preacher and pretend to marry me to a miner or a timberman, and I'd steal hiS wallet after—well, when he was sleeping. We intended to do the same thing to Devon, except—except when he touched me, something changed. I changed.”
Lydia was stunned. She'd read of such doings in the penny dreadfuls, but she'd certainly never encountered a perpetrator. For a long interval she just gaped at Polly in wonderment.
“You've got to tell him the truth,” she finally said, when Polly began to snuffle again.
Polly shook her head wildly. “No. And don't you tell him, either. He'd throw me out in the street!”
Lydia had a hard time imagining such a scene, although there could be no doubt that Devon would be furiously hurt when he learned of the deception.
Polly approached, gripped Lydia hard by the shoulders. “You won't breathe a word of what I've said!” she cried in a hoarse whisper, the words forming both an angry plea and a piteous question.
Rising, Lydia shrugged away the other woman's hold, forcing Polly to step
back. Lydia's dignity was one of the few graces left to her. “I can't promise that I won't speak up,” she said evenly. She was still human enough, she noted, for an unseemly sense of triumph to race through her spirit, making her drunk with the knowledge that Devon was unmarried after all. This was fleeting, though, for Lydia knew he loved Polly, she'd seen it too clearly.
Polly's hazel eyes filled with tears. “Dear God, he'll never forgive me,” she whispered brokenly.
Lydia had no way of knowing whether that was true or not. She touched Polly's arm in an effort to lend some small reassurance, and left the room.
The bright shine of the day had been tarnished, and Lydia wanted only to retreat to her room and remain there until dinner. She had a personal rule, however: when she wanted most to hide from the world, she must instead wade right out into the middle of it and play her part in things.
Lydia found a shawl, as there was a breeze coming up from the shore, and left the house. Since she didn't want to encounter Brigham, she avoided the mill and his tree-stump office. And of course she wasn't ready to face Devon, either, knowing what she did, so she steered away from his building site as well.
Lydia followed a path behind the great house, through a thicket of blackberry vines that snatched at her skirts, past giant ferns and clusters of hemlock and cedar and pine. Gossamer sunshine soaked through the leaves and, here and there, hearty ivy grew up the trunk of a tree like a green coat. Through it all was woven the secret songs of the birds.
At the top of the high knoll there was a small, tree-sheltered clearing, and Lydia drew in her breath in surprise. There, square in the center, was a tiny cabin of unplaned logs. The door was at the far left, with three stone steps leading up to the high threshold, and a single window was set in at the opposite end.
The place seemed oddly enchanted to Lydia, perhaps because she'd come upon it unexpectedly. It wouldn't have surprised her if Hansel and Gretel's witch had come hobbling out to greet her.
Smiling at the fancy, she put her hands behind her back and called out politely, “Hello? Is anyone at home?”
There was no reply, except for the irritable complaints of the birds, who were no doubt remarking to each other that she had a nerve, coming to call without an invitation.
Lydia walked around the outside of the small house, looking at the neatly made brick chimney of the fireplace. There was no back door, she found, and no other window besides the one in front, but that wasn't surprising. Indian attacks were not unheard of in this part of the country, and the fewer points of entry a place had, the less vulnerable were its inhabitants.
She recalled Millie's story, about her mother and Charlotte hiding under the floorboards when Charlotte was a baby, and laid one hand to the sturdy frame surrounding the door. Surely this was the same cabin, the home Brigham had built for his young bride.
The thought gave Lydia an unexpected sting, and she sat down on a flagstone step, resting her chin in one hand. Sweetbriar clambered lushly up a crude trellis beside her, covered in fragrant pink blossoms, and she watched solemnly as a fat bee fumbled from one flower to another.
She tried to imagine Brigham's wife, but no picture came to mind. She hadn't noticed a likeness on display anywhere in the big house, at least not those parts that she frequented, but then she hadn't been looking for one.
Lydia sat awhile, enjoying the scent of the sweetbriar, then stood, her hands on her hips. The whole time, of course, her newest dilemma had been churning beneath the surface of her thoughts. She could not go to Devon with what she knew about Polly, for he had been kind to her and she wouldn't hurt him so cruelly. Perhaps she might tell Brigham, since he was clearly the head of the Quade family, but she feared his reaction. It was only too easy to imagine him in a towering rage, shouting at everyone, perhaps alienating his brother forever.
Walking back down the path toward the main house, Lydia considered speaking with Aunt Persephone about the matter, but she ruled that idea out as well. The whole situation was simply too delicate, and besides, she knew so little about the old woman's temperament. Perhaps such news would vex her to the point of hysteria, or even apoplexy or heart failure.
Jake Feeny was sitting on the back step, a cigar jutting out of his mouth and a huge basin of potatoes at his side. He peeled one deftly with a paring knife and dropped it into a pot of water as Lydia approached.
Lydia smiled. The cook's methods looked none too sanitary, but she'd already surmised that Mr. Feeny kept his kitchen clean and his person tidy as well. On the frontier, one had to make certain concessions.
She joined him, smoothing her skirt beneath her before she sat. “Is there another knife?” she asked, reaching into the basin for a potato.
Mr. Feeny surrendered the blade he'd been using, giving Lydia a pensive but not unfriendly look as she began to scrape away the thick brown peel. “You scrape many spuds back where you come from?”
Lydia laughed and nodded toward Brigham's peak, with its long, noisy flume and rich stands of timber crowded so close together that it seemed there would be no room for a tree to fall. “Enough to make a pile the size of that mountain over there, Mr. Feeny,” she said.
The cook didn't return her smile, but he rubbed his beard-stubbled chin and looked her over with solemn respect. “Jake,” he replied gruffly. “Call me Jake.”
5
BRIGHAM SWEATED AS HE WORKED HIS END OF THE CROSS-CUT saw. Despite years of such labor, the muscles girding his stomach and lower back ached with a poignant violence, and the flesh beneath the calluses on his palms stung where he gripped the handle. He set his jaw and continued to thrust and draw, but his mind would not be so easily controlled as his body; every time he let down his guard for so much as a moment, his thoughts went meandering off after Lydia McQuire.
He'd already considered her womanly figure, which needed some plumping up, in his view, and her soft, glimmering hair, but it was her violet eyes that haunted him. They'd seen much suffering, those eyes, and there were still faint smudges beneath them, shadows of the bitter sights they'd looked upon. And yet he glimpsed a capacity for joy in their depths, as well as an almost pagan capacity for passion.
Brigham shook his head. He was imagining things, he told himself. Lydia was tough and strong, but all the whimsy and the poetry and the fire that went into the making of a woman had been crushed by the ugliness she'd encountered.
If he had any sense at all, he decided grimly, he'd write out a bank draft, load her on the next mail boat out of the harbor, and forget she'd ever existed.
He smiled and ran one arm across his brow to soak up some of the perspiration burning his eyes. Then he took a firm grip on the saw handle again, falling gracefully back into the rhythm. Trust Devon to bring home the sauciest little Yankee ever to sprout in New England, and hand her over like one of those souvenir cards with the silly pictures on the front.
His partner let out a yell, and Brigham was so distracted that he barely thrust himself back away from the tree in time. It fell with a rushing sound, made thunder as it struck the ground, and for a moment the earth quaked beneath Brigham's cork boots.
“Damn it, Brig,” the other man yelled, gesturing furiously toward the tree, “that was my own personal lucky saw, and you let it go right down with the timber!”
Brigham wiped his face again. He would have liked to strip away his shirt and work bare-chested, but that was dangerous; the branches of a falling tree could rip a man's hide open like the point of a fine sword. “Quit grousing and try to pry it out,” he said shortly. It wasn't Zeb he was riled at, though; he was angry with himself for breaking one of his own rules: a man should never think about whiskey, food, or women when he was working in the woods. The indulgence could get him, or someone else, killed.
Zeb, a skinny young South Carolinian with the testy temperament of a bullwhacker, plunged into the fragrant branches to search for his saw.
Brigham turned away, only to find his nervous clerk, Jack Harrington, hovering behind him.
The boy's round spectacles had slid to the end of his nose, and he pushed them back with a practiced middle finger. He had a pencil over one ear, and he clutched a pad of paper to his bosom as though it were the Holy Writ.
“God's balls, Harrington, don't sneak up on me like that! If I'd had an ax in my hand, I might have cut you down like a blue spruce!”
Harrington trembled inside his cheap mail-order suit, and Brig wondered why the little squirrel couldn't wear oiled canvas pants, work boots, suspenders and cotton shirts, like everybody else. “It's about Miss Lydia McQuire,” he said. “Mrs. Chilcote tells me the woman has been engaged as a governess, but I can find no written record of your authorization.”
An oversight like that could keep Harrington awake nights, Brig supposed, feeling a sort of wry sympathy. “That's because I haven't decided whether to put Miss McQuire on the payroll or buy her passage back to San Francisco. I'll let you know when I make up my mind.”
Brigham looked back toward the tree he and Zeb had just felled. Already, men were all over it like two-legged bugs, sawing away the branches, shouting to each other, some of them singing a bawdy song in rough chorus. Then he turned to stride back down the mountain to his office, and Harrington scrambled along beside him.
“I don't know, sir,” he blithered. “I don't much hold with such loose ends. It seems to me that a decision should be made and acted upon.”
Brigham sighed. “I'll have to speak with the lady before I give you an answer,” he said reasonably.
“Does she want to stay?”
Brig's heart swelled slightly. “I don't know,” he answered, always pragmatic. “For all I can say, she might be swimming out to meet the next boat even as we speak.”
Harrington blinked three times rapidly, smoothed his slicked-down hair with one palm, and said, “Oh. You were joking, sir. That was very humorous. Very humorous indeed.”
Brigham rolled his eyes. “Haven't you got anything better to do than devil me?” he asked. “Go find the McQuire woman yourself, and ask her if she wants to stay on as a companion to my daughters. Tell her I'll pay her a dollar a week and provide her with board and room.”
Yankee Wife Page 6