by Mary Davis
He gripped her hand, effectively keeping her in place.
At least for now.
Her insides twisted. She didn’t like him so much anymore. He hadn’t shown his aggressive side with Papa around. She pulled her hand free and smoothed her hair. “What do you do?”
“I work at a cobbler shop. You’ll never be without shoes with me for a husband.”
“Husband?”
He was a bit bold and getting ahead of himself.
“I’ve heard the talk. Your da is looking for a husband for you. He favors me. I could tell.”
Fortunately for her, Papa didn’t have the last word. He was allowing her to have a say.
“You’re a very pretty girl.”
“Thank you.” But she was a young woman, not a girl.
When he reached for her hand again, she turned and stood in one fluid motion, then crossed to the fireplace.
Edith ran into the room.
Rachel scooped her up. “What are you doing?”
“Read me a story.” Her five-year-old sister held up a book of nursery rhymes.
Rachel looked out the open door. Lindley stood at the table in her view with a smile. She mouthed, “Thank you.”
Carrig came over. “Why don’t you run along, little girl? Your sister can read you a story later.”
Rachel took the book. “Sure, I’ll read you one.”
It was a game. Rachel read one rhyme. When it was done, her sister would beg for another and another. Edith had learned this from Winnie, who had learned it from Alice. Rachel sat on the settee so she and Edith were in the middle of the seat, not leaving enough room on either side for Carrig.
Carrig eyed the settee, conceded defeat and sat on the edge of the chair opposite them.
Rachel struggled not to smile. She read the first rhyme, “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.”
When the rhyme was finished, seven-year-old Winnie ran in. “Read me one.”
She settled Winnie on the other side of her, looked up at Carrig and shrugged.
After seven rhymes, Carrig stood. “I should go. I’ll come another time. When things aren’t so busy.”
She hoped not. She stood, as well. “It was nice of you to visit.”
He took her hand in his warm, moist one. “Until the next time.”
She forced a gracious smile. She would have to talk Papa out of a next time.
Once Carrig was gone, Papa looked at her expectantly. “I liked him.”
“I know, Papa.”
Papa’s grin flattened. “You didn’t like him?”
“He was a bit forward in the parlor.”
“Well, you’re a pretty young lady. Any young man might forget his manners momentarily.”
She would concede that even she had lapses in manners. “Papa, is his being Irish a good enough reason to make him your son-in-law?”
“There was more to him than his heritage. He was pleasant. I’m not a young lady, but he is a fine-looking fellow.”
“Yes, he is. But I just can’t see myself married to him. Please, Papa.”
Finally, Papa agreed he wouldn’t invite him back. But he promised to find someone better.
Someone better? She pictured the leftenant and smiled inwardly. But Papa would never invite him into his home.
* * *
The next gentleman suitor was several years older than Rachel. At least thirty. And once again, Papa had brought home a striking man. Malcolm Williams, a sheep farmer.
Once they were alone in the parlor, he studied her as though she were a horse—or perhaps a sheep—under consideration for purchasing. He sized her up from her head to her feet and everything in between. He even circled around her. Did men really think that any lady liked to be treated this way? If he attempted to open her mouth to examine her teeth, she would bite him.
When she moved to sit in the chair, he put a firm hold on her elbow and maneuvered her to the settee.
“You aren’t exactly what I had in mind for a wife, but you are young and could likely bear me heirs.”
Now that was romantic. Just the way to win a lady’s heart. He wasn’t exactly what she had in mind either. “And what are you looking for?” Then she would do everything she could not to resemble his ideal in any way.
“I had hoped for a wife more pleasant looking, but you aren’t all unpleasing on the eyes.”
That stung, but not really. She would need to care about this man before anything he said hurt her. Carrig had said she was quite pretty. A sheep farmer? And Malcolm thought she was beneath him? He must have a lofty view of himself. It wasn’t as though there was an excess of young ladies this far west. A lady could be choosy, but men didn’t have that luxury. If a man found a wife who was even plain, he counted himself fortunate. And Malcolm didn’t have a wealth of money to attract several women to choose from. Why were all men so difficult?
Well, not all men. There was a certain English leftenant who had been both charming and most pleasant on the eyes.
In that moment of her distraction, Malcolm leaned into her, attempting to steal a kiss. His supper-infused, hot breath fanned her face.
She pulled away. “What are you doing?”
He remained close. “You don’t expect me to offer marriage and a home if I don’t like even kissing you?”
“I don’t expect you to press your advantage.” She moved to get up.
But he put his hand on the arm of the settee on the other side of her, trapping her. “I am not going to have wasted my evening here and not at least leave with a kiss.”
“I don’t have a mind to let you kiss me.” She pushed on his arm.
“I like your spunk.” He leaned closer to take that kiss.
“Let me go!”
When he was about to succeed, the parlor doors slid open with a bang. Papa and Lindley stood in the doorway. Genevieve stood behind them, holding baby Priscilla.
“Get out of my house!” Papa growled.
Malcolm stood. “You are going to have a hard time finding a husband for that one.” He tromped out.
Genevieve sat beside her. “Are you all right?”
Rachel took a calming breath. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“He was just trying to steal a kiss.” But her hands still shook slightly, so she clasped them together in her lap. At least she didn’t have to worry about Papa ever inviting Malcolm back.
* * *
Claiming distress from her suitor the night before, Rachel had little trouble convincing Genevieve to let her go walking in the woods.
“Are you sure you want to go out there alone? Wouldn’t you feel safer in the house?”
It had been in the house that she hadn’t been safe. Not that Papa had been very far away. The moment she had been about to call out to him, he had come to her rescue. “I have never had any trouble with the woodland animals. I feel calmer out in the forest.”
“Very well. But don’t be too long. I worry, you know.”
She appreciated Genevieve’s concern, but she would feel much more at ease being able to get away.
Soon she stood on the hill overlooking English Camp. Scanning the area, she didn’t see the leftenant either up on the hill or down below. She leaned over the log to see if the book was still there. Pulling it out, she noticed it was bulkier than she remembered. Turning, she sat on the log.
In her rush, she had forgotten to bring the burlap sack to sit on, but the log wasn’t too wet. Her skirt would get damp, but she could easily tell Genevieve she’d sat down to rest. And that was exactly what she was doing. She untied the leather strip and folded away the leather covering.
But instead of the book cover, she saw a wax-coated muslin cloth. She folded that back, as well. And there sat th
e poems. The leftenant must have come back to wrap the volume in the wax cloth to protect it further from the moisture. He was quite thoughtful. And she liked that he thought to protect a book. Not everyone would do that.
Opening to the first poem, she read it through. A rustling sound caught her attention, and she turned. A chipmunk sat on the end of the log with some sort of seed in his paws. He considered her a moment before he scolded her, twitched his whiskers and scampered off.
She flipped through the pages until she found the “Rosabelle” poem and read it over and over. The leftenant was right. She did like this one. It had a mysterious, haunted quality that made her want to unlock its secrets.
* * *
Charles sat at his brother and sister-in-law’s supper table.
Melissa dabbed at her mouth between bites. “Dear brother-in-law, I fear I have fallen down on my duties as your sister. So I have taken measures to correct that.” She stabbed a coin of cooked carrot and daintily plucked it off her fork into her mouth.
“And what duties would those be?” He couldn’t even imagine. He glanced to his brother, who shrugged and gave him an “I’m sorry” look.
Sorry for what? Charles’s stomach clenched. “What have you done?”
She smiled coyly and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin again. “I have written to two of my cousins and a good friend, telling them all about you. Truly, they already know much. London society eagerly awaits the return of a handsome, eligible bachelor.”
He’d thought he was safe being away from his mother. But evidently not. “What did you tell them?”
“That you would make a fine husband and are looking for a suitable wife.”
“I’m not looking for a wife. You may tell them so.”
“Well, not here, obviously. The caliber of ladies on these remote, backwoods islands is both limited and below your station.” She shifted to face him better. “You don’t even know who the young ladies are that I have chosen. I have put a great deal of thought into their selection. Any one of them will make you a wonderful officer’s wife. Each is quite pretty and comes from a family with excellent social standing.”
He was sure they did and were as boring as a stick of furniture. A moan escaped. He cringed. Bad manners.
“Oh, don’t make it sound like a death sentence.”
It might as well be. Why couldn’t people be content with him being a bachelor? No doubt his mother would have a titled lady or two she hoped he’d entertain the idea of marrying.
His three older brothers were sufficiently married to ladies who came from families with excellent social standing. He hoped that had made his parents content to not pressure him. But in case they became tempted, he’d volunteered for this tour of duty as far removed from London society as he could get, hoping society would forget about him.
Bachelorhood suited him.
But he did picture one young lady at his side. A lady who wouldn’t be wounded at the slightest provocation, real or imaginary, a romantic with a flare for drama. A lady who was intelligent and could keep up with him in a conversation, who could keep him on his toes and guessing. A lady who was interesting.
For the first time, bachelorhood didn’t seem so permanent.
Or agreeable.
Chapter 6
Rachel pictured the leftenant’s teasing hazel eyes as he’d tempted her with the book of poems. She had enjoyed reading them the other day and couldn’t wait to go back to read more. And ideally he would be—
Alice nudged her. “Is that right?” Her eleven-year-old half sister sat on the settee next to her, holding up her yellow-and-blue quilt block.
Rachel adjusted her focus to the fabric. Alice’s seams were getting straighter. Once the block was pressed flat and quilted in the full piece, the waviness of the seams wouldn’t show. “That’s fine. You’re getting better.” On her other side, Edith sagged against her, sleeping.
Alice smiled. “What’s next?”
Rachel showed her the next two pieces to be stitched together.
Lindley tromped into the room a bit too noisily.
Genevieve looked up from the chair where she was nursing Priscilla. “Lindley, what are you doing?”
Lindley had his bow and arrows in hand, and his coat and boots on. “I’m going hunting.”
What was Lindley up to?
“No, you are not,” Genevieve said.
“I’m going to bring back supper.”
“I already have a sausage stew started on the stove.”
“Then I’ll bring back supper for tomorrow. Boys at school were saying that they’ve seen a lot of rabbits.”
Why was her brother being so insistent?
“Your father is not here to go with you,” Genevieve said.
“I’ve gone hunting by myself before.”
He was up to something. Rachel could tell by the way he twisted his left foot.
“Not with my approval.”
He pointed his bow tip at Rachel. “Then make her go with me.”
“I don’t want to go hunting.” It was terrible to watch a cute, furry bunny hopping along one moment and dead limp the next. Rachel didn’t have trouble eating them. She just didn’t like to see what she was eating alive first. Yet she had no problem with the squawky chickens. Silliness.
Genevieve nodded. “There, your sister doesn’t want to go.”
Lindley turned his soulful brown eyes on Rachel. “Pleeeease.” Then he winked.
Rachel quickly looked at Alice, but she’d had her head down, working, and missed the wink. Rachel was curious about what her brother was up to. “All right. But I’m not carrying rabbits, and I’m not skinning them.”
He nodded. “I’ll even give you the pelts to line a hand muff.”
That would be nice. Soft and warm. As Rachel stood, she adjusted Edith, laying her down on the settee.
Genevieve looked up at her compassionately. “You don’t have to go.”
“You know how restless he gets with only us women for company. I wouldn’t mind the walk.” And she wanted to know what her brother was scheming. Had he winked just to pique her curiosity enough so she would go with him? Or was he truly up to something? She put on her boots and coat and grabbed the Jane Austen novel she was rereading.
Lindley waited for her outside. As soon as she stepped out the door, he was off.
“Lindy, wait.” But he didn’t.
She hurried after him. “What’s the rush? You’re going to scare all the rabbits.”
It was apparent he wasn’t really out to hunt. He finally slowed.
She caught up with him. “All right. What are you up to?”
“Hunting,” he said innocently.
“And what exactly are you hunting that you haven’t already scared off?”
“My quarry’s not in this part of the forest.” He took off again, bounding through the woods.
She shook her head. With all the noise he was making and the disturbed forest floor and bent underbrush, she wasn’t going to hurry. He would be easy to follow. Soon it dawned on her where he was headed. English Camp. But what could be his quarry there? He wasn’t thinking to start a war all on his own, was he? She quickened her pace.
When she caught up to him, he was looking out over the camp. She grabbed his arm and spoke sternly. “You aren’t going to shoot any soldiers. I thought you liked Leftenant Young.”
“Not shoot them. Watch them. I do like the leftenant. Why do they say leftenant instead of lieutenant?”
A voice came from behind them. “Because it’s the proper pronunciation.” The leftenant stepped out from behind a tree. “You Americans have mucked up the queen’s English.”
Rachel’s breath caught at the sight of him, and her heart danced. His slight smile told her t
hat he was glad to see her, as well. “Just because we Americans are independent and choose not to pronounce things in an archaic way, doesn’t mean we are mucking things up.”
He stepped closer. “This coming from a lady who fancies old Shakespearean plays in an archaic style of speech.”
He made a good point. And she liked the way he pronounced things. Everything. “They are poetic. And serve a different purpose than everyday conversation.”
“Touché.” He bowed with a flourish, moving one arm in a circle.
Lindley stepped between them, facing the leftenant, and thrust a stick at him. “Show me more sword fighting.”
“Lindy, Leftenant Young doesn’t want to.”
“I would love to spar with you. But you must call me Charles.”
Lindley nodded.
The leftenant turned to Rachel and dipped his head slightly. “You, too, milady.”
“And if I refuse?”
He snatched her book before she realized what he was up to. “I will keep your book until you agree.” He looked at it. “Emma. Jane Austen. I haven’t read this one. To be completely honest, I’ve only read the beginning of one. I can’t even remember the title. She’s too flowery for my taste.” He waggled the book. “Call me Charles, and you can have it back.”
She wanted to use his first name. It was more intimate. But at the same time, she wanted to tease him. She sat on the log and reached down for the book of poems without looking. All she could come up with was a handful of dead, damp leaves.
“Looking for this?” He was smirking and holding up the poems in his other hand.
Lindley jabbed the leftenant with his stick. “Come on. Let’s sword fight.”
With both books in one hand, Charles took the second stick that Lindley offered him and raised it to block her brother’s blow. He waved the books toward Rachel, taunting her, while still warding off Lindley’s strikes. He didn’t seem to need to pay much attention to defend himself against a twelve-year-old boy.
She would just have to be content to watch their tomfoolery. But she quickly bored of that and walked over to the leftenant, holding out her hand.
“What do you say?” he asked.