The Bonny Bride Page 19

  She flew to the parlor door and down the stairs to the kitchen.

  “What’s going on? Is someone hurt?”

  The lanky form of Roderick’s housekeeper, Mrs. Lyons, loomed between Jenny and a cringing, whimpering housemaid.

  “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with, ma’am.” Her words were servile enough, but the housekeeper’s tone sounded dismissive, if not downright insolent.

  Though she shrank from any confrontation with this imposing creature, Jenny persisted. “The well-being of Mr. Douglas’s servants is very much my affair, Mrs. Lyons. If not now, then surely once we are wed. What happened?”

  Mrs. Lyons prefaced her reply by drawing in a deep breath that seemed to say, If you must know… “Marie was acting the fool and not paying close enough mind to her ironing. She left a scorch mark on one of the master’s shirts.”

  Jenny spied the shirt, laid out on a nearby table. The offending mark was scarcely visible to the naked eye, and besides… “It’s clear up the back, between his shoulder blades. No one would see it. A word to Marie should have been enough. I fear ye’re too harsh with the lassies, Mrs. Lyons. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  Plainly, the housekeeper thought Roderick had made a huge mistake in his choice of a bride. Her pasty complexion went even whiter, and her single brow lowered menacingly.

  “Will that be all, ma’am?”

  Having expected to come off rather worse from their exchange, Jenny replied, “Aye, thank ye. For now. Dry yer eyes, Marie, and get back to work. Mind ye pay attention to what ye’re doing after this.”

  “Oui…I mean, yes, mistress.”

  Nothing more was said on the subject until that evening.

  “Mrs. Lyons tells me you’re meddling in her management of the house, Janet,” said Roderick as they ate dinner.

  Despite his temperate tone, Jenny’s innards constricted and her heart raced. The quiet formality of the dining room chilled her. The perfectly prepared dish of boiled beef turned to sawdust on her tongue. Unbidden, a wistful memory rose of one meal she and Harris had shared. Wild rabbit, charred over an open fire, eaten with their fingers. Seasoned by the spice of his company and a sense of complete freedom, it had been a feast to relish.

  “I…” Jenny took a sip of ale to relieve her suddenly parched throat. “I didn’t think there was any need of her boxing poor Marie’s ears over such a wee mistake.” Indignation overcame her unreasonable disquiet. “If ye ask me, Mrs. Lyons is far too harsh with all the hired girls. She’s got them so cowed they hardly ever speak. The house is like a tomb in…”

  Roderick quietly set down his fork and looked at her. Jenny’s words trailed off.

  “Good housekeepers are hard to come by in a place like this, Janet. I know, for I was quite a while finding Mrs. Lyons. She’s been able to run this establishment in a manner befitting…”

  “…a man in yer position.” The words were out of Jenny’s mouth before she realized it. She held her breath.

  To her surprise and chagrin, Roderick replied in an even quieter voice. “I’ll thank you not to take my position lightly, Janet.” When she finally steeled herself to meet his eyes, however, she saw a glint of cold wrath in their dark depths.

  “I had to work very hard to get where I am today.” Before she could squeak out an apology, he continued, evidently more to himself than to her. “My father swore I’d never make anything of myself, but I showed him.”

  Was everyone in the world prompted to live their lives to please or defy parental expectations, Jenny wondered? Roderick driven to prosperity by his father’s scorn. Harris driven to pursue a woman who, like his mother, was destined to desert him. Finally, herself, driven to “marry well” by her mother’s dying words.

  Roderick smiled suddenly. “You’re a fine lady now, my dear Janet. No need to trouble yourself with domestic matters. Leave that up to Mrs. Lyons. She’s been with me long enough to know how I like things done.”

  Trying to work up an answering smile, Jenny gave a nod of agreement—or was it submission? No question Roderick was a very handsome man. Yet, more and more, in the fortnight since she’d come to Chatham, Jenny found his good looks an impersonal fact of life. He might have been a fine painting or an expertly crafted piece of needlework. Pleasing to the eye but not necessarily engaging to the heart.

  “Rum, gin or whisky?” Harris asked his customer, swiping a wet rag across the surface of the bar.

  Serving drinks at a tavern was the only employment he’d been able to secure in Chatham, despite diligently making the rounds of every business in town. Even the ones that had sported Help Wanted signs seemed to have recently filled the positions. Harris didn’t doubt for a minute that Roderick Douglas was behind the subtle campaign to deny him a job.

  “Wha’sa cheapest?” asked the customer, leaning heavily against the bar.

  “Rum, by a long ways,” said Harris. “And if ye’ll take a bit of friendly advice, ye’ll keep drinking as ye’ve begun and not try to mix yer spirits.”

  “Rum it is.” The man slapped several pieces of silver on the counter. “As long as this’ll last.”

  His customer didn’t seem disposed to talk, so Harris held his peace, refilling the glass at suitable intervals. The fellow looked to be off one of the ships presently in port. A peddler of some sort, if the well-stuffed carpetbag he carried was any indication. Harris made no attempt to coax him into conversation, as he did the Chatham natives.

  His days and nights tending bar had yielded almost as little result as his job search. And perhaps for the same reason. Everyone in town lived in fear of Roderick Douglas. Harris had done his best to wring out even one tale of the man’s doings, with which to confront Jenny. No one, no matter how deep in his cups, was willing to volunteer anything more incriminating than a nebulous warning or a vague imprecation on Roderick’s name.

  Harris had only seen Jenny twice in the past two weeks, riding to church—the English church—in Roderick’s buggy. Several times, he’d gone to Roderick’s house during the day, only to be turned away by that dragon of a housekeeper Douglas employed. Were they holding Jenny prisoner? Or was she content in her new life and wanted nothing more to do with him? He had to see her face-to-face one last time to find out for sure.

  “Fill it again,” demanded Harris’s customer.

  “I’d like to, friend. But yer money’s given out.”

  The man rummaged in his pockets for several minutes to no avail. Then, bending down, he opened his carpetbag and extracted a book. “Wha’ll ye gi’ me fer this?”

  Harris shook his head. “The proprietor says I’m only to take coin, sir.” Then he noticed the title of the volume—Ivanhoe. He’d left his own books behind in Richibucto and he sorely missed them.

  It was not of himself that Harris thought, however, as he turned the book over and over in his hands.

  “I tell ye what, friend. If ye’ll make me a fair price of it, I’ll pay ye for the book. Then it’s yer affair what ye do with the money I give ye.”

  The man slurred out a sum.

  “I ken it’s worth every penny.” Harris shook his head regretfully. “But I haven’t got that much.”

  “Wha’ do ye have?”

  Harris emptied his pockets of the silver Roderick Douglas had given him, along with a few pennies he’d earned here, beyond his bed and board. “That’s the lot.”

  “Done!” said the book vendor. “Take it b’fore I sober up and think better of the idea.”

  The next day, Harris slipped a scrap of paper deep within the pages of the book. Then he entrusted it to a young lad he’d befriended. To be delivered to the house of Mr. Douglas for Miss Jenny Lennox, with no word of its source.

  For half an hour, he paced and fretted. Would Jenny get his message, or would Rod Douglas’s black dragon of a housekeeper intercept it? And even if the note should pass unmolested into her hands, would she heed it?

  “Pardon, mistress.”

  As Jenny glanced up from
her sewing, the needle went astray and jabbed her finger.

  “Ow!” She brought the tiny wound to her mouth. “What is it, Marie?” Glancing at the drops of bright blood that stained her fancywork, Jenny felt her heart sink.

  “Madame Lyons went to lay down with a sick headache, mistress. Lizzie told me to ask if you might like a cup of tea in the kitchen. She just took blackberry tarts from the oven.”

  Jenny longed to jump from her chair and race Marie to the kitchen. How she yearned for a scrap of womanly society and conversation.

  What would Roderick say, though, if he came to hear about it? She knew well enough what he’d say—the wife of a man in his position shouldn’t fraternize with her servants.

  “Tell Lizzie, it was kind of her to ask, Marie.” Jenny tendered a regretful smile, hoping it would soften her rebuff. “I’ll take my tea here in the parlour. No rush to bring it though. Whenever ye lassies finish yers.”

  “Oui, Mistress.” There was no mistaking the disappointment in Marie’s voice or the look of hurt in her eyes.

  The lassies would think she meant to snub them—that she was too grand for their company. Perhaps the wives of men in Roderick’s position shunned the fellowship of their hired help, but she was not his wife yet. Plenty of time to put on fine airs in the future if she must.

  “Marie,” she called after the girl, “I believe I’ll just come along and see that everything’s in order, below stairs.”

  Perhaps recognizing that Jenny’s duty warred with her personal inclination, Marie grinned at this compromise between the two. “You might wish to sample the tart, mistress, to see that the crust is not too tough.”

  “Aye. I wouldn’t want Mr. Douglas served tough pastry tonight. Who knows but I might test the tea, to see it’s not brewed too weak.”

  As mistress and maid passed the front door, a hesitant knock sounded upon it. If they’d been much farther away, they surely would not have heard it. Marie glanced at Jenny. Ordinarily, Mrs. Lyons answered any and all summons to the front door.

  “Ye may see who it is, Marie,” Jenny prompted her. “We wouldn’t want to disturb Mrs. Lyons’s rest.”

  Marie drew the door slightly ajar and exchanged a few words with the person on the other side. When she turned back to Jenny, there was a book in her hands. A book!

  “The boy said this is for you, mistress. He wouldn’t say who sent it.”

  Jenny reached for the volume, her hands fairly trembling with suppressed eagerness.

  “I ken Mr. Douglas must have sent it, Marie.” Jenny hoped her lie sounded convincing. “To give me something to do besides needlework.”

  Whether she believed Jenny or not, the girl nodded agreeably.

  “Go along to the kitchen and have yer tea, Marie. I’ll come in a little while. I’d like to look over my new book first.”

  The girl bobbed a little curtsy and headed for the back stairs.

  “And another thing, Marie.”

  “Oui, mistress?”

  “No need to mention this to Mrs. Lyons. Ye know how particular she is about answering the door. I wouldn’t want ye to get in trouble about it.”

  “Oui, mistress.” Marie sounded in no hurry to confide in the housekeeper.

  Jenny returned to the parlor, her hands caressing the book’s leather cover, her eyes lingering on the gold-stamped lettering of the title. Ivanhoe. The memories it brought back, simply to hold it again. Only one person could have sent her such a gift. That person, for good or ill, was not her betrothed.

  “Oh, Harris, ye poor daft dreamer,” Jenny mused, turning the thick pages. She fought to stifle sweet, vivid recollections that threatened to engulf her. “This must have cost every penny ye had. Did ye mean it for a parting gift?”

  Her throat constricted at the thought.

  A wistful revery took her, and she was back aboard the St. Bride, nestled in the shadow of the mainsail, with Harris by her side. So deep was Jenny lost in her remembrance that she almost missed the scrap of paper wedged between two pages.

  “What’s this, then?” She smoothed out the folded note.

  Its spiky script was so different from book printing that Jenny could hardly decipher it. After much rereading and puzzling, she decided it said, Will you see me to say a proper goodbye? I’ll wait for you in the kirkyard. H.

  Goodbye? So he had decided to go away at last. Jenny fought down a pang of regret. It was the best thing for both of them. Perhaps Harris was learning some sense at last.

  In the kirkyard. Would he be there now? How long would he wait?

  Jenny knew without asking that Roderick would never approve such a meeting, yet she sensed he wanted Harris out of town. If this would speed him on his way, and if Roderick knew nothing of it, what could it ail anyone?

  Stealing up to the bedroom, Jenny hid the book at the bottom of her clothes chest. Taking up her bonnet and a light wrap, she crept back downstairs again and let herself out the front door.

  “Jenny, over here!”

  When he’d first seen her coming, Harris felt so light with relief and happiness that he almost lifted off the ground. It was everything he could do to keep from enfolding her in his arms. Only the certainty that it would drive her away checked the almost irresistible impulse.

  Besides, it was no longer a question of having her for himself. Harris doubted that could ever be. If Jenny had to belong to another, though, it must be a man who could make her happy.

  He drew her behind a tall burial monument of rust-colored sandstone. Not completely out of sight of the road, but not readily noticeable, either.

  She looked as beautiful as ever, in fine new clothes with every hair in place. But there was something restive in her eyes and a fixed tightness in her smile that had never been there before. They fueled his conviction to say what he’d come to say.

  “It’s good to see you again, Jenny.”

  “Ye’re leaving town, then? Where will ye go?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t given it much thought. Before I go Jenny, I have to warn ye about Roderick Douglas. Ye mustn’t marry him.”

  “Oh, Harris. We’ve been over and over this. I came here to wed Mr. Douglas and I’m going to. It’s the only way for me.”

  “Do ye truly think ye can be happy with him, Jenny? There’s more to life than fine clothes and a big house and plenty to eat. He’s a rich man, lass, but he’s not a good man.”

  She backed away, coming to rest against the tombstone. Harris couldn’t bear the thought of her sharing the fate of Roderick Douglas’s mother and stepmothers.

  “How dare ye say that!” she flared, with a spirit he prayed would never be broken. “What’s he done?”

  Leave it to her to come straight to the heart of the matter, to expose the one gaping weakness in his whole argument.

  Harris moved toward Jenny, trapping her between himself and the grave marker, so she’d have to hear him out. “I haven’t been able to find that out, exactly. Folks are too scared of him to talk. But I’ve heard hints enough.”

  “Hints? Ye expect me to call off my wedding on account of hints? Roderick Douglas is a successful man. He didn’t build up his business by letting shiftless, dishonest folks take advantage of him. He says they tell the most awful stories, just to stir up trouble for him.”

  “There’s more to it than that, Jenny. I know there is.” Abandoning the futility of this strategy, Harris groped for ammunition of any kind.

  “Do ye love him, lass? Now that ye’ve seen him again, up close? Can ye look me in the eye and tell me what ye feel for him is stronger than what ye felt for me?”

  “Ye can stow all this talk about love and feeling, Harris Chisholm.” She squeezed past him, like an animal desperately wriggling out of a trap. “That foolishness wilts almost as fast as a bride’s posies. The first breath of frost and it dies. I’ve seen it again and again. Maizie, my mother…your mother.”

  Jenny’s words left Harris agape. He knew she was wrong, though he could not put the how a
nd the why of that wrongness immediately into words. But he would. All he needed was a few moments’ reflection.

  For he had seen Jenny’s private devil at last. A huge beast, black as a shadow. Just as full of unreasoning terror. Just as insubstantial. He realized, now, how it had driven and stalked her. At other times, it had barred her path to happiness, hulking before her with vicious, yellow fangs bared.

  Harris had fought his own beast. In unguarded moments he still fell prey to it. He knew it was not within his power to vanquish Jenny’s for her. Only she could do that.

  He could give her a weapon, though, and a reason to fight.

  “Janet!” Roderick Douglas strode toward them, through the tall thin grass of the kirkyard. “Why are you skulking around a cemetery, my dear?”

  As Jenny’s mouth opened and closed without producing a sound, he appeared to catch sight of Harris for the first time.

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Please, Roderick, it’s not how it looks.”

  Fearing Douglas meant to strike her, Harris hurried to put himself between Jenny and her intended. “It’s my fault, Douglas. Don’t blame the lass. I sent her a message that I was leaving town. I asked her to meet me so we could say a civil goodbye.”

  Roderick Douglas shot him a venomous look. “That’s as may be. Janet could have invited you to the house for supper and a proper farewell. This all looks rather furtive to me.”

  Jenny hung her head. “I’m sorry, Roderick. Ye’re right. I should’ve thought of that.”

  Harris wanted to throttle Roderick Douglas with his bare hands for the way he’d managed to intimidate Jenny. He wanted to rage at her for surrendering to such domination.

  “I’m sorely distressed by your disloyalty, Janet.” Roderick put his hands behind him, like a schoolmaster scolding a troublesome pupil. “That you felt you had to go behind my back. That you’d risk damaging my reputation in this town.”

  “Let her be, Douglas.” Harris took a step nearer, trying to provoke the fellow into taking a swing at him. “All Jenny’s guilty of is a soft heart. If ye have a quarrel, it’s with me. Pick on someone yer ain size.”