The Mail-Order Brides. Bronwyn Williams

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СКАЧАТЬ discreetly plucked her damp petticoat away from her body, wishing she had more than a single change. So far, she’d learned to wash drawers, stockings and dishes. Her education was progressing by leaps and bounds, but with every leap forward, she was aware of many more shortcomings.

      Really, she thought, something should be done about women’s education. What good was knowing the proper seating at a dinner party for twenty-four when one could barely manage a simple meal for two?

      Emmet eased into a more comfortable position. “If Grey had in mind to marry you to one of his key men, there’s Clarence, or James Calvin or Almy. You got any particular leanings?”

      “If you mean do I favor any particular man, I’ve spoken only briefly to Clarence. I’ve never even met the others.”

      Dora, who had already decided that she would far rather stay on as a companion than marry any man, asked, “What would have happened if I’d been accepted, but then my prospective bridegroom and I hadn’t suited?” Now that marriage was no longer a possibility, she could allow herself to wonder.

      “I reckon you’d have suited any man with eyes in his head. St. Bride must’ve figured you wouldn’t thrive in a place like this. One thing I’ll say for the boy—when he makes a mistake, he’s not too proud to admit it. He’s hard, but he’s not heartless.”

      The boy. Grey St. Bride had to be at least thirty years old, but then, coastal men, like farmers, tended to age earlier than men like Henry and her father. Although one would never have known it from his soft white hands, Tranquil Sutton had come from a long line of Beaufort County farmers. Sutton Hall had once been centered in more than two thousand acres of rich, productive farmland before it had been sold off, a few hundred acres at the time, to enable her father to go into what he called “investments.”

      As it turned out, he’d have done better to lease out his land and live on the proceeds.

      “You’re going to need a pair of real shoes. Pity Sal’s things won’t fit you. She was a sturdy woman.” He fell silent, and Dora completed the thought. But evidently not sturdy enough.

      Looks could be deceiving. “I left my trunk in storage over on the mainland.” While it wasn’t a hint that he might offer to send for it, she could hardly stay on with only two dresses and a single change of undergarments.

      “I’ll have Clarence send for it when he comes down the ridge again.”

      “How much do you suppose it would cost to ship it out?”

      “Cap’n Dozier’ll see to it. He brings out supplies two, three times a week.”

      Grateful but embarrassed at having to accept charity, Dora reached down and scratched the ears of the dog sleeping beside her chair. Things were moving almost too quickly. Having her trunk shipped out—moving into Emmet’s house…There was still one big obstacle to be faced before she felt truly secure.

      St. Bride.

      “Well. I suppose I should—should go and find something useful to do.” Rising, she turned to go inside.

      “Easy, girl, you’ll come about just fine.”

      Dora was proud of each small accomplishment. Better yet, Emmet seemed just as pleased. Using her eyes and hands along with Emmet’s encouragement and Sal’s recipe book, she cooked another meal. After fanning the smoke out the window, they dined on underdone biscuits, scorched bacon and what was supposed to have been sauce made from dried apples, but ended up a tasteless, lumpy mush.

      Emmet praised it all and Dora swelled with pride. If she could do this much now, she could do even better with enough practice. She wasn’t stupid, after all—only inexperienced.

      The next day she accomplished two things. First she mastered the art of cooking beans, then she worked up her courage to slide a hand under Emmet’s hens and remove the eggs.

      Unfortunately, the gander chose that morning to escape from his pen, which was separated from the chicken’s side only by a length of fishnet. The wretched bird chased her back to the porch, hissing and clacking his beak. She ended up throwing six of the seven eggs she’d collected at the vicious creature.

      Emmet had laughed until she almost felt like throwing the last egg at him, but then, she’d had to laugh, herself.

      After that had come the crucial test. Fish. “Filleted and fried?” she asked dubiously, thinking of the heavy cast-iron frying pan and the hot bacon drippings their old cook had always used, and the way the grease had always spattered. Could she do it without burning down the house?

      “If you don’t mind, I believe I’d as soon have it stewed.” Evidently Emmet picked up on her uncertainty.

      “Then stewed it is,” she said, covering her relief. “Sal says potatoes, onions, corn dumplings and salt pork.” She had read the book from cover to cover, trying to absorb in a matter of days the lessons of a lifetime.

      “And fish,” Emmet said dryly, and they both laughed again.

      That was something they did frequently. Laugh together. For the life of her, Dora couldn’t imagine why, because nothing either of them said was particularly funny. The best she could come up with was that they were comfortable together. Here in their safe little world, where there were no real threats, the smallest things brought pleasure.

      More than once she warned herself not to look back, for the past held little but pain. Instead she focused on the future. After only a few days, when nothing disastrous happened, she felt secure enough to lower her guard.

      Emmet would have probably listened if she had gone on and on about the latest fashions, or even the latest gossip about who was courting whom. Somewhere between then and now—between Bath and St. Brides, those topics seemed to have lost their appeal. With the perspective of time and distance, her entire life seemed incredibly shallow compared to that of a man who had once guided big ships through a treacherous inlet—a man who had finally found love, only to lose it so suddenly.

      At Emmet’s urging, however, she related a few stories from her childhood. Small things. Like hanging around the kitchen hoping to get a taste of frosting before it went on the cake. Like dressing up on rainy days in gowns she found in a trunk in the attic.

      Nothing at all about her father’s losing everything, including the home that had been in their family for more than a hundred years. Certainly nothing about his suicide, or her shame in allowing Henry to seduce her.

      Dora talked and Emmet listened, and then Emmet would talk while Dora listened. More often than not they ended up laughing together over some trivial incident from either her past or his. They played checkers—clouded eyes or not, he was a wicked competitor.

      And then, Emmet suggested she marry him.

      It wasn’t a proposal so much as a business proposition. Dora was sitting in one of the two parlor chairs, rubbing her foot through her lisle stockings, as the sole had finally worn through her left slipper.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Now, don’t jump ship before you hear me out.” Emmet had buttoned his blue shirt up to his neck and put on his best denim trousers. His ankle had healed enough that he was able to get around quite well. “I’m an old man. Like I said, my sand’s running out. While I’m still able to get about, I’d like СКАЧАТЬ