The Mail-Order Brides. Bronwyn Williams

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      Chapter Three

      Among the nicest features of Emmet’s house were the two porches. From the front she could look out past the garden, down toward the landing and watch the activity as ships lined up waiting to come alongside and unload or take on their cargo.

      The back porch looked out over a chicken house, three enormous fig trees and one lonely grave, a sagging net-fenced pen and the outhouse. Beyond those there was only sand, a bit of marsh, some scrubby woods and more water. Both front and back porches were sheltered under the deeply sloping roof, which made them good for both sitting and hanging clothes out to air.

      When it came to laundry—to drying her most intimate garments, however, Dora chose the attic. Someone—Sal, perhaps—had strung a line across from rafter to rafter. According to Emmet they had planned to turn the space into another bedroom, so as to house St. Bride’s women until they could make other arrangements. With a small window in each end, it would have served well enough.

      She tried to visualize what could be done with the small space. Now that she no longer had to live up to anyone’s expectations but her own, she was beginning to discover not only new interests but new talents.

      For instance, she was quite good at planning. Better at planning than at the actual doing, but that would come in time. The important thing was that she had a perfectly good brain and a pair of capable—marginally capable—hands.

      For no reason at all, she thought of the man who had sent for her, only to reject her. “Here’s one in your eye, St. Bride.”

      Her friend Selma Blunt used to announce her serves that way when she meant to zing one across the net. But then, Selma had always been fiercely competitive. She’d always had to be the best at anything she attempted. More often than not she’d succeeded.

      Selma had wanted Henry. So far as Dora knew, she hadn’t succeeded there. She did know, however, that both Selma and her personal maid, Polly, had done their best to spread the gossip. Her own maid, Bertola, had told her so.

      Well, Selma could have Henry Carpenter Smythe with her blessings. The two of them deserved each other. Personally, Dora found the position of companion far preferable to marriage. If she ever did marry, the truth would have to come out, because she simply wasn’t capable of living a lie.

      But then, neither was she ready to confess to the truth.

      Sighing, Dora thought of what an utter ruin the Suttons had made of their lives. Her poor father had been unable to accept failure. She, at least, was trying to recover and make a new start. Whether or not it was what Emmet called fate, she happened to have stumbled onto the ideal solution. Instead of being forced to marry for the sake of security, as she had resigned herself to do, she had found the perfect position with a man who was content with what she could offer. Best of all, she had found a friend.

      The early morning sun came streaming through the window, striking her face with blinding brilliance the next morning. She had her pallet rolled up and hidden behind the settee by the time Emmet emerged from the bedroom.

      “You shouldn’t be up,” she scolded. He had upended a broom and was using it as a crutch.

      “I’ll be dancing a fandango before you know it.”

      “Fandango, indeed. You’re a scamp, Emmet Meeks, do you know that?”

      His eyes, clouded though they were, had a decided twinkle. “Been called it a time or two. I reckon we’d best see to clearing out the back room. After Sal died I shoved everything inside and shut the door. There’s a bed under there somewhere. I built it. Didn’t do as good a job as James Calvin would’ve done, but I reckon it’ll hold a small woman.”

      “Emmet, are you sure? I don’t want to—hurt your feelings.”

      “Go to it, gal. Can’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

      “I don’t mind at all,” Dora assured him. Although as long as she was going to live here, she would really prefer an arrangement that would afford her a bit more privacy, not to mention comfort.

      After a leisurely breakfast of scorched sausage, overcooked eggs and embarrassed apologies, she helped Emmet out onto the front porch where he could watch the goings-on at the landing, arranging a stool for his ankle. The swelling had gone down, but he was still unable to pull on his boot.

      Washing dishes involved bringing in water from the rain barrel, heating it on the woodstove, pouring it over a chunk of brown soap and scrubbing until the plates came clean, then heating more water to rinse them and drying them with a towel made of a flour sack.

      In the process she managed to burn her fingers, drop a cup, which was thankfully thick enough that it didn’t break—and splash water all over her bodice.

      “Well, that’s done,” she announced proudly, joining her employer on the front porch just as the redheaded warehouseman passed by.

      “Morning, Clarence,” Emmet called out.

      “Morning, Emmet. Miz Sutton.” It was the same man she’d seen yesterday when she’d stumbled off the boat. Evidently word had spread, as he obviously knew who she was. If he was surprised to see her still here, he hid it well. “Looks like rain tomorrow,” he declared.

      Salty, Emmet’s yellow dog, who appeared to be a mixture of retriever and shepherd, yapped once and then curled back into her spot of sun on the corner of the porch.

      “On his way up to fetch Grey’s ledger, I reckon,” Emmet said when the man walked on by. “With the way business is picking up, it don’t pay to let things slide.” Emmet’s rheumy gaze followed the lanky young man walking СКАЧАТЬ