The Mail-Order Brides

So much for the wonderful Mr. St. Bride.

Dora leaned to one side to peer through a window, wishing she could see the docks from where she sat. What if Emmet was wrong and the Bessie Mae & Annie hadn’t actually sailed yet?

But even if by some miracle she mananged to catch the boat before it left, would she be any better off? There were few jobs available for women who’d been coddled all their lives. When the time came, no matter what their personal inclinations, they were expected to marry men of their fathers’ choosing—men who would continue to pamper them. As far as Dora was concerned, even that door had been closed.

From her rocking chair—Sal’s rocker, according to Emmet—all she could see was that towering monstrosity of a house on the dunes. Castle St. Bride.

Fortress St. Bride, she amended bitterly.

“So I said to myself,” Emmet Meeks went on, and Dora turned her attention back to her elderly host, wondering if she’d missed something. “Either she will or she won’t. Don’t do no harm to ask.”

“To ask?”

“Don’t take offense, Miss Sutton, but the fact that you come here in answer to St. Bride’s piece in the paper means you’ve run plumb out of luck over on the mainland.” She opened her mouth and closed it again. It was no less than the truth. “Happens, I’m alone in the world but for a dog that lives with me,” he went on. “After my wife died I went over to the mainland for a spell. Saw a doctor, thinking maybe I could get me a pair of spectacles—it was getting so I couldn’t even see the channel markers, let alone the shoals. Doc said I had clouds in my eyes—said the best specs in the world couldn’t clear ’em away.” He stirred his tea, sipped it and continued to speak, thoughtfully peering into his teacup. “Saw another doc while I was there. Told me my heart was tired.”

“Oh, no…” she murmured.

“Said if I was lucky, I still had a few good years left before it gave up the ghost.” His clouded blue eyes captured and held her clear gray-green ones. “What I’m trying to say, Miss Dora, is that I’d as soon not live ’em alone. I’ve got my dog, but Salty, she’s not much of a one for conversation.”

Dora was aghast. What could she say under the circumstances? Was he asking her to marry him? Was he daft?

More to the point, was she?

Because she actually found herself considering it. Seriously considering marriage to a man she’d known less than an hour.

Yet, was it any worse than marrying one she’d never even met? That was what she’d been prepared to do until she’d been rejected.

“I’d not ask much of you, Miss Dora. If you’ll agree to stay on as my companion—as my friend—I can’t pay you much, but I promise to deed you my house and my land and bless you with my dying breath for your kindness.”

Grey made it as far north as Long Point and dropped anchor in Wysocking Bay. He’d have liked to get farther, but sailing alone in his 30 foot sloop, he preferred to lay over until daylight. Too much was depending on him to take any foolish risks.

Damn it all, why had the woman showed up just as he had to leave? It would be several days—possibly as much as a week—before he could get back, and then he’d have to start all over again.

There had to be a way to word his advertisements so that only the right sort of woman would apply. Not too young, not too old, like poor Sal. Not too pretty, but not plain as a mud fence, either. Sturdy women, not given to fancy pink dresses and flimsy pink slippers.

Going below, he unwrapped the supper his housekeeper, a giant of a man named Mouse, had provided. Cheese, cold cornbread and smoked fish, with a handful of dried apples to follow. Back up on deck, he consumed the lot without tasting any of it and thought about the woman. Dora Sutton.

Who the devil was she? Why would a woman with her looks bother to answer his advertisement? While he might not be up on the latest fashions, he knew quality when he saw it. That fancy pink frock of hers, in spite of the stains and wrinkles, was quality.

She hadn’t taken his money, which meant she was not entirely without resources. Otherwise his conscience would never let him rest until he’d tracked her down and seen to his own satisfaction that she was all right. He’d been called a martinet—his own brother had once jokingly called him a tinhorn dictator—but he would never willingly allow anyone to suffer as long as he had the means to prevent it.

Thank God she was no longer his problem. She was the kind of woman who set a man’s sap to rising—his own, included. Being married wouldn’t change that fact. All she would have to do was stroll down to the landing on a busy day and every tongue between North End and Shallow Gut would be dragging on the ground. Next thing, there’d be fights among his men, demands that he find them a pretty, yellow-haired wife with high breasts and a hand-span waist.

Did they think he could simply sail across the sound, pick out a few likely candidates, knock them over the head with a club and drag them back to the island? Matchmaking required patience and careful planning. It took guts, tact and finesse, not to mention the ability to handle large amounts of frustration.

Any way you looked at it, turning a rough crew of transients and watermen into a settled, civilized community was damned hard work.

Thank God he had what it took to do the job.

With a million stars reflected in the black water all around him and Dora Sutton stuck in his mind like a peck of sandspurs, Grey allowed himself the rare indulgence of reliving a Chapter from his past. Back when he’d first fallen in love with her, Evelyn had been almost as beautiful as the widow Sutton. A tall woman, she’d had auburn hair and an imperious way he’d found amusing…at least for the first few months.

The years that had given her more generous proportions and darkened her hair had done little to lessen her loveliness. Lately, though, he’d noticed a few lines of dissatisfaction on her face. Come to think of it, even her voice was beginning to sound more querulous than melodious.

But that was Jocephus’s problem, not his. Thank God. One thing about having once fallen hard for the wrong woman, Grey told himself—it lent a man insulation. Taught him what qualities to look for in a wife, as well as which ones to avoid like the plague.

Back on St. Brides, Miss Adora Sutton, the once-popular but now-disgraced daughter of one of Beaufort County’s most prominent citizens, challenged her host to a game of checkers after a modest supper of cold biscuits and molasses, served with dried fruit and tinned tomatoes. Not too long ago she would have turned up her nose at such a crude repast, but having had nothing at all to eat since the ship’s biscuit and brandy Captain Dozier had offered to settle her stomach, she’d scraped her plate clean, going so far as to lick the molasses from her fingertips.

When the last rays of daylight dimmed, she lit a lamp and plumped a pillow to support Emmet’s ankle. They had played a game of checkers, and fading vision or not, the man was a wizard. “One more game?” he teased.

“All right, one more,” she agreed, “but only if you promise to keep your foot up on that stool.” Dora tried to imagine what it must be like to be alone in the world, with both a failing heart and blindness a distinct possibility. The poor man was so lonely he was reduced to talking to a dog, a pen full of chickens and one old gander. He insisted that his ankle wasn’t bothering him, but she knew the swelling alone must be uncomfortable.

They played two more games, and then she insisted on helping him to his bedroom. It had been decided after she had agreed to stay on as his companion that she would sleep in the parlor for now, on a pallet made up of quilts his wife had brought with her. Tomorrow, with Emmet’s permission, she might clear away the clutter in the back. If he objected, she could always see if the attic was at all habitable. It would be hot as blazes, but at least it would be private.

I’ll do my best to look after him for you, Sal, she thought as she snuggled down on her hard bed and stared up at the ceiling. He’s really a dear man. He misses you terribly.

The snug frame house was a far cry from Sutton Hall, but for the first time since her world had come crashing down, Dora felt a measure of peace. Of hope. And oddly enough, of security.

Sooner or later she would have to face Grey St. Bride again, but not tomorrow. Emmet assured her that whenever he sailed north to Edenton to visit his brother, he was usually gone for several days.

Meanwhile, she had much to learn, and Emmet promised to begin teaching her first thing tomorrow. She had confessed when she’d agreed to stay on that she was willing to learn—eager, in fact—but that at the moment, her domestic skills were limited to making tea and boiling eggs.

Emmet had smiled in a way that hinted at the handsome, charming scamp he must have been in his youth. He was only fifty-eight, but looked much older. “I reckon until I’m steady on my pins again, I’ll have to take my chances.”

“Do you really think you can teach me to cook?” The playful challenge was not without a degree of desperation. She had her work cut out for her if she ever intended to be self-sufficient.

“I’m a right fair hand at plain cooking. Sal left a book of recipes. I made out a few things, but like I said, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“Then I’ll read and you can interpret,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t ask why a woman who lacked even the most basic skills had come here to marry a simple workingman.

The last thought on her mind as she closed her eyes, rolled onto her side and tucked her fist against her chin was of a tall, dark-haired man with an incongruous dimple in his chin. A man who had told her she wasn’t suitable—that she was neither wanted nor needed here. That she was, of all things, too pretty!

You and your blooming island can go take a flying leap, Lord St. Bride. I’m here, and I’m staying, and that’s the end of that!

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 along the shell-paved road to Castle St. Bride, as Dora had come to think of it.

“Mercy, it’s warm.” She 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 to see things settled between us. Now, Grey, he means well, but he might take a notion to send you on your way once he gets back—ought to be showing up most any day now. If I remember correctly—and I gen’ally do,” he added with a familiar twinkle—”this house is mine for my lifetime, then it goes to my widow and any issue I might have. Otherwise, it turns back to St. Bride.”

Frantically thinking of all the reasons why such a match was absurd, Dora hardly heard what he was saying about his house. St Bride was on his way home. He would find her and…what?

Emmet waited patiently for her reaction. Having presented his case, he left the decision to her.

Could she stay on as his companion if she said no? If not, where could she go? Could she even afford to leave the island? She had no desire to marry. On the other hand, such an arrangement would benefit both and harm neither.

Dora took a deep breath. Then, suppressing second thoughts, she accepted.

The wedding was held the next day, before St. Bride could return and object. It was quite small. Clarence was there, his smile bright enough to light up the whole church. And the two carpenters, James Calvin and Almy Dole. By then Dora had met several of the local men. She couldn’t help but feel relief at not being thrust into a stranger’s arms by Lord St. Bride.