Marriage of Mercy Read online

  And why shouldn’t he be overjoyed? she asked herself. The time was coming when he wouldn’t need her protection; he would be a free man. She nodded and smiled as he talked about his plans to captain his own ship some day, and hire all the men from the Orontes to crew it.

  Grace hadn’t meant to, but she said to Mrs Wilson mid-week, ‘We’ll be just a distant memory to him, won’t we?’

  She couldn’t help blushing at the look that Mrs Wilson gave her then, harder to bear because it was such a kind look, almost as though Mrs Wilson could read her tangled thoughts.

  * * *

  She began to dread the nights. In the evenings, they still walked upstairs together and he usually blew her a playful kiss. There wasn’t any talk of her returning to his bed to do nothing more than keep him company. Her virtue was in no danger, if it ever had been. After the terrible news of the burning of Washington, he had been a sorrowful man in need of comfort. Baltimore had changed things.

  She decided she had been making mountains out of molehills by imagining for even one minute that Rob Inman actually needed her. It was not a comfortable reflection, but an honest one. She convinced herself that the less she thought about Nantucket, the better off she would be, when the war ended and Rob Inman left. If only he would not talk about the island’s quiet streets, and the way the mist rolled in from the bay, and the sight of Quakers in grey, walking to Meeting on Sunday.

  Thank God they were busy at the bakery, making the usual bread, rolls, biscuits and doughnuts now, plus the extra Christmas treats. There was barely time to talk. Grace found herself doing what she always did during the Yuletide season: watching Quimby’s citizens—the mighty and the modest—shopping, planning parties, laughing with each other. When she’d lived at the bakery, she had fallen into the habit of walking around the village, hoping for glimpses of curtains left open so she could see into homes where families and friends gathered. She had never spied or pried; she hadn’t been brought up to do that. She did no more than cast quick glances and hurry on, so no one would think she was gawking.

  She was grateful, at least, to walk back to Quarle and the dower house each night with Rob Inman. He bubbled over with his plans and he didn’t seem to notice her silence, or her glances at passing homes.

  * * *

  She was wrong; he had noticed. It was three days to Christmas and they had closed the bakery long hours after the usual time. Her back ached and she wanted nothing more than to take her shoes off and lie down. Still, she unconsciously slowed her pace as they passed the final row of houses before the copse and meadow that bordered Quarle.

  She knew from years past that this was the night when Quimby’s solicitors dined at the senior partner’s house. The curtains were invariably left open. Once she had ventured into the garden to watch the couples chatting and laughing, punch in hand, mistletoe overhead.

  Suddenly Rob took her hand and stopped in the road, looking where she looked. ‘Do you imagine yourself inside?’ he asked quietly.

  She nodded, surprised that he had noticed. ‘Every year. The squire’s wife appears to be increasing again. And look, there are Mr and Mrs Holden. They were married only a month ago. Remember? Mrs Wilson and I made their wedding cake. Josiah Bramley—he of the garish waistcoat, do you see?—I think he must be unlucky in love, because he comes by himself every year.’

  She stopped speaking, horrified with how wistful she sounded.

  ‘He never buys more than two doughnuts at a time. It’s downright unnatural,’ Rob joked, taking up her narrative and not giving her a chance to feel foolish. ‘And is that Melinda Caldwell, casting sheep’s eyes at the justice of the peace’s oldest son?’

  She shivered. ‘It’s too cold to stand here, isn’t it? On the outside looking in.’

  He nodded and started walking again. ‘If things had been different, Grace, would you have been in a gathering like that?’

  ‘For a time, I was,’ she said, unable to resist a final look at the entertainment she would never be part of again.

  ‘And it hurts a bit,’ he said, tightening his grip on her shoulder. ‘When I was still an indentured servant, I used to lie on my stomach at the upstairs landing and watch the party below—sea captains and their madams, usually wearing some finery from China or India.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I was on the outside looking in, too.’

  He stopped in the woods as snow began to fall. ‘We have more snow on Nantucket. Grace, even when I was indentured and at everyone’s beck and call, I decided I would give that party some day.’

  ‘Elaine probably made a lovely hostess.’

  ‘She did.’ To her dismay, he gathered her close as they stood there, snow falling around them. ‘I’ve been nattering on all week about my plans and my goals, and you’ve been patient to let me. Grace, rein me in when I do that. It smacks of the worst kind of pride, the kind Nantucket preachers

  really don’t like.’

  ‘It’s your life,’ she said, her voice muffled by his overcoat, the one Mr Wilson had found for him in the vicar’s pile of cast-offs suitable for the deserving poor.

  He was a long time silent. ‘I think it would be an empty shell without you in it,’ he replied, sounding tentative and unsure of himself, qualities she barely recognised in him. ‘Let’s have a party next year in Nantucket.’

  She couldn’t speak, not even daring to hope he was serious.

  ‘It’ll be a good party. Our party.’ He was silent again. When he spoke, he sounded almost apologetic. ‘I know I’m not the man of your dreams, but I can wish, too.’

  She started to cry then, weary with Christmas baking for other people and tired of loneliness that warred against the little strands of optimism and tendrils of hope that wanted to believe every word Rob Inman said. She had lived so long without hope that she wasn’t sure she even recognised it.

  ‘Shh, shh, Grace,’ he crooned into her hair. ‘I was afraid of that.’

  ‘You’re an idiot!’ she sobbed.

  ‘I know.’ He clapped his arm around her shoulder and started them both in motion again. ‘Forget I said that. You already know what you want, don’t you?’

  She cried harder, too shy to speak her heart, too afraid to trust this man who meant the world to her.

  Rob laughed and kissed her forehead. ‘Oh, Gracie,’ he said, his voice gruff, ‘let’s have a Merry Christmas anyway!’

  * * *

  And then it was Christmas Eve, with the shop closing at noon because the Wilsons were in a pelter to get to Plymouth and celebrate the season with their widowed daughter, and daughter and son-in-law, a ropemaker.

  Nahum Smathers wasn’t at his usual post across the road. Rob had commented on Ugly Butler’s absence as he sold the last of the doughnuts to the proprietor of the coffee shop.

  ‘Perhaps this means Lord Thomson has returned and is expecting a report from his minion,’ he told Grace as she scraped down the kneading trough. ‘We should take Lord T. a token of our genuine esteem. Stale bread? Pudding that I have spat in?’

  ‘We should stay as far away from him as possible,’ Grace insisted. She looked out the window. ‘But there is Emery. Perhaps he doesn’t know that Ugly Butler isn’t watching you. Poor man, he will catch his death.’

  * * *

  When the floor was swept and the ovens carefully damped, the Wilsons took their leave. With a small sigh of relief, Grace locked the bakery door. Rob extended his arm to her and they strolled together at a sedate pace. Grace breathed deeply of the brisk air, glad to see daylight on their walk home, considering how many evenings they had trudged home in full dark, tired from the bakery. The light was already faintly turning lavender.

  ‘Please God, let this be my last Christmas in England,’ Rob said.

  Grace swallowed the lump in her throat that had resided there all week, whenever she thought of Rob Inman and peace.

  When they passed in front of Quarle, Grace was surprised to see the manor bright with many lamps, confirming Rob’s suspicio
n that Lord Thomson had returned.

  I refuse to let Lord Thomson ruin my holiday, she thought. I’ll think of something more pleasant. She glanced at Rob Inman, wondering what it would be like to wake up beside him in Nantucket, to watch his animated face at rest. How close to heaven would it be to hear his even breathing and watch him sleep, relaxed and unencumbered with no cares beyond that of any normal husband earning a living and raising a family. She had trouble imagining that much peace.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, Gracie,’ Rob asked as they entered the dower house.

  She blushed and was glad dusk was too far advanced now for him to notice. ‘I was imagining what peace must feel like,’ she said and it was an honest answer.

  ‘Maybe a little like this,’ he said, as he opened the door for her. He stepped into the tiny foyer. ‘We could be coming home from church.’ He sniffed. ‘I can almost smell the sea.’

  To her heart’s delight, he kept his arm around her until he heard Emery in the kitchen. ‘I guess he got tired of watching out for me.’ They laughed together.

  I never will, Grace thought.

  * * *

  She held that thought through a simple supper—after so many hours in the bakery no one wanted to cook—and an evening in the sitting room, debating the merits of venturing out again to midnight church services and, rejecting them, being content to read aloud from Luke.

  Finally, Rob stretched and yawned. ‘We’re old sticks in the mud,’ he said. ‘But we worked hard today, didn’t we?’

  Grace nodded. After she blew out the lamp in the sitting room, she noticed the flicker of a candle from the bookroom. Curious, she went inside and noticed the envelope on the rickety table. She opened it, pulling out several pound notes and a letter, with nothing more on it than ‘Happy Christmas, S.’

  Rob had followed her down the hall. Wordlessly, she handed him the note and money. He shook his head. ‘Mr Selway strikes again. How did this get here?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’ll ask Emery in the morning.’

  ‘He would have said something, if he knew about it,’ Rob said. He made no attempt to hide his misgivings. ‘Who else has a key to the dower house?’

  ‘Lord Thomson? Maybe Ugly Butler.’ Grace rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled.

  ‘Oh, that’s a laugh,’ Rob said. He grinned at Grace. ‘Maybe we should wish Smathers a Happy Christmas tomorrow and thank him for the money!’

  ‘Tease all you want,’ Grace scolded. ‘I want to lay my eyes on Mr Selway again.’

  Rob put the envelope and money on the desk, staring at them as though he wanted the paper to talk. ‘You know, Grace, if you and I hadn’t spent a day or two—or more in your case—with Mr Selway, I’d almost start suspecting he didn’t exist.’

  It was a disconcerting thought and not one she wanted to carry to bed with her. She went upstairs alone, troubled in her mind. Rob said he would come up later, after he had finished some business in the bookroom.

  * * *

  She sat up in bed a long time, not willing to sleep until she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She had become so used to keeping him constantly in her sight, that even a floor away from him in a small house seemed too far. She rested her chin on her updrawn knees, thinking that another year would turn soon. Before Rob, there had never been a reason to look ahead, because the years had stretched on with an unvarying sameness to them that she knew would not change. She sighed. That sameness would return, once he left. It was time to store up every tiny memory against the day word came about peace and the parole ended.

  She heard Rob on the stairs and held her breath as he paused in front of her door. She hoped he would knock, but he just stood there and then crossed the narrow hall to his own room.

  ‘It’s not locked,’ she said softly, but his door closed

  quietly. ‘Happy Christmas, you dear man.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Christmas began with the luxury of waking up late. Eyes barely open, Grace heard a small sound and looked around. Rob was putting a final lump of coal on the cheerful blaze. He had already pulled open the curtains; snow was falling.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Gracie,’ he said, coming to the bed and sitting down.

  She had not expected that. ‘S…s…same to you,’ she stammered.

  He glanced around elaborately. ‘Snakes in here.’

  She laughed softly. He rubbed her cheek with his. ‘I should shave today,’ he said, ‘even if there is no work and I don’t have to impress anyone.’

  ‘Not even me?’ she teased.

  ‘Especially not you,’ he told her. He took a deep breath, as though worlds were ready to collide, and reached inside his jacket. ‘Happy Christmas, Grace.’ He kissed her lips this time, dropped the folded paper in her lap and left the room as quietly as he must have entered it.

  ‘You could have waited until we were convened in the sitting room and my paltry present to you was on your lap,’ she grumbled out loud, thinking of the socks she had knitted.

  She opened the paper and sucked in her breath. He had been wise to give it to her now. She read his confident note, her eyes taking in the formal notary’s public seal, wondering when he had been out of her sight long enough to do this thing of monumental proportions.

  ‘Is there anyone on this planet as stupid as you have been, Grace?’ she asked out loud, her voice foreign to her own ears.

  With a sob, she threw back the covers and ran to the door, practically jerking it off the hinges. He was starting down the stairs, but he turned around, startled as she hurtled herself into his arms, sobbing, wrapping her legs around him when he lifted her up.

  She clung to him, not caring that her nightgown was old and well ventilated, and that her hair was all over her face and not neat and tidy. Her nightgown had hiked up to her thighs and she just didn’t care.

  ‘I can’t take this!’ she cried into his shoulder as he held her close. ‘Not your house!’

  ‘Yes, you can, Grace,’ he said, his lips on her ear. ‘I want you to have it. If anything happens to me, I—’

  ‘Nothing is going to happen to you!’ she said, her voice fierce. She put her hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t say it!’

  He was carrying her back to her room. ‘I hope not, too, but this paper deeds the house to you. Grace, don’t cry.’

  He laid her on her bed, but she clung to him. He lay down next to her, holding her close. ‘It’s a fine house, Gracie, with three or four chambers upstairs—lots of room for children—and a very fine sitting room. The kitchen could be larger, but I think I can add on to the back of the house. It’s the prettiest clapboard, with grey boards and red trim. I always wanted a red door, even if my Quaker neighbours think I am prideful. You’ll like my neighbours.’

  She grabbed him by his shirt front, startling herself with her own passion. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you!’ she repeated. ‘Rob Inman, I love you!’

  ‘I was hoping you might,’ he told her, after another deep breath.

  He seemed to know he was wasting his words. He held her close until her tears subsided to shuddering sobs. When she was sniffing, he pulled out his shirttail and wiped her face with it.

  Grace took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around him. ‘I’m a ninny,’ she managed to say finally.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘You’re still a baronet’s daughter, though, and I—’

  She put her hand over his mouth and he kissed her palm. ‘Gracie, have you any idea how your eyes give you away with every look?’

  She shook her head. ‘I knew you couldn’t possibly love me, after I was so rude.’

  ‘Oh, now, which time was that?’ he teased, holding her closer. ‘I wanted you to have a house of your own, even if it is a long way from here.’ He looked at her then, his eyes bright. ‘You really do love me?’

  ‘It’s been my torment,’ she told him simply. ‘Please don’t say another word about something happening to you!’

  She tried to say more through her tears,
but he took her chin in his hands. ‘Grace, listen to me. Be the strong woman I know you are. Even if there is an ocean between you and your new home, I am convinced you will find a way to get there, should something happen to me. Don’t disappoint me, Grace.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said, her voice small, scarcely audible to even her own ears. She held herself off from him to look into his eyes. ‘But you had better propose to me, or I’ll tear this up.’

  ‘You’re a hard one,’ he chided gently, then pulled her to him again, so close she wasn’t sure where she left off and he began. ‘Very well, if that is your condition. I love you nearly beyond fathoming, even though I am far out of your league, a foreigner and a prisoner of war.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe I am even asking this, but will you marry me?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘I love you. I have a lot to say to you, as soon as I stop crying and get dressed.’

  He put his finger to her lips. ‘Let this be one time you don’t scold me for being impractical. It’s Christmas, after all.’

  So it was. After a long look at Rob, which only made her whole body grow warm, Grace shooed him from her room. She sat for a long moment, just staring at the handwritten deed, wondering how much she had changed since she had chosen Rob Inman. She knew there was no more practical, logical, realistic person in Quimby, because her wrenching circumstances had made her so.

  Since she had walked to Quimby to throw herself on the mercy of a baker and his wife, she had schooled herself to expect nothing, because it was the surest way to avoid disappointment. She had told herself there never would be a home and family for her because she belonged in no social sphere. She had set her sights low, because it was less painful than more disappointment.

  Grace picked up the deed and couldn’t help smiling. Rob Inman’s handwriting was as confident as he was. This man she had chosen, had chosen her, in turn. In the middle of war, with its diabolical machinery that grinds down the notable and the unknown with equal impunity and shows no mercy whatsoever, she had fallen in love with a man who could be taken from her at any moment. Still, if she had never taken the bold step to choose, and then to love, hers would be a truly blighted life. No matter the outcome of these uncertain times, Grace Curtis knew that someone had chosen her and it was enough. There might be great pain ahead, or great bliss, but she would not go to her grave knowing that no one had ever singled her out and cared for her above all others.