Authors: Cathy Maxwell
Samantha picked them up and dumped them back on him.
“Billy!” Mr. Browne shouted, his teeth chattering. “Watch your back, Billy!” He started up from the bed, his eyes open but unseeing.
Samantha bodily pushed him back onto the bed, no longer flustered by his nakedness. She lay on top of him to keep the covers around him. “Mr. Browne, you stay in this bed. Do you hear me?”
He didn’t hear her. He kept warning Billy to watch his back. “The damn pirates are crawling the ship like maggots!”
Pirates?
He looked more like the sort of man who could
be
a pirate, than one to fight them.
The wild thrashing slowly ceased. His teeth still chattered even as the room heated up from the brazier. His wild words turned to incoherent mumbling, and it took her a moment to realize he was speaking in another language, one she didn’t recognize.
And so went her day into night. Each time, the chills followed the fever and the fever grew progressively worse. He alternated between the deathly stillness or battling demons only he
could see. At one point the room was so hot, she removed the brown dress.
The snow stopped sometime well past midnight. Samantha was exhausted. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep. She could not seem to break the deadly cycle that could claim his life. She had dragged a chair into the bedroom and sat by his side watching his fitful sleep.
Suddenly Mr. Browne went stiff. He half rose in bed, his eyes still closed. He cried out one word, “Father!” It was filled with all the pain in the world.
Samantha was no stranger to death. She had sat by its side far too often not to recognize the signs. Mr. Browne was dying.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She slid off the chair to kneel on the floor, her folded hands on the edge of the bed. “You cannot take him, Lord,” she begged. “I am so weary of death. I’m tired and I don’t know if I can go on. Please, don’t take him.”
Her prayer was met with silence.
Burying her head in her arms, Samantha leaned against the bed and sobbed.
But her tears weren’t just for him; she also cried for herself. Her life was about to change, and she had no one to turn to, no one she trusted. Her girlhood dreams of being a wife and a mother would never be fulfilled. She felt as if her spirit was dying.
A hand came down and rested on her head.
Samantha looked up through burning eyes.
Mr. Browne stared at her, his dark, fever-bright gaze filled with concern.
“Don’t cry,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Samantha could only gape at him. The despair that had overwhelmed her slipped away.
His hand fell from her head to land on the soft mattress. His eyes closed.
Samantha reached up and felt his forehead. The fever still raged inside him, but now she had hope.
She got up from the bed, consulted her medical journal, and brewed another cup of feverfew tea, renewing her battle for the life of Marvin Browne.
By mid-afternoon the next day, the intensity of Mr. Browne’s fever had lessened. He suffered chills, but they no longer racked his body. Stubbornly, Samantha continued her treatment.
She now knew that her patient spoke many different languages. Occasionally she could pick out a word of French or Italian, but those were the only two she recognized. He fought pirates and storms and talked of ships and cargoes. Often he called for Billy…Billy, who never came.
He didn’t call for his father again.
Samantha never left his side for more than a few minutes. He seemed comforted by her presence, and it felt good to be needed.
By late evening, she knew she had won. Sitting back in the chair, she couldn’t help but grin foolishly at her victory. She had beaten the fever. He
would live. His breathing was now even and natural, the color of his complexion still pale, but he was not clammy with fever or chills.
“Thank you, Lord,” she said, and again felt the sting of tears, but these were of relief and thanksgiving.
She’d not slept since he’d been carried through her door, and she was tired—so very, very tired. What was left of the pea soup was cold in its pot. The fire in the kitchen hearth had died out. However, the bedroom was toasty warm from the few coals still burning in the brazier.
She had to lie down. Just for one moment.
She stretched out on the edge of bed beside Mr. Browne. It felt good to close her eyes. The bed beneath her was damp, but his body heat felt good.
The candle on the bedside table sputtered and then died as the last of the wick was used. Save for the sound of the wind, the world was so silent she could hear his strong, steady heartbeat.
She smiled. She had won. She drifted off to sleep.
The pounding on the door woke her. Samantha awoke abruptly. Disoriented, she was surprised to find herself in bed and still in her clothes.
Her black dress was wrinkled almost beyond repair.
What had happened? Had her mother had a bad spell during the night—?
Her thoughts broke off. Her mother was dead.
Samantha turned her head, and caught looking at the back of another person’s head. A man…and she realized where she was!
She half-stumbled, half-jumped out of bed. Mr. Browne slept soundly. The bedcovers were up to his neck…although she was all too aware that he was naked.
How could she—?
The pounding on the door came again. “Miss Northrup! Miss Northrup, are you all right?”
Birdie Sadler! What was
she
doing here?
Samantha hurried out to the kitchen. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. The fire had died out and the house was freezing.
But Mr. Browne would live.
Suddenly the day seemed perfect.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. Combing her hair with her fingers, she rebraided it while calling out, “Yes, Mrs. Sadler, I’m fine. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve come to call, but we want to know if it was safe.”
We?
Samantha peeked out the window and drew a sharp breath. There, by the edge of the cemetery, the imposing figure of the squire’s wife, Mrs. Biggers, sat in a horse-drawn sleigh. Beside her sat Mrs. Porter and the Doyle sisters. Mrs. Biggers raised a basket to show they came on a charitable mission. It was the custom in Sproule that
neighbors brought food whenever there was death or sickness.
But Mr. Browne was not dead.
After tying off her braid with a piece of ribbon, Samantha opened the door. “Yes, Mrs. Sadler, it is safe. I beat the fever. Mr. Browne is going to live.”
Mrs. Sadler’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “I feared the worst.”
“But it did not happen,” Samantha added. “Praise the Lord.”
“Yes, praise the Lord,” Mrs. Sadler echoed. She turned to Mrs. Biggers. “It is all right to come in. The stranger lives.”
“And he’s no longer sick,” Samantha called out, triumphant.
“Oh, that’s good,” Mrs. Biggers said, carefully climbing down from the sleigh. She made her way gingerly through the snow.
Samantha stepped back to invite Mrs. Sadler inside before hurrying over to the hearth and starting the fire.
“Miss Northrup,” Mrs. Biggers exclaimed cheerily, the pheasant feathers of her velvet cap bobbing. She came into the kitchen and handed Mrs. Sadler her basket before taking off her riding cape and stamping the snow from her boots. “We have been so worried about you, my dear. Then, when you didn’t answer the door immediately—well, we didn’t know what to think.”
Samantha doubted there had ever been a time in her life when Mrs. Biggers didn’t have an
opinion of one sort or another. She squashed the uncharitable thought.
The women were busy taking off their capes and bonnets. The kitchen smelled of wet clothes, snow, and Mrs. Biggers’s famous veal pie.
“There’s also cheese and sausage in the basket,” Mrs. Biggers said briskly.
Samantha smiled. “Thank you. Will you please sit down?” There weren’t enough chairs without the one in the bedroom. After the kindling caught fire, she hurried to fetch it. Mr. Browne slept soundly. She closed the door firmly behind her. The village women were making themselves comfortable.
Samantha forced a pleasant smile. “Here, Miss Hattie. Here is a chair for you.”
“Can I help you?” Alys Porter asked.
“You can start the kettle,” Samantha said. “There is a good supply of tea in the sack over there.” She nodded to one of the bags Mrs. Sadler had used to deliver food.
Miss Hattie made herself comfortable. “Miss Northrup looks a bit peaked, doesn’t she?”
She’d directed her comments to Mrs. Sadler, who agreed. “I told them we should not come,” she said to Samantha. “But Mrs. Biggers insisted.”
“Of course I did,” Mrs. Biggers said. “Poor Miss Northrup has been here with Sproule’s charity case throughout the snowstorm. My dear, you look terrible. Has nursing this poor unfortunate worn you to the bone?”
“I am fine,” Samantha assured her. The kitchen started to warm from the fire and the company.
Still Mrs. Biggers shivered. “I do believe the parish should modernize the vicarage before my nephew moves in,” she said tactlessly. “Then we would be able to use the parlor instead of the kitchen during the winter.”
Samantha’s father had asked repeatedly for the same thing over the years. She had no doubt that it would happen, now that the precious nephew was coming here to live.
“Is that tea ready?” Mrs. Biggers asked crossly.
“Takes a long time for water to boil,” Miss Mabel said, and earned a glance of irritation from the squire’s wife.
“It’s about done,” Mrs. Porter said.
Samantha went to the sideboard and took down a pot and the delicate teacups and saucers that had been a wedding gift from her father to her mother. Her fingers lingered over the fine English china. Whenever she touched them, she remembered her parents.
“I had to come today,” Mrs. Biggers said. “You know how the squire feels about strangers. He wants to know everyone who comes into the shire. He’ll ask me for a report. Comes from his days in the military,” she confided to Mrs. Porter.
“And wise he is, too,” Mrs. Porter said dutifully.
“Yes,” Mrs. Biggers said. She took a sip of tea. “But Miss Northrup, where is the patient? I thought you said he was well.”
“He is, but he’s sleeping right now. It takes a great deal of strength to fight off illness.” She was standing. There was no chair for her, and she felt slightly ridiculous, like some sort of servant. She wished they would all leave so that she could go back to sleep.
“I know what kind of strength it takes,” Mrs. Biggers said. “Remember when I suffered from that cold last month?” She rolled her eyes dramatically, the pheasant feathers on her hat sweeping the air over her head. “I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone.”
“I remember,” Miss Mabel said. “Oh, we all prayed for you. Pour me more tea, Miss Northrup.”
Samantha was surprised by the hint of command in Miss Mabel’s voice. She glanced around the room. No one else seemed to have noticed. They were all listening to Mrs. Biggers expound upon her sufferings.
She poured the tea thoughtfully, her worst suspicions confirmed. Life with Miss Mabel and Miss Hattie might be more that of an unpaid companion, nursemaid, and servant.
And she was the only one who objected. The others seemed to feel that was her role in life.
Samantha frowned, rejecting the image…but where else could she go?
Mrs. Biggers babbled on, “…I took to my bed
and told the squire he could—” Her voice broke off suddenly. She focused on a point past Samantha. Her mouth dropped open, and for the first time in Samantha’s memory, she appeared speechless.
Nor was she the only one. Every one of the women went still as if frozen in time, their eyebrows raised to their hairlines in shocked expressions.
And then Samantha sensed him. He was here, in this room. Marvin Browne.
Slowly she turned to face him—and then her own jaw dropped. He stood leaning against the door frame as naked as the day he was born.
He was a riveting sight. A cowlick stood up in his sleep-ruffled dark hair, and there were several days’ growth of beard on his jaw. He stared at them, his expression hard. Then, in a low, dangerous voice, he growled, “Where the bloody hell am I?”
G
roggy and disoriented, Yale stared at the five ladies, all comfortable and cozy around a kitchen table, who all stared back at him in wide-eyed shock.
What an odd dream this was!
Miss Northrup, the vicar’s prickly daughter, was there. She stood off to one side, dressed in mourning black and holding a tea pot.
She appeared particularly horror-struck by his appearance.
Of course, this wasn’t the first time he had dreamed of being naked in a crowd. He just couldn’t understand what it all signified.
He also didn’t remember his dreams being so colorful. Or so real.
One of the ladies, made a low sound of distress and dropped her tea cup.
The sound of the breaking cup sent the silent tableau of women into pandemonium.
The woman who had broken the teacup threw her arms up as if to shield her eyes from the
sight of him. Another squealed, the ribbons on her lace cap bobbing as she attempted to duck under the kitchen table. Their actions tipped over more teacups. The innkeeper’s wife attempted to save the cups and ended up pushing two of them over the edge of the table. Funny that she should be in his dream—
Miss Northrup grabbed him by the arm, and with surprising strength, propelled him back into the bedroom.
Her touch made Yale realize he had not been dreaming!
The heat of embarrassment blazed through him. Damn, but he was naked. In front of the innkeeper’s wife—and the vicar’s daughter!
Inside the bedroom, Miss Northrup slammed the door behind them, then said with great forbearance. “Mr. Browne, what do you mean walking out of this room in your—” She paused. “In your
natural state?
”
Yale reached for the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around his waist. “Where are my bloody clothes? And who is Mr.—” He caught himself before he blundered.
The night in the vault came back to him. He was posing as Marvin Browne.
“Who is who?” she said, her tone as clipped and inquisitional as a tutor’s.
He changed the subject, going on the counterattack. “How did I end up here? I’m in the vicarage, correct?
And where are my clothes?
” he repeated with exasperation. “I feel like a damn
fool for walking in on that hen party naked.”
His words almost surprised a smile out of her. She’d hidden it, but he’d seen her mouth twitch and it gave him a bit of satisfaction.
He’d wager she was a fetching little thing, if she’d ever smile.
“Mr. Browne, let me explain everything. In fact, it might be better if you sat down. I can’t imagine you’re feeling completely the thing yet. You’ve been very ill.”
Memory came back. He’d been at the inn. “Are you talking about the brandy?” He remembered throwing it up. Funny, he’d never been one to lose his liquor. He might have gotten so drunk he couldn’t remember his own actions, but before, he’d always kept it all in.
“You had the influenza, sir. It’s true you’d had a good deal to drink, but that’s not what made you so ill. When the innkeeper realized how sick you were, he sent for me.”
A thought tickled the haziness of his memory. “I remember, you nursed my father—” Again he realized he’d made an error. Masquerading as someone else was not easy.
Worse, Miss Northrup was far too quick to let anything slip by her. “Your father? I don’t know your father.”
Yale drew back from revealing his true identity. His feelings toward his father were too raw, too vulnerable, too unmanly. “I’m confused. The fever…” he explained lamely, and then realized it was true.
He was tired. The fever still rested in his bones, but he had to get away from Sproule. What would Wayland and Twyla say if they heard he’d been lurking about? Or worse, that he’d introduced himself to the village woman
en déshabillé?
No, Yale didn’t want to run into any member of his family. He’d already disgraced them enough. In fact, the best thing he could do for all would be to continue to let them believe he was dead. He would get dressed, get on that sway-backed nag he’d ridden from London and return to his ship. Before another week passed, he’d be on his way back to Ceylon.
He spied his money purse lying on the bedside table and picked it up, offering it to her. “Here, this is for the trouble you’ve gone to on my account. You’ve saved my life, Miss Northrup, and I am thankful.”
“I will not take your money, Mr. Browne. I did not nurse you for money.”
“It is not charity I offer, Miss Northrup, but a fair wage for a job well done.” Besides, he added silently, she looked as if she could use the money. She was too thin and her clothes well worn.
While at the Bear and Bull, he’d overheard the innkeeper grumbling to his wife about the “difficult Miss Northrup.” Curious, he’d eavesdropped and knew the whole village was attempting to move her out of the vicarage and in with two old women.
Seemed a pity. There was too much intelligence in her eyes for her to be branded the village spinster and placed on a shelf.
“I do not want your money,” she said firmly. “If you feel you must pay, then give it away to the poor.”
Yale amended his opinion. The innkeeper
had
been right: she was difficult and proudly stubborn. He understood why she wasn’t married.
He tossed the money bag on the bed. He would leave it anyway. “Now, if you will be good enough to bring me my clothes, I will be dressed and on my way,” he said.
She opened her mouth to argue about the money, but no words came out.
“Miss Northrup, you’ve gone speechless,” he said crisply. “I
am
surprised.”
“Oh, dear,” she answered on a worried sigh.
“Oh dear?”
“I burned them.”
“Burned what?”
“Your clothes.”
Yale thought he would choke.
“I burned them because I feared they carried the disease,” she hurried to explain. “And now I must go see to my guests.” She opened the door and was through it before he could blink.
“Burned them?” he repeated. Comprehension was slow to come, but when it did—
“
She burned them!
” He faced the half-open door. “Miss Northrup, I have nothing else to wear. I brought no other clothes with me!”
Everything he owned was back on his ship in the London harbor or being readied at the tailor’s. He’d been so shocked by the news of his father’s death that he’d taken off without being well prepared for the trip.
And what of his overcoat? “You didn’t burn my overcoat, did you? Miss Northrup? Miss Northrup!”
No answer.
“That woman is exasperating.” Holding the sheet up with one hand, he marched over to the door and threw it open, ready to do battle with her and her high-handed ways. But the words died in his throat.
She stood in the middle of the kitchen, her expression puzzled. The door was open and the cold wind ran across the floor and up under his sheet.
Their gazes met.
“They left,” she said simply.
“Who left?”
“Mrs. Biggers. Mrs. Sadler. The others.” She took an uncertain step. “Mrs. Biggers even took her shepherd’s pie. Why would they leave without saying good-bye?”
Yale walked over to the kitchen door and shut it. “Don’t you think it had something to do with my walking out stripped naked?”
Miss Northrup appeared startled by the thought. “Yes, yes…that must be it. You were a bit much for any woman’s delicate sensibilities.”
“Was I?” he said, rather flattered by the thought.
She realized the double entendre of his words and her cheeks turned a very becoming shade of pink. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What way did you mean it?” Yale pressed, enjoying her discomfort.
She frowned before making a great show of ignoring him by attempting to make order out of the broken teacups.
Yale pulled up a chair and sat. He was not accustomed to being ignored—at least, not by women. It was a novel experience.
He noticed her hands shook as she gathered up the bits and pieces of green and white porcelain. “Is something the matter?”
She didn’t answer but turned and carried the shards over to the bin and dumped them.
“Seems a waste,” he said. “This must have been a nice set at one time.” It was a ludicrous thing to say. He’d never paid attention to teacups and such. Wouldn’t know Staffordshire from Sèvres. Still…it bothered him that she appeared so upset.
Miss Northrup took a cloth from the sideboard and folding it over, started to wipe the spilled tea off the table. Yale reached over and picked up one of the only two cups whole and intact.
It was an ordinary teacup to him, milky white porcelain with green leaves drawn all over it.
Miss Northrup snatched it from his hand. She set it on the sideboard with the other cup along
side the matching teapot and then immediately seemed to regret her rudeness. She turned to him. “They belonged to my mother. They are all I have of her.”
Yale had received gut punches that hurt less than her words. He remembered how he’d felt when he’d lost his mother…and then, of course, he was still sorting out his feelings about his father’s death.
He stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t.” She went back to wiping the table, her head bowed, the long braid swinging free over one shoulder in time to her movements.
Concerned, he watched her a second. He didn’t see that the table needed more cleaning. Something was not quite right about her behavior. He’d never really wasted a great deal of time considering the vagaries of women. They had an obvious purpose in his life, one he enjoyed very much, but he didn’t give them much thought.
But something about her quiet behavior bothered him. A small drop of water landed on the table. And then another.
Panic rose inside him.
Oh, God, she was crying!
He wished he’d never stepped out of the bedroom. He bloody well should never have left Ceylon. This whole trip was nothing but a disaster—and for what purpose? His pride?
His pride wasn’t worth dealing with a crying woman.
“No, Miss Northrup, don’t cry. Just don’t. Everything will be all right. You can use the
money I gave you to buy more teacups.”
They were the wrong words. She began crying harder.
Yale placed his hands on her shoulders. “Here, sit. Sit!” He had to tell her a third time before she finally did as he ordered.
He knelt beside her. “Come, don’t be a goose. Broken teacups aren’t worth tears.”
“You are right,” she said, struggling to bring herself under control.
Tears and red eyes did not become Miss Northrup, yet she looked endearing all the same. He pulled her braid over her shoulder and gave it a pat. Its silky texture surprised him. He liked the feel of it.
“Then what is the problem?” he asked.
“When I married, I was going to take that tea set with me…and it does not really matter because I am never going to marry—” She broke off with a sob and broke down into tears.
Yale didn’t know what to do.
“Miss Northrup, please. Don’t carry on this way.” He started to put his arm around her and then pulled back when he realized it wouldn’t look right if anyone walked in and saw him half-naked and comforting her.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m all right. I’m just tired and my life hasn’t been going very well lately.”
“Tell me about it,” Yale said, grasping for anything to make her stop crying.
“Come along. Dry your tears.” He offered her the trailing edge of his sheet.
He was being silly but it worked. She stared at the sheet in his hand, and then laughed. He placed the sheet in her hand, and she did use it.
“Now, what is the problem?” he asked quietly.
“Sproule. My life. Everything.”
“Ahhhhh,” he said sagely. “And what is wrong with your life?”
She glanced at the door and then said in a low voice, as if she were afraid the villagers would hear her, “Sometimes I wish I could fit in, but I don’t. I try, but I don’t have a husband, and I am rather set in my ways, and I like books and ideas…I can’t imagine myself spending the rest of life living with Miss Mabel and Miss Hattie. I think I’d almost rather be dead.”
He covered her small hand with his own, staring into her eyes. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it. No matter how bad life is, it is always preferable to death.”
She studied their hands resting on her leg. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re a man and can go anywhere or do anything you wish. I have no choices. I’m too old to marry. There had been thoughts that the squire’s nephew, Vicar Newell, might offer, but he’s recently married a younger woman with a nice dowry. I don’t blame him, but now they want to move into the vicarage. Whether I like it or not, I have nowhere to go but Miss Mabel and Miss Hattie’s.”
Yale had never stopped to think about the role of women in society. He’d assumed they all wanted to be married—or at least, the respectable ones did. In the Orient, he’d known some bold and dashing Englishwomen who lived by their own rules. They were either extremely wealthy or married to men who let them go their own way.