The Paper Marriage

“What wife?” he growled, turning so that the late-afternoon sun caught his profile, illuminating a jaw that could have been cast from bronze and a high-arched nose that could only be called proud.

Brushing past him, Rose entered the small room, drawn by the sound of a baby’s whimper. Her throat constricted. Tears dimmed her eyes as she stared down at the tiny infant swathed in an unadorned gown of coarse muslin.

“That’s Annie.” The man had come up silently to stand beside her. The unexpected note of tenderness in his voice threatened to undo her completely. Kneeling, he lifted the tiny bundle from the cradle, growled softly as he rocked her in his arms and said, “Annie, this is Miz Littlefield. She’s going to be taking care of you for a spell. She’s not much to look at, but at least she’s got hair now.”

Rose blinked in disbelief. She knew very well she wasn’t much to look at, she’d been hearing it all her life, but she had hardly expected to hear it from a stranger. And she certainly did have hair, yards and yards of it, even if it was the color of dead grass.

“She eats most anything you give her, but so far we’ve held her to tinned milk and burgoo. We tried goat’s milk, but it didn’t set right.”

And then, of course, Rose realized that he’d been describing Annie to her, not her to Annie, which made her feel almost charitable. “I’m sure we’ll get along just fine, but you might as well know, I haven’t had much experience with babies.”

“None of us has, but Annie’s a right fair teacher.”

Bess took one quick look, sniffed dismissively and disappeared down the hall. Peering down at the wide-eyed infant cradled so tenderly in those massive arms, Rose forgot her misgivings and said softly, “Oh, she’s beautiful. Do you think she’d mind if I held her?”

“Annie’s not particular, long’s she gets to call the shots.”

She laughed, but it was a shaky effort. When the captain carefully transferred the small bundle into her waiting arms she felt her eyes film over. Knowing she had to take control of her emotions or risk having to endure all over again the devastating pain that came with the loss of a child, Rose did her best to seal off her heart. In case Captain Powers didn’t like her, or she didn’t like him, she couldn’t afford to let herself get too attached to his baby.

“She feels damp.” She glanced up questioningly.

“We’ve not been able to housebreak her yet,” the captain said gravely. “You’ll find napkins in the locker over by the window. I’ll set Crank to heating her some milk. Um…welcome to Powers Point, Miz Littlefield.”

Back in his office, Matt tried and failed to concentrate on the shipping news that had come out on the same boat as the two women. He gave it up, tilted back his chair, clasped his arms behind his head and gazed out the window, to where Venus gleamed like a diamond in a bed of purple velvet.

Bess’s Mrs. Littlefield was something of a surprise. He didn’t know what he’d expected—maybe another pouter pigeon like Bess, short, bosomy and bossy. The woman didn’t have a lot to say for herself, which was all to the good. Bess could talk the hind legs off a jackass.

She wasn’t much to look at except for her eyes. Funny color, he mused. Still, they were steady. The kind of eyes that looked directly back at a man.

Matt was admittedly no expert when it came to women. Having been deserted by one and made a fool of by another, he was unable to form any but the most fleeting commercial relationship with any woman. Since moving to Powers Point, he had done without even that brief convenience.

Which reminded him that he was going to have to tackle Bess about the Magruder female. Bess had described her as down on her luck, plain, but sound of limb and meek of disposition. He should’ve held out for reliable, but by the time he’d given in, he’d been so damned desperate he wouldn’t have cared if she howled at the moon as long as she took good care of Annie.

So far, she hadn’t even bothered to show up.

Flexing his shoulders to ease the tension that always seemed to collect there, he settled back in his chair and picked up the shipping reports again.

By the end of the first week, one thing was plain. Bess knew nothing about babies and had no interest in learning. Commandeering his mule and cart, she spent every day in the village collecting stories of early island lore, all the way back, as she informed the table at large, to the first English settlers and the Hattorask Indians who’d been there to meet them.

“Hell, I could’ve told you that,” Matt said. “Pass the biscuits. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

“Don’t swear,” Bess said primly, as if she couldn’t cut loose like a stevedore when it suited her purpose. “Mrs. Littlefield don’t like it.”

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Matt muttered. Rising abruptly, he begged to be excused and stalked out. “Damned house’s too small,” he grumbled to Peg, who’d chosen to eat with Crank in the kitchen instead of in the seldom-used dining room.

The two old men glanced up, then went back to their fried oysters. Matt stood in the open back door for a long time, letting the chilly air flow past him into the warm kitchen.

Ignoring him, the other men picked up their desultory conversation. “Don’t talk much, do she?” Crank observed. He speared another oyster off the platter.

“Good with the young’un, though,” the carpenter said after he’d split another biscuit and drowned it in molasses.

“Aye, she is that.”

“Peculiar eyes. Seen a cat once with eyes like that.” Peg loosened the rope at his waist that held up his canvas trousers.

“Yeller, I’d call ’em, wouldn’t you, Cap’n?”

Matt flexed his shoulders, but didn’t reply. He was tired of hearing about Mrs. Littlefield. Bess sang her praises enough, without his men jumping on the bandwagon.

“I’ll be riding south in the morning,” he announced abruptly.

The two old men went on eating. When Matt stepped off the back porch and strode down to the three-plank wharf where the shadboat was tied up, Crank grinned. Peg shook his head. “All I can say is, that wife o’ his better hightail it on down here. Last time the boy had that look about him, he went and sold his ship.”

Chapter Four

Much to her amazement, Rose couldn’t remember a time in her life when she had felt so utterly content, not even in the early months of her marriage, before she had learned that she was no more than a means to an end.

Against all her expectations she found herself in the ideal situation of having a baby without having to deal with a husband. No matter how she tried to protect her heart, there was no way she could keep from loving Annie. Her own baby, if she’d lived, would have smacked her lips the same way, would have gazed up at her with the same innocent look—would have fit the curve of her arms the same way. The men obviously doted on her, but they were just as obviously relieved not to have the responsibility.

As for Bess, she spent most of each day in the village, returning in the late afternoon with any mail that had come in on the boat and whatever supplies had been ordered, along with pages of notes to be woven into a series of articles. If anyone thought it strange that her secretary took no part in the process, they didn’t bother to mention it.

Luther, still shy, but increasingly friendly, showed her a sheltered place high up on a wooded ridge overlooking the sound where she could sit for hours, gazing out over the water. From a safe distance, the Pamlico Sound looked remarkably benign. The sunsets in particular were spectacular, each color faithfully reflected in the waters below. So far she’d counted several wildflowers she had never before seen and almost as many birds.

Annie loved it, too. Crank had fashioned a carrying basket with sturdy rope handles and padded it with a pillow. With the weather growing warmer each day, Rose had delved into her steamer trunk to find her old summer gowns, most dating from before her marriage. Sometimes it seemed as if she’d been in mourning forever, first for her parents, then for her baby, and even now for her grandmother. But black was not only depressing, it was hot, and here on the Outer Banks the ordinary conventions seemed irrelevant.

Wearing an old blue muslin that was snug across the bosom and loose at the waist, she settled herself on the bench Peg had built and Luther had carried up to what she thought of as her private garden. She’d been warned against snakes, sunburn, sandspurs and prickly pear cactus. Bess had mentioned ticks, and Rose watched diligently to see that no insect, large or small, crawled into the basket.

Adjusting a light spread over Annie’s basket, she unfastened another button at the neck of her gown. “Annie, my sweet, I could get used to this life of indolence, couldn’t you?”

Annie kicked and gurgled in agreement.

As was too often the case when she had nothing better to occupy her mind, Rose thought about Matthew Powers. After three weeks, she still didn’t know quite what to make of the man, but at least she was no longer intimidated by his size. In fact, she rather enjoyed the novelty of looking up to a man. It made her feel…well, hardly delicate, but still, it was a pleasant feeling.

She had learned at an early age that men couldn’t abide tall women. Even her father, once she’d grown a full two inches above his respectable height of five and a half feet, had avoided standing beside her whenever possible. She had understood intuitively, but it had hurt, all the same.

Matthew avoided her, too, but it had nothing to do with her height, or even her lack of looks. According to Bess, he simply didn’t care for women. Which suited her just fine, as she wasn’t overly fond of men. Once this trial period was over, if she decided to go through with the marriage, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about the marriage act.

She hated it. It was painful, demeaning and embarrassing. A friend had once confided that she enjoyed it every bit as much as her husband did, and Rose had thought she must be lying. When, a year into her own marriage, Rose had learned that Robert kept a mistress, she’d been relieved rather than angry, thinking that he might leave her alone.

He hadn’t. Especially when he’d been drinking, in which case he would grab her with no warning at all, shove her down on the bed, even in broad daylight, and do it to her.

She had hoped her pregnancy would end all that, for he’d been eager for a child right from the first. For a while he’d seemed delighted, seldom snapping at her, even paying her some of the same small courtesies he’d shown during their brief courtship.

She’d been nearly five months along when Robert had come home one day in a rage. “Guess where I’ve been, my dearest little wife.” Sarcasm was one of his favorite weapons.

“I can’t imagine. At the club?” He reeked of strong drink, and it was barely past noon.

“Right you are. I happened to meet the trust officer who handled your father’s estate. Would you care to explain yourself?” His eyes flashed dangerously in his pale, narrow face.