Tess Thompson's Blog - Posts Tagged "matchmaker"

Chapter 1 of "A Match For a Reluctant Bride: The Mystery Matchmaker of Ella Pointe"

"I was being watched. A prickle at the base of my neck told me so. Were they angered by the length of time I’d been sitting on the bench looking at the same painting? Maybe they wanted to take my seat on the bench I thought of as my own? Or was my weeping offensive, sopping up my hot tears with a hanky to keep them from dripping into the collar of my shirtwaist? Or perhaps they were a killer, planning their attack for the moment I walked outside?

I knew only that it would not be a male admirer. Recently jilted wallflowers who spent more time in art museums than with people did not have such powers of seduction.

Wiping my eyes, I turned slowly to catch sight of the bandit. I was right. A woman sitting on a bench across the room was indeed staring at me. She had hair the color of straw and a long, slender neck.

Had she found me odd, sitting by myself for such a long time? On the many days I spent here, I always ended up sitting in this same spot staring at the same painting. Only occasionally would someone stop to look. They never lingered long. No one ever sat. There were not many who studied the work as intently as I. The paintings filled me with joy, gave meaning to my ordinary life. This one was my favorite. I always saved it for last.

I glanced sideways at the woman, noticing the expensive details of her emerald dress and her upright posture. She had the air of someone of importance and wealth. A fine lady. The type I could never hope to be. Especially now that I was no longer engaged to Lionel. Only gossip lingered from our long engagement. Lionel and my best friend had married, leaving me behind to lick my wounds in the company of my beloved paintings. Thank God for art, or I might have curled into a ball and given up completely.

“May I help you?” I asked, finding my voice. “Do we know each other?” Maybe she was a customer at my father’s bakery, and I hadn’t placed her out of context.

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve been staring, haven’t I?”

“It seems so, yes.”

“The way you’re peering at the painting has made me unable to look away from you. I’ve never seen anyone so moved by a painting.”

“Yes, well, I see it differently today than I did yesterday. That’s how I know it’s truly a masterpiece.”

She got up from the other bench and came over, asking politely if she could join me. I nodded assent, and she held out her hand. I took in her impeccably white gloves and the delicate, expensive-looking buttons on the lower sleeve of her dress. “I’m Mrs. Aubrey Mantle.”

“Faith Fidget.” I gave her hand a quick squeeze before drawing mine back to my lap. “Nice to meet you.”

“Do you come here often?”

I nodded. “Almost every day. After work.” Who was this woman, and why did she want to know? If it weren’t that she was obviously a woman of means and prestige, I would have gotten up by now and walked away. One can’t be too careful in this city.

“Where do you work?”

“I work in my father’s bakery. In the front, taking orders and such. He likes to bake but doesn’t like helping the customers. He’s shy.” Like me. But I had to do it, or we’d be out of business.

“But you love art? Obviously.”

“More than anything else.”

“Are you an artist?”

I shook my head. “I wish, but I have no talent whatsoever. Regardless, I could look at these paintings all day. Do you see how there’s a story in each one?”

“I’ve never been one with enough patience to look properly. My late husband used to tease me that it wasn’t a race to see who could walk through the entire museum the fastest.”

“A lot of people are that way. There’s nothing wrong with it,” I added, for fear she’d think me rude.

“I’m always more interested in the people around me,” Mrs. Mantle said. “All the details that tell me about a person. For example, I have some ideas about you.”

“As in?” I couldn’t help but be intrigued. Most people didn’t notice me at all.

“Your love of art. The glimmer of intelligence in your eyes. Your simple dark skirt and white blouse hinted that you’d been at work, although I’d guessed a secretary, not a bakery. You mentioned a father but no mother, which leads me to believe your mother has passed away some time ago. You’re in obvious distress, given the tears. I’m guessing a man has broken your heart.”

My brows shot up in surprise. “How did you know?”

“As I said, I watch people carefully. The way you brushed away the tears with such ferocity, as if you wanted to punish yourself for crying. Tell me about him. What happened?”

I thought for a moment. Did I want to tell my pitiful story to a stranger? It was surely one she’d heard before. Left for a woman’s best friend.

An image of Lionel’s face danced before me. His soft brown eyes and a mouth too pink for a man, yet perfect. The pitying way he’d looked at me while saying the words, “I love her. We’re going to marry. I’m sorry, Faith. Truly, I am. But you deserve a man who loves you, and I’m not him.”

Mrs. Mantle seemed to be a woman who would never be silly enough to fall for the wrong man. She would never have allowed herself to give her whole heart to someone who didn’t love her back. Wouldn’t she have instinctually known that he was playing her for a fool? And what of my best friend? The betrayal that cut so deep it may as well have been done with a real knife.

“You’re correct. I have a broken heart. My betrothed has married my best friend.”

“Oh, dear me. How horrendous for you. It’s no wonder you’re crying.”

Her kindness made the tears return in full force. I held my damp hanky to my face and breathed in and out, in and out.

She patted my hand, almost as I imagined a loving auntie would. Strangely enough, it was comforting.

“I’m lost, Mrs. Mantle. Utterly lost. Humiliated as well. My poor papa had sacrificed so much to give us a small wedding. I had to tell him what had happened, and it was almost worse than when Lionel broke the news to me.”

I’d not wanted the wedding, only to be married to Lionel. Papa had insisted. Meanwhile, as the day approached, I began to dread walking down the aisle in front of all those people more and more. The idea of them all staring at me filled me with terror. Had that driven Lionel into Mable’s arms? No, I told myself. He didn’t love you.

“So you come here to look at your beloved paintings, hoping they will heal your broken heart.”

“That’s right. It might sound ridiculous, but they’re like old friends. Ones that can never betray me.”

“I understand completely. May I give you some advice? From someone who felt lost after the death of my husband?”

“Yes, please.” Please, tell me what I can do to stop hurting this much. To feel as if I’m dying slowly, a decay that started in my stomach and is working its way through the rest of me.

“I was devastated after the death of my husband. I could barely manage to get out of bed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. The only thing that made a difference was to become involved passionately with another cause. In my situation, it was starting a business. I hurled myself headfirst into building something I could be proud of. I still miss him. I’m not saying that it magically took his place, but it makes living day after day worthwhile. I have purpose and drive. When I cannot sleep at night and I look over to the spot where Daniel used to lie and my heart fills with that terrible ache, I get up and go to my desk.”

“What is it that you do?”

She hesitated for a moment, playing with the buttons on the sleeve of her dress. “I’m in the staffing business. Companies or individuals hire me to find the perfect person for their needs.”

“How interesting. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Yes, well, I’m ahead of my time, perhaps?”

“What kind of positions do you fill?” I asked.

“All different sorts.” She clapped a hand to her forehead. “Strangely enough—and I just thought of it—I’m filling a position right now that might interest you.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Mantle. I have to work for Papa.”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “I have a client who is a very talented painter and even a little famous in Seattle. He’s looking for an assistant. Someone he can teach how to stretch canvases and clean brushes. Remind him to eat when he’s ensconced in a project.

“I wish you good luck finding someone. Seattle’s far away.” All the way across the country. “Will it be hard to find someone from here?”

“In the past, I’ve sent them the right candidate from here.”

“They travel all that way? For a job?”

“Sometimes people need a fresh start,” Mrs. Mantle said. “Like say, while healing from a broken heart. A change in scenery can be just the trick.”

“I wouldn’t be able to leave my papa. He needs me.”

“That’s a shame. I believe you’d be just right for the position. And the artist.”

“What’s he like?” My curiosity got the better of me.

“Dashing and charming from what I know. Very serious about his art but little else. Unmarried,” she added, as if an afterthought.

“That doesn’t sound like a brooding artist to me. I imagine them temperamental and manic, but I’ve never actually known one.”

“From all reports, Briggs Tutheridge is someone who enjoys life. Perhaps a little too much.”

How intriguing. Too much fun? What did she mean by that? My naivete about the world made it difficult to imagine how a person could have too much fun. As a woman who was not invited to dances or parties, it seemed to me that if fun were offered, why not take it? “I say, good for him. Life is short. Isn’t that what they say?”

Mrs. Mantle smiled. I seemed to please her with my answer, but I had no idea why. I sat there for a moment, imagining this dashing painter, probably with silver hair and a curled mustache. “What kind of painting does he do?”

“He earns money by portrait painting. But it’s my understanding that he enjoys painting landscapes of his island.”

“Island?”

“Yes, did I forget to mention that part? He lives on a small island off the Washington coast. They’re called the San Juan Islands and they’re nestled in the Puget Sound. I know little about the area, other than what my client’s told me. Calm waters, green meadows, an abundance of trees, and a mild climate. It rarely snows. There are more wildflower varieties than can be counted.”

“You’re speaking of the San Juan Islands?” I asked, flabbergasted. I’d seen them on the world atlas and been curious enough to ask our librarian for more details of the environment and indigenous people who dwelled there. She had none, other than to tell me the islands had been named after the Spanish Francisco de Eliza expedition in 1791 to honor his patron, who had a long Spanish name I couldn’t recall at the moment.

“Yes, you’ve heard of them?” Once again, Mrs. Mantle seemed exceedingly pleased by my knowledge of the San Juan Islands.

“I love maps,” I said, feeling sheepish. “I study them and dream of all the places I’d like to go if I could.”

“I have an idea,” Mrs. Mantle said slowly. “What if you were to go out for a short time and help Mr. Tutheridge? It would give you an opportunity to see that part of the world. You can come home after a few months or stay if you really like living there.”

“Wouldn’t he want someone permanent?” Even though I knew it was impossible for me to go, the idea excited me. No, no. I snuffed it out a second later. I could never leave Papa. He would be lonely without me. We’d always been a team of two, my sweet, dear papa and me. Without me, he would be lost.

“Mr. Tutheridge won’t mind. If you want to stay, he will be happy, but he also understands it might not be for everyone.”

“Which island is it?” I could picture the cluster of small islands on the map.

“Whale Island. Did you see that one on your map?”

“Yes,” I said excitedly. “It’s shaped like a horseshoe. Or at least, that’s what it looks like to me.”

“My client said Whale Island is shaped like a saddlebag, but a horseshoe will do as well.”

“Does the charming painter live there alone?” I would not want to be there alone with him. That would simply not do at all. Papa wouldn’t allow it, even if I wanted to go.

“Briggs Tutheridge lives with his mother and siblings on a large estate. They call it Stella.”

“Stella? How strange.”

“A little, yes. They’re eccentric, as only the rich can afford to be.”

“They’re rich?”

“Yes, the family is very wealthy,” Mrs. Mantle said. “Their father owned a shipbuilding empire, which was sold after Roland Tutheridge’s death, and the money was split evenly among his widow and the children.”

“How many Tutheridges are there?”

“Four altogether. Briggs, the painter, is the youngest son.”

“What age is he?” My image of an elderly man with a paintbrush might not be correct.

“He’s in his middle twenties,” Mrs. Mantle said.

“That’s very young to have established any kind of painting career, don’t you think? He must be very good.” How I would love to go and see this painter and his island. But no. Papa. I must think of him first.

Mrs. Mantle was taking her calling card from her bag. “If you decide at any point this would be of interest to you, please come by my office. I can give you more details. All expenses to and from will be covered by the client.”

All of them. Goodness, what an opportunity. I was jealous of the man or woman who took the job.

“No better way to heal a broken heart than to travel,” Mrs. Mantle said gently, rising to her feet. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear. I hope to see you again.”

“I’m usually here in the afternoons, so we might see each other again.” I smiled up at her. “Thank you for such a nice conversation. I quite enjoyed it.”

“As did I.”

Then she was off, her skirt rustling and leaving the faint scent of sweet perfume behind.

I returned closer to the life depicted in my favorite painting. No use dreaming of faraway islands and charming painters and an estate named Stella. My life was here. I knew exactly what the rest of my life would entail. Working with Papa, coming to the museum, walking in the afternoons for exercise and fresh air, such as it was here in the city.

The first time I’d come to the museum, the picture had drawn me in as a lover might. A soulmate who had waited for my arrival and confessed their affection immediately. Ah, there you are. The one who will understand me and love me.

The scene in the painting was a simple one. A man stood before an easel, paintbrush in hand, contemplating his work, his weight favoring one foot more than the other. Behind him, a woman sat next to a creek, a book on her lap and an umbrella shading her from the sun. A brown dog slept in the grass next to her. There was nothing dramatic about the scene, which is why I loved it so fiercely. A depiction of a sweet afternoon in an ordinary life. I suppose I could imagine myself as the woman, reading and stroking her dog while the metallic scent of oil paints mixed with that of the summer grass.

However, today, as I sat here nursing my broken heart, I saw something different. Art changes depending on the viewer’s current experience. What once appeared as a happy domestic scene now told me a different story. Perhaps he was not contemplating his work. His worried expression could be one of impending betrayal. He might be thinking of the best way to tell the woman who trusted him with her whole heart that his feelings had changed. He’d fallen in love with another woman. This other woman might be her best childhood friend. Instead of a marriage proposal, as she’d expected, there would be a discussion in hushed, aggrieved tones. He would ask for her forgiveness but would receive none. “We never meant for it to happen. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me? Can we be friends? All of us?”

Since Lionel had broken our engagement, I had walked around with this ache in my belly and chest. I’d not been able to eat or sleep. Today, Papa had begged me to spend the day at the museum. “Look at your precious paintings, darling girl. They’ll make you feel better.”

As much as I loved Papa and respected his wisdom, he was incorrect. I did not feel better. Although I hoped my assumption wasn’t true, at the moment, it felt as if nothing would ever make me happy again. My whole world had fallen apart. I couldn’t fathom a way forward. Not when everything I dreamed of had been snatched away in the time it took for Lionel to tell me he loved Mable. The two people, besides Papa, that I trusted more than anyone had betrayed me. Six months, he’d said, when I asked him how long it had been going on. Six months. What an utter fool I’d been.

Should I go to the islands? For a short time, as Mrs. Mantle had suggested? I would talk to Papa about it and see what he thought. There was no harm in that.


That evening, I sat with Papa at our small kitchen table, eating the soup I’d made and a loaf of his famous sourdough bread. People stood in line every morning to buy them fresh. Anything we didn’t sell, we took home. Sometimes it was wheat, sometimes white, and once in a while a rye. Not my favorite, but if that’s all that was left, then so be it.

Our apartment above the bakery was the only home I’d ever known. It consisted of a small kitchen and living room, plus two bedrooms. I’d slept on the same twin bed since I’d turned two. Right around the time my mother left.

“Tell me about your day,” Papa said, smiling in that hopeful, careful way he had of late, worried to cause me further hurt with whatever he said or did. “How was the museum?” He leaned closer over the table, his bald head pink and shiny.

“It was nice. I met someone interesting.”

I went on to tell him about my encounter with Mrs. Mantle and the job she’d offered to me.

“Just right there on the spot?” Papa asked. “Isn’t that something.” He wiped his white mustache with the edge of a napkin. He was forever getting food caught in the bushy thing.

“Yes, and even more outrageous, she suggested I could take the position for a short time, see that part of the country, and return home when I’d had enough.”

Papa didn’t say anything, but I could tell by the way his brows knit together that he was deep in thought.

“What is it?” I asked.

He set his napkin near his empty bowl. “I think you should go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t leave you. Who would take care of you and run the shop?”

“I’ll hire someone. I was going to when you married Lionel and had a baby anyway.” He stopped, looking stricken with remorse. “I’m sorry, love.”

My face blanched every time the traitor’s name was mentioned.

“It’s all right. Impossible not to speak his name ever again. He was part of our lives for a long time. Someday it’ll be easier to hear,” I said more robustly than I felt.

“I’m serious about the position.” Papa placed his arms over his ample tummy as he did when he was full and comfortable. “You should seize the adventure. Do it while you’re young and have nothing tying you to home.”

“I’m tied to you,” I said. “You’re my home.”

“I know, dear. I’d miss you tremendously, but think of it—working with a painter? Sweetheart, it’s a dream come true. Of course, this Briggs Tutheridge must know from the beginning that you’re only there for a short time. We wouldn’t want to be deceitful in any way.”

I moved my gaze from him to my bowl. The remaining slices of carrots were positioned in the bowl in such a way that they looked like eyes peering out from the face of the moon. Judging me? I squished one with my spoon.

“She’s right, this Mrs. Mantle,” Papa continued. “You need a change. Seeing the world has always been your dream. I never said anything at the time, but Lionel would never have taken you anywhere. Not on his salary anyway. Anyway, he’s the least adventurous person I’ve ever met. That dummy was happy to sit around all day playing cards and drinking tea like an old lady. No ambition, I tell you. I worried myself sick over it, knowing you were marrying a clumsy oaf. He wasn’t good enough for you. Never was.”

“Papa, you’re bad. He wasn’t an oaf.” I giggled. Lionel was tall and lanky and forever running into things or knocking objects off tables. I’d found it adorable. Apparently, and I was only learning this now, my father did not. Regardless, I could scarcely believe what he was telling me. The idea! Leaving him here and traipsing all the way across the country? “It’s impossible,” I said out loud. “I’m a young woman alone. I can’t take a train out there by myself.”

“I could hire you a chaperone.”

“A chaperone?” My mouth dropped, amazed by Papa’s sudden insanity.

“A lady’s maid, like the rich girls have,” Papa said, clearly enjoying his daydream.

“And how would we pay for that?” I asked, laughing. “You’re being silly, Papa. Very silly.”

“You worry about money too much. And you have no sense of fun. Too serious all the time.”

Slightly offended, I said, “Someone has to keep our finances together and our affairs in order.” I did the books, and we were a natural disaster away from poverty. Every night I prayed to God he would keep us and the bakery safe from harm.

Papa glanced over to the counter where a peach pie waited. “Are we having dessert?”

“I’ll get you a piece in a moment. Let’s be honest, you’re not exactly rich, Papa,” I said softly. “We can’t hire someone. That would take money straight out of our profits.”

“Isn’t that generally the idea of hiring help?”

“I don’t take a salary, Papa. You’d have to pay this new person a lot to do what I do.”

“That’s another reason you should go,” Papa said, sounding delighted with himself. “You could earn some money. A little savings to put away in case you ever needed it.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes any sense.”

“I’ll be all right here without you,” Papa said. “In fact, I’ll be happy thinking of you out there, seeing the country.”

“We’re barely turning a profit.” All right, that wasn’t completely true. We were doing fine. Well enough, anyway. However, I worried that if anything were to change, like say a flood, our meager savings wouldn’t last for long. Thus, I worried over every little penny and scrimped and saved wherever I could. Whereas Papa happily baked away in the back of the shop, singing out of tune and eating too many cookies. He wouldn’t hear of raising prices, insisting his customers trusted him to keep the costs reasonable.

Papa was right about one thing. I worried a lot and about a variety of things. Sadly, I hadn’t worried about Lionel falling in love with Mable. That had never occurred to me, and therefore I was not prepared for the worst. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I’m firing you,” Papa said. “You’re out of a job.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

His pretty blue eyes grew serious. I had brown eyes like my mother. I looked like her, from what Papa had said. “I mean it, sweetheart. You’re going. I insist.”

“I’ve never been away from you. Not ever.” My eyes grew moist and hot just imagining waving goodbye to him from a train window.

“I’ll be here when you return. Or maybe I’ll sell the shop and follow you out west.”

I got up to cut us each a slice of pie and returned to the table. Usually I enjoyed Papa’s pies, but tonight it didn’t appeal. I pushed a peach around my plate. I’d canned those peaches myself last summer. Who would do the canning if I weren’t here?

“Faith, I know I’ve asked a lot of you over the years,” Papa said between bites. “You had to take on the burdens of an adult way before you should have. Let me do this for you. Please. Allow me to set you free, at least for a year or two.”

“A year. Goodness, no. I can’t go for that long. Maybe six months.” A thought occurred to me, which I said out loud to Papa. “Why would Mrs. Mantle encourage me to commit only to such a short amount of time? Do you think they’re desperate? What if he’s an ogre and no one wants to work for him and that’s why she’s so flexible?”

“Borrowing trouble, that’s my Faith.” He sat back in his chair, watching me. “You’re doing this. It’s a sign from God, running into that woman today. What are the odds?”

I had no idea. Was he right? Should I take this unusual opportunity? “They have a lot of seals out there in Washington. I read about them. And whales. Orcas.”

“It’s not named Whale Island for no reason.” Papa pointed at my uneaten pie. “You going to eat that?”

“I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this.” Laughing, I pushed the plate over to him. “I’ll sleep on it. How’s that?”

“Fine. But you’re going.”

For the first time since Lionel told me goodbye, I felt lighter. I was going to have an adventure. For the first time in my life, I was going somewhere. Just as I’d dreamed of when I was a little girl.

A Match for a Reluctant Bride

Chapter 1

AMELIA
The day my life changed began the same as many others before. A trudge to work on a day in early April through the teeming streets of Boston, gripping the bag with Mr. Pitts’s scone between the tips of my nearly frozen fingers. An icy rain stung my cheeks. Gusts of cold air crept up my skirt. Most of the snow had melted, leaving the sidewalks muddy. Chunks of dirty snow were the last reminders of the blizzards that had whipped through Boston for most of February.

By the time I arrived at the office building, a ramshackle dwelling in a tawdry part of town, I felt chilled to the very depths of my bones. Averting my eyes from the women who worked the corner and the beggar asleep under the awning of the neighboring business, I unlocked the entrance with my key and then shoved the creaky door open with my shoulder.

A dank, mildewy smell greeted me in the chilly room. My instinct was to keep my overcoat on, but I dutifully hung it on the hook, smoothed my skirt, and straightened my once white but now more of a dingy gray blouse. With quick movements motivated by cold and the knowledge that Mr. Pitts would have his eye on the clock and dock my pay if I was late with his coffee, I lit a fire in the woodstove, set water on to boil, and scooped grounds into the percolator.

The scone he wanted every morning was from a bakery shop about four blocks from our building. Betsy, the baker’s daughter, always had it ready for me, even though Mr. Pitts wasn’t always expeditious in paying his monthly tab. She did it for me, knowing what a curmudgeon I worked for ever since the day I’d cried in front of her and told her about the harsh reprimand I’d received the day before. The shop had run out of scones by the time I’d arrived, so I’d brought a hot bun instead. From that day forward, Becky always had Mr. Pitts’s scone set aside and packaged for my seven-thirty pickup. Some days, she slipped a little scrap in for me, but only if her father wasn’t watching.

After the water boiled, I poured it over the grounds in the top part of the coffee maker. A large portion of my training during my first day had been about how to brew the perfect cup. It wasn’t as easy as I would have imagined. He had a lot of steps that must be followed exactly. By now, I could do the whole process without thinking. I arranged his cup and scone on a tray the way he liked. He’d also spent longer than I’d ever thought possible going over exactly how he liked his morning meal set on the tray—the cup to the far right and the plate in the middle, with a folded cloth napkin between them.

Although I’d had a breakfast of pasty oatmeal at the boardinghouse, my mouth watered at the buttery smell of the pastry. All winter my stomach had felt empty and my hands and feet cold. Come now, I told myself sternly. There was no reason to feel sorry for myself. I had a job and a dry place to sleep. I was luckier than many, I thought, as I rapped my knuckles against the doorframe. A flake of paint floated to the floor as I did so.

I received no response, other than the phlegmy clearing of Mr. Pitts’s throat. He was forever clearing it or coughing or blowing his nose. His ailments were especially bad in the spring. Regardless, I took it as an invitation to speak. “I have your breakfast, Mr. Pitts. May I come in?” I opened the door a crack.

Behind his desk, he was bent over the morning newspaper. Only his shiny bald head greeted me. “Good morning, sir.” I waited for him to acknowledge me before setting down the tray. I’d learned that lesson well enough.

Nothing. Silence except for the tapping of his foot against the wood floor. He was displeased with me. What had I done? I swallowed and drew in a quick breath for fortification. “I have your coffee.”

Mr. Pitts turned the page of the newspaper open on his desk to the Help Wanted section. A hint?

“Sir?” I shifted weight between one foot and the other, pressing the tray against my waist. What had I done to anger him? My gaze swept the small, dark office. Everything was where it should be. His books on finance that I’d never seen him actually open were dusted and placed in alphabetical order. A decanter of whiskey and a glass for his midday drink were on the round table under the slit of a dirty window. Dirty on the outside, mind you. Inside, I cleaned once a week. The stack of correspondence I’d typed the day before waited for his signature. “The scone looks excellent this morning. Not like yesterday’s one at all.” He’d not liked the one I’d brought him the day before. Too dense. “No flakiness whatsoever,” he’d said accusingly. As if I’d cooked it myself. I knew little of his personal life, other than he was unmarried and lived with his elderly mother. Since I was required to bring his breakfast and lunch, it appeared they had no cook. What did his mother eat? I imagined her as a frail woman wrapped in an old quilt waiting for his return, hoping for a warm supper. Perhaps a little projection on my part, given my obsession with my next meal. Anyway, it was none of my concern. Still, I was curious about his life outside of these walls. That’s the way I’d always been. As curious as a cat, my mother had said about me. Curiosity wasn’t always a good quality. I’d learned that lesson from Mr. Pitts, too.

He looked up, a sheen on his wide forehead glistening in the lamplight. Perpetually overheated despite the frigid temperature of the room, his fat cheeks were the same pink as his balding scalp. This morning, he’d taken off his suit jacket, and his white shirt stretched against his rotund belly, leaving gaps between the buttons. I hoped to God one of them didn’t pop off and hit me in the eye. At least he wore an undershirt. I’d never seen him without his clothes, thankfully, but I imagined his stomach looked very much like the top of his doughy head, pink with a few wiry hairs clinging on for dear life.

“You’re late, Miss Young.” He had the kind of voice that made me think of the glutinous jelly left over after a roast had gone cold in its pan.

I wasn’t late. In fact, I was a few minutes early. I kept that to myself. I’d learned on my very first day eighteen months ago that Mr. Pitts was never wrong. I, apparently, was never right. The bakery had not been as busy as most mornings, and I’d gotten in and out faster than usual, giving me ample time to make the coffee. Mr. Pitts had told me during our initial interview that I would be required to light the fire and make coffee for him every morning, and therefore I shouldn’t dawdle with my female nonsense. “Although you don’t seem the type to fuss over your appearance. A lost cause, now isn’t it, with that red hair and pasty skin of yours.” My quick temper had flared at the comment about my hair. I hated it when people talked about my hair, as it was almost always derogatory in some way. I’d pushed my feelings as far down as possible. I’d desperately needed this job. I still did, for that matter.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Every part of me despises you. You’re a flea. A blight on the world, especially mine. Sometimes it helped if I talked to him silently.

“For God’s sake, don’t just stand there opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water. Set down my breakfast. I’ve never known a heavier breather—Miss Young—than you.” His pronunciation of my name was elongated, as if he found me astonishingly irritating.

Heavy breather? This was a new complaint. I’d not known my breathing offended him. I would have to hold my breath from now on when I came into his office. I’d have to take the risk that I might faint dead away. Getting fired for breathing would put me out on the street. The boardinghouse might not be ideal, yet it was better than a cold alley.

The newspaper, unfolded as it was, took up most of the desk. This was unusual. Most mornings he’d already read the paper by the time I arrived, and it was cast aside for me to dispose of. He didn’t know I took it home every evening. Had he known how much I looked forward to reading the news of the day in the candlelight of my room, he would have surely tossed it into the trash bin.

Was I to set the tray on the paper? No, that would make it so he couldn’t finish reading whatever had captured his attention. That would surely make him angry. Angrier. I took in another breath, forgetting my pact against breathing, and lifted only the cup and saucer from the tray and set it on the top corner of the left page. However, I was unsteady, given my nervousness, and coffee spilled over the brim of the cup into the saucer and onto the newspaper.

With a swiftness I didn’t know he possessed, Mr. Pitts swept his arm over the desk, knocking everything to the floor. The cup and saucer shattered at my feet. What remained of the coffee splashed my skirt.

I swallowed hard, willing myself not to cry. Secretarial college had not taught a course on terrible employers. It should have, given what I knew from my first job.

My mother had often said one’s fortune could change at any moment. “You must always have hope, Amelia.” Her words often came to me during the darkest moments, giving me strength and courage. Lately, though, I wondered if it was wise to dream of a better life. I suspected optimism was a cruel and fickle mistress. Wasn’t it better to accept one’s fate than to yearn for someone else’s life? If only my mother were still alive, I could have asked her.

It was only at night in my room at the boardinghouse that I felt relief from the hardness of my life. I could read then. The lending library and the stacks of books were my salvation.

Not knowing what to do with the tray, I dropped it heavily onto the dry part of the newspaper and knelt to pick up the shards and jagged pieces of china. One particularly sharp piece pierced my thumb, and blood dripped onto my skirt. My only skirt.

Mr. Pitts jerked to his feet and yanked the damp newspaper out from under the tray. “You’re the most worthless girl I’ve ever met.” He rolled the paper the way I’d once seen someone do before whipping their poor dog with it and hurled it at me. “You’re fired. Take the trash with you.”

Instinctively, I’d caught the paper and now held it against my chest. The smell of coffee filled my nose. Fired? I gulped. Should I beg? No. If I had to live on the street, so be it. I would not ask for anything more from this horrible man. “I want my pay.” I glared at him, then held out my hand. “Now. Or I go to the police.”

“The police don’t care about you.” Regardless if that were true or not, he reached into his desk and pulled out what amounted to a week’s wages. Which didn’t include today. But I didn’t argue. I just wanted out of there. I would figure it out later.

I stumbled to my desk and set the paper there while I reached for my coat. That’s when I saw it. Displayed right there in the fold for me to see. The advertisement for a secretary.

Secretary needed for family business. Candidate must be willing to relocate to a remote island off the coast of Washington state. Skills needed: typing, shorthand, writing and grammar skills, basic math, and a love of fiction.

Love of fiction? Well, if it wasn’t the exact description of me, I didn’t know what was. A frisson of excitement coursed through my body. Could this be the change I needed? I knew nothing of Washington state, other than it rained a lot there. Warm rain seemed preferable to my current situation. For in Washington, there was no Mr. Pitts. Here in Boston, there was no Mr. Pitts for me now that he’d fired me, I reminded myself.

Please, God, open this new door for me if it’s your will.
---
Chapter 2

BENEDICT
The numbers swam around the page. I could not focus. Could not grasp anything I saw before me. My mind jumped from thing to thing and never landed back on the papers that covered my desk. I was in the wrong life. Born into the wrong family. Given the wrong job.

I could not make sense of the financial statement. Not me. A bird tweeted from a tree outside. By the window, dust danced in a streak of sunlight. Footsteps in the hallway outside the library drew my attention. Who could it be? Maybe Dexter bringing tea? My eyes dwelled next on the bookshelves, filled with stories I could barely read.

Why had Father done this to me? Several months ago, he’d been murdered coming home from his Friday night poker game. In an instant, everything had changed. I was now president of the company he’d spent his life building. Only now it would be destroyed because of my stupidity. I’d hated him most of the time, but I did agree with him. I was born an idiot, barely able to get through primary school, let alone run a company. Either of my brothers would have been the better choice. My sister would have been the best choice of all. Instead, in one final blow, he’d named me the president. The very last thing I’d have ever wanted.

A knocking pulled me from my tumbleweed thoughts. “Come in.”

Briggs, my youngest brother, poked his head around the door. “Have time for a chat?”

“Always for you.” My brother was home at last. No longer shunned. Now that my father was gone, he could stay here and paint instead of living as a refugee in Seattle. Father hadn’t wanted him to pursue his painting. He thought by kicking him out of the family that Briggs would come around. He underestimated my brother’s stubborn independence.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and plopped into one of the leather chairs. A quick glance at the clock told me it was mid-morning. “A little early, don’t you think?”

“Never too early for whiskey or women.” Briggs gestured with his glass in a mock toast. “Cheers. You’re looking as glum as I’ve ever seen you.”

“It’s all of this. What has he done to me?” I picked up a piece of paper and waved it at him. “Leaving this to me? Why wasn’t it Hudson?”

“I don’t know.” Briggs crossed one leg over the other. He’d been out with his favorite horse and was still in his riding attire, tan pants tucked into his tall boots and a long jacket with an ascot around his neck. Nice-looking, my brother, with his light chestnut hair and intelligent blue eyes. Like the best horse you’ve ever seen. Long legs and a lithe physique. I was more of a bull to his sleek Thoroughbred stallion. We looked nothing alike. I had almost black hair and dark blue eyes and was built wide and thick.

Another difference between us? Briggs was a charmer with the ladies whereas I could barely speak to any of them other than my sister and mother. Briggs had a wit, too—clever with a joke. Despite his outgoing personality, he never missed a detail. Visual talent, I supposed.

“The old man’s dead. I thought we could live in peace.” Briggs touched the scar on his forehead where our father had once smashed him into a wall. “But it seems he’s haunting us from the grave.”

“How’s he haunting you? You’re home now where you belong. Painting whatever you want instead of portraits of ugly rich men.”

“I meant the collective we. I’m always on your side.” Briggs grinned. “It’s always been you and me, brother. I’ll never let you down.”

“I know. As long as there’s not a woman involved,” I said, teasing.

“I’ve given up women. Haven’t I told you? They’re nothing but trouble.” One eyebrow shot up. “You won’t believe what happened to me last week.”

“I probably will believe it,” I said. “Knowing you.”

“It wasn’t my fault this time.”

Before he could tell me more, another knock on the door revealed Hudson. Surprised to see him, I stood. He rarely left his wing of the house these days. I watched him, looking for signs that he wanted to take my job. How I wished he would. If only he would insist on taking the helm of the family shipbuilding business and demand I leave it all to him. However, I saw none of that in his brown eyes. The Hudson he used to be would have wanted it. He’d been ambitious and interested in business. Until Rosemary died. After that, he seemed to care about little, keeping to himself like a dog licking his wound.

“Everything all right?” Briggs asked, standing as well.

The smallest of the three of us, Hudson took after our father in appearance, dark and compact. But the similarities stopped there. My brother was the studious type, quiet and steady, without a smidge of our father’s temper or cruelty. He’d never do to Bebe what Father had done to us. Well, to Briggs and me. Hudson and Ella had been spared the dungeon. That was only for the two misfits. The artist and the idiot.

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m sorry to interrupt,” Hudson said. “But I was wondering if either of you have seen Bebe. She’s run off.”

Bebe. Another one of our family’s problems. A mischievous little demon in the body of an adorable five-year-old girl. Hudson’s wife, Rosemary, had died from influenza when Bebe was only a toddler. My brother was raising her alone, with some help from my mother. Lately, though, we’d all been distracted. The murder of our patriarch had consumed all of our thoughts. Which had made Bebe even more of a terror.

Just as I thought that, I saw her streak across the driveway, wearing her nightgown and boots. Even from this distance, I could see that her hair was tangled. What had happened?

“There she is.” I pointed out the window.

“The little beast,” Hudson muttered under his breath. “She refused to get dressed and then tricked me and ran away.”

“Tricked you how?” Briggs asked.

“She locked me in the bathroom.” Hudson’s thick eyebrows came together. “I’m not sure what to do about her. She’s gotten worse.”

“Since Father’s death,” I said. “I’ve noticed too.”

“I think she actually misses the bastard,” Hudson said. “Making her the only one who does.”

“Do you think we’ll ever know who killed him?” I asked.

“I saw Sheriff White when I was out earlier,” Briggs said. “He seems to think it was one of us.”

“Why? What did he say?” I asked.

“Just a feeling I got from him,” Briggs said. “More than anything he said.”

“I think it was one of the poker players,” Hudson said. “They all had reasons to want him gone.”

“Well, we’ll know eventually,” Briggs said. “And I didn’t do it, by the way.”

“Nor I,” Hudson said.

I didn’t say anything, too busy watching Bebe. “Look at this.”

The three of us gathered around the window. Bebe was now using a rake as a pretend horse, galloping toward the fountain that served as a watering hole for our horses. Her skinny bare legs were pink from the cold. “She’ll catch her death out there,” I said.

“I know,” Hudson said, sounding weary. “Mother thinks I should get a nanny. I agree, but where do you find one who could deal with that?” He tapped his finger against the glass.

Our Model T, driven by our sister, Ella, rumbled up the driveway. She parked. Obviously, she’d spotted Bebe and her pretend horse. She marched over to where the little girl was tilting the rake into the water. That made sense. Horses need water. I stifled a smile.

Ella, tall and strong like the rest of us, despite being of the female persuasion. Traipsing around the island on foot carrying her medical bag did that to a woman. She hauled Bebe over her shoulder and carried her across the driveway. Bebe kicked and flailed about, but she had no chance against her aunt. Soon, they disappeared, followed by the sound of the front door slamming.

“How is it Ella can do that, but I can’t?” Hudson asked. “I’m an utter failure.”

“Ella delivers cows in addition to human babies on a regular basis,” Briggs said, obviously trying to make Hudson feel better. “She’s used to beasts who wriggle.”


The next afternoon, having given up on work, I walked the crescent beach that ran along the bank of our property. Above me, the estate loomed white and pretty on the hillside. Drizzle dampened my face. The air smelled of Puget Sound. Today the water was as gray as the sky. Close to shore, fog floated just above the water like a loosely knit wool blanket. Beyond, though, I could see several of the sticking out of the water like the backs of turtles. Above me, several seagulls screeched in protest of something. Perhaps me?

Being outside usually cleared my mind, albeit briefly. Upon my return to the blasted desk, I would once again feel the tightness at my throat and the clenching of my belly. Unless a miracle happened, I was chained to the office now, struggling to make sense of a business I had no connection to, other than it had made my family very rich. I sighed and turned to go back to my prison.

Ella stood at the edge of the cliff. She lifted her hand to wave at me, and I did the same as I headed up the dirt trail to the lawn that overlooked the water. By the time I’d reached the lawn, Ella had moved to stand on the wide porch that ran the length of the house. I stomped up the stairs, grinning at the sight of my sister. She sat in one of the rocking chairs, and her dark hair had come undone and was flapping around her pink cheeks. My sister’s sapphire eyes and fair skin were stunning against her dark hair. She wore a plain skirt and blouse covered by a wool sweater. She’d been out all night, helping deliver Mary Smith’s third baby.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” I asked, leaning to kiss her cheek.

“I wanted some fresh air first.” She stifled a yawn behind an ungloved hand. My sister wasn’t much for formalities. “Mother wants to see you in the living room.”

My stomach clenched. What did she want now? To go over the numbers again? What purpose did that serve? I couldn’t make sense of any of it. All these numbers listed in a ledger that swam before my eyes. Why couldn’t I stay outside and chop wood? That’s what I’d done yesterday afternoon. The slight ache in my muscles reminded me that I’d perhaps overdone it.

“How is Mrs. Smith?” I asked, wrapping myself around one of the posts.

“She’s well. Fat baby boy. They named him Isaiah.”

“Nice name,” I mumbled, thinking of my mother waiting inside. “I should probably go in.”

“Yes, probably.”

“How did Mother seem?”

“A little better, I think. Not quite so pinched around the mouth,” Ella said. “But it’s hard to say with her, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.” I excused myself and went into the house, taking off my coat and hat and giving them to Dexter, our butler of sorts. He was not a true butler, he often reminded me, because he was an American and not properly schooled in the ways of the English butler. Whatever we called him, he was indispensable to us, running the estate with an easy grace that I found bewildering.

“Your mother’s waiting by the fireplace,” Dexter said. “I had the cook brew a fresh pot of coffee, and she sent up some cookies as well.”

I smiled. Dexter knew how much I enjoyed sweets in the afternoon. “Thank you.”

Mother was sitting in her favorite chair by the fire. Our hearth was made from limestone imported from somewhere or other. Father never ceased to tell whoever was around the entire story. He’d loved to present himself as above everyone else. I’d cringed every time we had a new visitor who had to endure the tour around the house. Tours that took a while. There were two wings in either direction, with Hudson and Bebe taking up one end and my mother the other. Ella, Briggs, and I had rooms in the middle of the house, down the hall from our music room and the library, where I now worked. Father had spent a lot of time in Seattle, but much of the work could be done from here. It was my understanding that the manager in Seattle ran the factory well. He would have had to, or Father would have fired him. That gave me a little peace of mind, but not a lot.

Mother was dressed in black. A small, frail woman, she was still pretty despite being in her fifties. Too young to be a widow. Although in her case, it must be a relief. She no longer had to worry that her husband would hurt her for some small infraction.

“Dearest, come in.” She gestured toward the chair opposite hers. As promised, a coffeepot and a plate of cookies were on the table.

“Hello, Mother.” I kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Just fine.” She gave me a tentative smile.

I poured myself a coffee, grateful for the warmth, and sat. “Did you want to see me about something?”

She lifted her gaze to the fire and then over to me. “I have an idea.”

I braced myself. What was it? Had she convinced Hudson to take over the family affairs? That had to be it. She was probably worried I would lose our fortune. Humiliated and warm suddenly from shame, I told myself it was probably for the best. I was a failure. Father had been right to call me stupid. I’d never done anything to prove him wrong.

“Have you spoken with Hudson? Has he agreed to take my place?” I asked in a rush.

She shook her head before taking a sip from her coffee. “No, he’s not up to it. Sadness has him by the tail.”

I briefly closed my eyes, thinking about the house I was building for myself on another part of the island. It had been my plan to move away from this house and live how I wanted. Grow a garden and have a few animals. Just me. But now that Father was dead, I was needed here. For the time being, anyway.

“I think we should hire an assistant for you,” Mother said.

“An assistant? Like a secretary?”

“Yes, exactly. Someone clever with sums and who can write well. You can instruct them what to do, and they will carry it out.”

Again, my old enemy shame made me hot and flushed. She was right. It would solve a lot of problems. Namely, that I was totally incompetent. “What about our privacy?”

“That’s something we have to let go of, I suppose. If we hire the right person, it won’t matter.”

“Where do we find this secretary? No one on the island is qualified. That I know of, anyway.”

“I’ve engaged a clever staffing expert back in Boston. She’s written to me with a viable candidate for the position.”

“What? Already? You did it without speaking with me first?”

“I thought you might say no,” Mother said without meeting my gaze.

I breathed out, then set aside my coffee. “I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

“It’s not because you’re not capable.”

“But it is.”

“You’re going to do well. With a little help. The detail work can be done by someone else. Think of how freeing it will be. You won’t be tied to the desk all day. An assistant will take care of things and compensate for your little issues.”

“Little issues?” I barked out a bitter laugh. “They’re more than little. Regardless, I agree. I should have thought of it myself.”

“We’ve all been overwhelmed, dearest. None of this is your fault.”

This clever assistant would be my way out. He could do the work, and I would simply be the figurehead, steering strategy but without the headache of all the minutiae.

My mother withdrew her hand from the cookie plate, obviously changing her mind about a treat. “Mrs. Mantle—that’s the name of the woman back east—she said she thinks she can find the perfect person for us.”

“Will this ease your mind?” I asked.

“More than you can know. Not because I don’t believe in you, darling, but because I hate to see you frustrated and sad. This was supposed to be our new chance for happiness.”

“What was?” I asked.

“Your father’s death. Finally, we’re free. I don’t want us to waste another moment sad or afraid. All right?”

“Yes, Mother.” I reached over to take her hand in mine. “If you think this is best, then so do I.”

“There’s something else I want to tell you about,” Mother said, abruptly changing the subject. “In case something happens to me and so that you understand part of the financial picture before the assistant comes.”

“Mother, nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“I hope not. But I still think it’s wise that I keep you abreast of what I know. Your father had his thumb on more people than just his family. People who might have wanted him dead.”

“The poker players?” I asked. “What do you know?”

“Timothy Bains was run out of his church back east after a girl in the congregation accused him of taking advantage of her. He lost his wife and child over it. Roland said he was innocent and that he’d been framed. That’s why he offered him the position here.”

“That’s not a motive.”

“I suppose not,” Mother said. “Other than he might like to be out from under your father’s control. Roland told him what to do, and Timothy felt he had no choice but to do it. Even when it tested his morality.”

“As in?”

“Timothy has been responsible for keeping your father’s mistresses secret, including sneaking them here to the island on the boat.”

My stomach churned. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“It’s all right. I knew about them anyway.”

She went on to tell me that Caleb King, our teacher, had fallen in love with one of his students and been sent away. “Your father pays him a pittance, and he’s stuck here.”

Michael Moon, our dry goods owner, had embezzled money from his employer. “Roland gave him the shop to run but took fifty percent of the profits. The same is true for Matthew Goodwell. Your father took half of everything in exchange for giving him the pub when no one else would have taken a chance on him.”

“What did Goodwell do?” I asked. All these men were trapped by Father, just as I’d been as a child. Perhaps I still was.

“He was accused of burning down the bar he worked for. Roland said he was innocent. Regardless, your father helped himself to the profits.

“There’s Sheriff White, too,” Mother said. “Apparently, he’d fallen in love with a female prisoner accused of killing her husband and helped her escape. They’d not been able to pin it on him, but the damage to his reputation meant he was out of law enforcement in Seattle.”

“All in all,” Mother said, “these five men have something to gain from Roland’s death.”

“As I said to the sheriff the day we buried Father, there isn’t a person on this island who isn’t a suspect, including all of us.”

“Well, none of us did it.” Mother’s eyes widened. “You don’t really think any of us capable of killing, do you?”

“Not really. Regardless, it’s true that none of us are sad he’s gone.”

If Father had wanted to leave a legacy, he had done so. Only a murder mystery with a dozen suspects wasn’t what he had in mind. That I knew with certainty.

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Piper

My arms ached and sweat gathered at the base of my neck. Rowing a boat was harder than it looked. The midmorning sun was relentless, even on the water, and I longed to jump in for a cool swim. My charge, six-year-old Bebe, had not stopped talking since we left the shore. She was particularly fond of asking questions.

Where did bees come from? Why was August hotter than any other month? Was Mr. King really my sweetheart? All asked in quick succession, not waiting for me to answer before flinging another one.

Part of being a nanny was a commitment to perpetual learning, no matter the activity. Inquisitiveness was one of my favorite qualities in a child. This one had as much as five children put together. Other than my dear Sara Rose, whom I practically raised into adulthood and now considered family, no child had captured my heart quite like Bebe Tutheridge.

“I don’t know where bees come from, other than God made them to help populate the earth with flowers.”

As if to agree with me, the sweet scent of wildflowers and roses from the gardens drifted in on a sudden breeze. I stopped rowing to catch my breath. The waters of the Puget Sound, where the San Juan Islands clustered like lily pads in a pond, almost connected but not quite, rocked the boat gently. My wide-brimmed hat shielded my face from the sun, but regardless, my scalp and the nape of my neck perspired.

“What about August?” Bebe asked, wrinkling her freckled nose and staring at me with her earnest blue eyes under the brim of her hat. “How come it’s so hot?”

“In this part of the country, the summers are cool, with the warmest days in August.” The weather had been sunny and mild all through July, giving us many opportunities to explore the island together. Now, a few days into August, it seemed that summer had truly arrived. Temperatures had climbed into the eighties for three days in a row. Bebe and I had spent a lot of time outdoors playing croquet and lawn tennis. Today, hoping for some relief from the heat, we’d decided to take the rowboat out. Not my best plan, as I was now a sweaty mess.

We were not far from shore. I was not entirely confident in my captain abilities and didn’t want to get too far adrift. Regardless, I’d have a blister between my index finger and thumb from rowing before the day was through.

“I heard Papa say Mr. King was courting you.” Bebe pushed her straw hat from her head, leaving it to dangle around her neck by the string.

An instinct more than conscious thought had me reaching out to put it back in place. I’d positioned a lot of hats back on small heads over my decade as a nanny. “Hat is a must, not a maybe,” I said. “Do you want to have a sunburn and have your grammie irritated with me and you?”

Her grandmother and mistress of the estate and my employer, Mrs. Bains, was always on her about her sun hat. Bebe, whenever possible, freed her dark head from captivity and raised her face to the sun as if it were an old friend.

“Is it true about you and my teacher?” Bebe asked.

I’d hoped she’d forgotten that question. Not our Bebe. A memory like an elephant, this one.

The island school’s teacher, Caleb King, was indeed my beau. “He’s a special friend.”

“Will you marry him?”

If he asks, I thought but didn’t say. “He’s only a friend. Nothing for you to worry yourself about.”

Caleb and I had bonded over our love for children the first time we met. After that, he’d asked to court me and I’d said yes. We’d taken buggy rides, had picnics, and walked along the water’s edge. Such happy times for me. Feelings stirred in me that I’d not felt before. Was it love? I had no idea. It was not like Sara Rose and Rhett, who had fallen in love at first sight. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because Caleb was so much older than I. He was over forty and I was twenty-eight. Anyway, he was more sensible and less spontaneous a man than Rhett Rivers.

I’d had several proposals back in Boston, but it had never felt right. I’d decided I’d be quite content as a single woman making her own way as a nanny or governess. My parents’ marriage had been a fraught one, mostly because of my father’s philandering. Mama once said, after too much Christmas punch, that my father had never met a whore he didn’t follow home. At the time, I had no idea what that word meant. It was only later that I realized the true meaning of what she’d said. By that time, my father had broken both our hearts.

“What’s the difference between a beau and a friend?” Bebe asked.

Good question. “It’s complicated. You’ll understand better when you’re older. Why do you want to know, anyway?”

She tugged on her shell-like ear. “I can’t tell you.”

“Ah, we have secrets between us now?” I added just a hint of disapproval. As unruly as Bebe could sometimes be, she had an innate instinct to please the adults in her life. It was only that we were all so confusing that it was hard to know how to do that. This was my guess, of course, based on my own remembrances of childhood. Raised in a home that throbbed with tension, I’d been on constant alert as to ways to please them. If I’d known a way to make them happy and stop fighting, I would have done it. As an adult, I knew making my parents’ marriage a happy one was impossible. They were responsible for their own happiness.

But Bebe didn’t know this. She was innocent and vulnerable. Sweet, adventurous Bebe had not been the challenge everyone said she would be. I’d been warned of her mischievousness and tendencies toward naughtiness before I took the position. They had been mistaken in their assessment. Mostly, I figured, because they knew nothing about children. Bebe was a delightful, inquisitive little person who made me laugh and inspired me to be braver and seek more of the thrills of living than I ever had before.

It made my chest ache to think of how she vied for her father’s attention. When she was good or bad, she did it all to pull her father’s gaze toward her. To no avail. Hudson Tutheridge was an insufferable, snobbish bore. As much as I cared for Bebe, I could not find one thing to like about the man. Other than he was quite easy on the eyes. All the Tutheridge men were blessed with good looks. Unfortunately, Hudson Tutheridge was an example of someone pretty on the outside and ugly on the inside.

Mr. Tutheridge’s moods were uneven, although mostly nasty, bullish, or gloomy. Did I feel bad for him? Of course I did. He’d lost his wife when Bebe was only a toddler. From what his sister, Ella, had told me, he’d once been a fun-loving, generous man. Losing his wife had left him bereft. So much so he could not love his daughter.

I could not bear him. The moment he entered the room, my skin crawled. Especially after I came to live at the mansion. I’d looked forward to it at first, thinking of living in such a grand estate, with views of the Puget Sound and the expansive lawn and a room of my own. However, it took only a few days to know the truth. The more time I spent in the presence of Hudson, the less I liked him, which diminished my enjoyment of my new position. My new life.

Why did God give children to people like him? I’d had experience with bad parents in all of my jobs. Especially Sara Rose. Ignorant, awful people who made her feel as if she were unlovable simply because she had eyes of different colors. What idiots they were. A flash of anger made my hands ball into fists. Never mind, though. I smiled to myself. She’d had her happy ending despite how cruel her parents had been to her. The smartest thing we’d ever done was come out here to Whale Island.

“You have a secret.” Bebe pointed a finger at me. “Actually, a few of them.”

“Please do not point.”

“Why?”

“It’s bad manners. And why do we think I have secrets?”

“We don’t. I do,” Bebe said.

“What secrets do you think I keep?”

“You’re not as happy as you pretend, for one.”

“That might be true.” My mother always commented on my sunny disposition. This had pleased her. Thus, I honed the skill of joyfulness, even if sometimes I would rather have hidden under a pillow to weep.

“I heard you talking to Miss Sara Rose one day. You were crying.”

“You have got to stop eavesdropping,” I said reprovingly. “It’s going to get you into trouble one of these days. Sometimes when adults talk, there are things you don’t understand and thus interpret incorrectly.”

“You were crying about your beau. I know you were.”

How had she known that? Bebe was too smart for her age. I had been crying about Caleb. He’d been unexpectedly impatient with me during our Sunday afternoon drive, speaking harshly to me when I asked him a question about why he’d left the East Coast and come to Whale Island. He’d actually insinuated that I was prying into his life. It had been so unexpected that I’d been stunned into silence. We’d parted that afternoon with only a curt goodbye. Later that same day, I’d talked it over with Sara Rose when she and Rhett had come for supper at the big house.

Caleb had dropped by the next day after school let out to apologize. He’d said there were some things in his past that he’d rather leave there and could I understand that? I’d agreed, happy he seemed back to his charming self. Still, the whole incident gave me pause. Did I really want to fall in love with a man who didn’t want to tell me about himself? Since then, he’d been gracious and sweet. I’d decided it was a momentary lapse. No one can be perfect all the time.

“I was crying because a friend hurt my feelings,” I said now to Bebe. “Has that ever happened to you?”

“Yes, sometimes at school.” Bebe sighed, sounding about a hundred years old. “Girls can be very mean.”

“Not all of them. You’ll find a few in your life that you will love and trust, like I do Sara Rose.”

“Tell me the story about how you met her when she was only a kid.”

I’d told Bebe the story several times. For some reason, she loved hearing about it.

“Well, she was only ten and I had just turned eighteen, having graduated from high school. I heard about a family with a little girl who didn’t go to school. They needed a governess, and I needed a job, so it was such good luck that I happened to run into this particular acquaintance, who told me about the job. So I went to the house and met Sara Rose. She liked me, and I liked her. My mother had just died, so I was sad and a little lost. Right away we grew close. Her family was not very nice to her, making her stay in her room and forbidding her to go to school, which she wished for very much.”

“On account of her eyes,” Bebe said. She’d heard this story before. “One blue one and one brown one.”

“Correct. They made her feel bad about being different, and that was wrong. What have I told you about that?”

“To be myself and not care what others are thinking or doing. Except if myself is thinking about doing something bad. Then I should not be myself.”

We might need a little more work on understanding fully what I meant, but for now, it would have to do. “Sara Rose was lonely for other kids, and her own sister was selfish and cruel, so I had to be like her big sister and love her so that she knew she wasn’t alone in the world.”

Bebe tented her hands, eyes dreamy. “That’s the part I like the best. About how you became each other’s family.”

Sara Rose had been desperate for love and companionship. I’d recently lost my mother. We’d needed each other. Teaching her had been easy because of her intelligence and innate curiosity. “We certainly did. In our eight years together I taught her everything I knew, and of course, I learned from her.”

I didn’t tell Bebe the full story, for fear it would cause her to see Sara Rose differently. Mrs. Wilcox had told Sara Rose her unusual eyes were the mark of a demon or the devil. Just thinking of it made me angry all over again.

“What did you learn from her?” Bebe asked.

“How to be humble and loving even when people are nasty.”

“Why would you want to?” Bebe asked. “I’d rather be mean right back.”

I hid a smile behind my hand. “Because that’s the way Jesus wants us to be. We should always behave as he asks us to in the Bible.”

“Right. Good old Jesus. He said a lot of things.”

“Bebe,” I scolded, biting back a laugh. “You must always speak of our Lord and Savior with reverence.”

“What’s reverence?”

“Great respect. To revere someone is to hold them in esteem.”

“Then you came here to Whale Island,” Bebe said, back to the story. “And Sara Rose met Rhett and now they’re married and live in the lighthouse.”

“Yes. She has her happy ending now. Which, in turn, makes me happy.” I left out the tragic circumstances surrounding our need to leave Boston. Bebe was too young to know that evil men like the one who had hurt Sara Rose existed. For as long as I could, I would protect Bebe and keep her innocent. The cruel world would come to call on her soon enough.


A knock on Bebe’s bedroom door, followed by Lizzie’s voice asking if she could come in, interrupted our reading time. After our noonday meal, if we’d been particularly active as we had this morning, I encouraged Bebe to rest while I read to her. We were snuggled together in the window seat with the shades drawn to let in only slivers of light.

“Come in,” I said.

Lizzie, one of the maids, a darling girl with a talent for fixing hair, bobbed her head in greeting. “Miss Jayne, I’m sorry to disturb your reading time.” Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the afternoon, and she was slightly out of breath.

“It’s no trouble,” I said. “Is there anything wrong?”

She lowered her voice. “No, it’s just that Mr. King is here to see you.”

How odd. Caleb knew I was working. Why would he come by the house? Mrs. Bains discouraged visitors for the staff, including me.

“Dear me,” I said.

“I can stay with Bebe if you’d like to go down for a minute.” Lizzie’s pretty face brightened further when Bebe nodded enthusiastically. Lizzie was only sixteen, practically still a child herself. “Mrs. Bains is out back with Mr. Bains.”

“Thank you. So kind of you. I’ll see what he wants and be back very soon.” I untangled myself from Bebe and hurried downstairs.

Caleb was standing in the foyer, hat in hand, wearing a tan summer suit. He took my breath away. Such a handsome man. And he liked me. I could hardly believe it.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, whispering. “I’m working.”

“I know. I’m so sorry to disturb you. It won’t take a minute, but I just had to see you.” He pulled a small box from his jacket pocket. “This just came in with the post and I couldn’t wait another moment to give it to you.”

He handed me the box.

“It was my mother’s, and my sister found it in a box in her attic and thought I might like to have it for someone special. And now I do.”

I lifted the lid to see a silver locket on a chain. Plain but pretty nonetheless.

“Maybe someday you could put my picture in there?” Caleb asked.

Pleased with the gesture, I wanted to keep it, but it wasn’t right. If we were engaged, maybe. But not now. “This is too much. It’s a family heirloom. I can’t possibly accept it.”

“Please, I want you to have it. A promise of things to come?” He took my hand and brought it to his mouth for a quick kiss.

“Let me think about it,” I said, doing my best to be coquettish but probably failing miserably.

“Will you keep it while you think?” His eyes twinkled down at me.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt anything,” I said.

“Also, I’ve come to ask you if you’ll attend the dance with me this coming weekend?”

I’d been hoping he’d ask me. “I’d be delighted.”

“I couldn’t be more delighted, Miss Jayne.”

“Nor I, Mr. King.” I pushed him gently toward the door. “However, you must go before I get into trouble.”

“I’ll see you soon.” Caleb flashed a charming smile that weakened my knees. How was it possible that such a fine man was interested in me?

A little voice whispered to me. But do you know him fully?

I told the voice to be quiet.

There had been that incident the other night when he’d been less than charming. But it hadn’t happened again since. He’d had a bad night. That’s all. Everyone has one occasionally. It wasn’t as though he was perpetually grumpy like my employer, Mr. Tutheridge.


Later that afternoon, I sat in a rocking chair under the shade of the covered porch. Grateful to be out of the sun, I watched a hatless Bebe practice her cartwheels on the lawn. Every time she went over, her skirt lifted, showing her pantaloons. Despite this, she was getting better at them, her legs straighter. Lizzie brought out a pitcher of lemonade.

“Lizzie, you’re a godsend,” I said, smiling up at her as she set the tray on the table next to my rocking chair.

“Mrs. Halvorson thought you and Bebe might be parched after your boat ride this morning. She doesn’t know how you do it, keeping up with that girl.”

Mrs. Halvorson was the estate cook. As far as I could tell, her genuine goodness came out in her delicious meals. “I don’t mind, but I do sleep well at night.” I was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. Bebe woke early, which meant I had to as well.

All the rowing had given me a stinging blister on my left hand, so I used my right to pick up the glass. I was naturally left-handed, and my mother had tried to change me to be like most other people. To her frustration, it didn’t work. I was as left-handed as could be. She wanted nothing more in life than to fade into the woodwork. The way to do that, she’d said, was to pretend to be like everyone else. After she passed away, I was under no obligation to keep trying, so I just let myself be.

Lizzie stood at the edge of the porch and cheered when Bebe did an almost-perfect cartwheel. Bebe curtsied.

Lizzie returned the curtsy before looking back at me. “She’s done so well since you came here. You have such a way with her.”

“Everyone has their gifts. Mine happens to be with children. I love my work.”

“Do you like the island?” Lizzie asked. “Does it seem boring? You know, you being a city girl and all?”

“Honestly, I could spend the rest of my life here and be quite content,” I said. “How about you?”

“I love it here too, but I miss Ella. She used to let me fix her hair and help her get dressed for the evening. She always told me clever stories and made me laugh. It’s been quieter around her since she married. I wish I had a beau like you.”

“Maybe someone will move here,” I said. “Someone just right for you.”

“I think that only happens if you’re a Tutheridge.” Lizzie grinned. “What an odd thing it’s been, seeing them married off one after the other. Mrs. Bains must be relieved.”

“Why’s that?”

“She wanted them all to marry.” Lizzie drew nearer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard rumors they were sent here by a matchmaker.”

“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” I played dumb, knowing it was true. Sara Rose and I hadn’t known it at the time, but Mrs. Mantle was a matchmaker. She’d sent Amelia, Faith, and lastly Lucca to the island. Sara Rose had been sent specifically for Rhett Rivers. Thank goodness, I’d come as a companion to Sara Rose. There was no one acting puppeteer for me, and I’d found Caleb anyway.

“I should get on back to the kitchen. Mrs. Bains will want her tea soon.”

“Thanks for the cool drink, Lizzie.”

“Anything for you, Miss Jayne.”

After Lizzie left, Bebe came bounding up the stairs for a glass of lemonade. I poured her a small one, not wanting her stomach to cramp. Normally I would ask her to do it herself, believing that children should be taught independence and self-reliance. However, the pitcher was heavy and slippery with condensation. It would do no good to get us both in trouble.

The screen door opened and Hudson Tutheridge appeared, dressed in a linen summer suit and light blue tie. He was the smallest of the Tutheridge brothers, coming in at only six feet. His torso was slimmer and his shoulders less broad than Briggs and Benedict, but he was still a substantial man. He had thick dark hair like his daughter and similar eyes. All in all, with his nicely shaped nose and full mouth, he was a handsome man. If you liked the insufferable kind.

“Papa, what are you doing out here?” Bebe leaped up from the chair next to me and threw her arms around his legs.

To his credit, he didn’t push her away. However, he wasn’t exactly demonstrative either, simply patting her head, which was without its hat. Cartwheels could not be done in a straw hat. I glanced out to the grass and saw it sitting by its lonesome near a rhododendron bush.

“Bebe, please get your hat,” I said.

She stuck out her bottom lip but didn’t sass me. Instead, she ran down the steps and then, perhaps remembering her triumph of earlier, shouted back to her father. “Do you want to see my cartwheel?”

“If I must,” Hudson muttered under his breath.

This man made me want to punch something.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tutheridge,” I said pleasantly. He was my employer, and as much as I disliked him, I had to be on my best behavior. I really didn’t want to lose this job. For one thing, I was already so fond of Bebe.

“Afternoon. Taking it easy, I see?”

I bristled but hid my irritation as best I could. “Yes, we’re talking a break from the sun. Bebe and I took the rowboat out this morning.”

Bebe did a cartwheel, not far from the steps, then straightened. “Papa, did you see? Did you see?”

“Yes, quite impressive.” His tone of voice belied his words.

“I can do it again,” Bebe shouted.

“Must she show her underwear every time?” Hudson yanked his straw bowler hat from his head and hung it on the back of the rocking chair next to mine. In all, there were a dozen rocking chairs lined up on the porch. Mrs. Bains had only recently added them, she’d told me. So that her family could all visit during nice weather.

“Do you want me to have her stop?” I asked. He was her father. If he thought it unladylike, then I had to respect his wishes. “It’s just that she enjoys it so. And it wears her out.”

“I suppose it’s fine in the privacy of our backyard. But I don’t understand the purpose of these cartwheels.” He sat, not beside me but with a chair between us. This was new behavior. He’d never come out here before. Was he going to fire me?

“They’re fun, that’s all,” I said. “She’s doing them for the sheer joy of it.”

He didn’t reply. I folded my hands on my lap and then yelped in pain from my blister.

“What is it?” Hudson asked sharply.

“I have a blister.” I held up my hand. “From rowing the boat earlier.”

One brow arched before he returned his gaze toward the water while pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and placing it on the arm of my chair. “Wrap that around so you don’t keep smacking it.”

Surprised by his thoughtfulness, I did as he suggested.

“Miss Jayne, I have something I wish to discuss with you. It’s rather delicate.”

“Yes, of course.”

Was he going to fire me? Please, God, not that.

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