Halfway Home, page 9
The grits were lumpy, the biscuits cold, the coffee too strong. However, she was in no position to complain. She spent the entire time seated alone at a table that was none too clean, staring out the window at the canal traffic and trying not to dwell on what had happened last night. And on what it all meant.
A stern-wheeler chugged past, with stacks billowing and flags flying, packed with people headed south to Elizabeth City, or Fayetteville, or maybe even Charleston in South Carolina.
Sara told herself it was an exciting time to be alive and tried to be excited, but all she could think of was a grim, gun-wearing stranger who, against all reason, made her feel safe and cherished for the first time since her mother had died.
Made her feel, in some ways, anything but safe, but that was another matter. She didn’t know how she was going to face him again. Perhaps he had already left. He had never said where he was bound, but then, she had never asked. Big Simon had warned her that one didn’t ask questions of chance-met strangers in a place like the Halfway Hotel, that was as well-known for its criminal and duelistical arrangements as for its matrimonial ones.
Quite naturally, the very first person she ran into on leaving the dining room was Jericho Wilde.
He looked drawn. As if he hadn’t slept at all. The shadows around his eyes reminded her of a raccoon.
“Good morning, is your cold—?”
“Sara, I have a proposition to put to you,” he interrupted without even allowing her to inquire after his health.
She waited for him to go on. Two men passed by, both talking at once, neither of them listening. She placed them as drummers from the plaid suits they wore and the sample cases they carried.
“Not here,” he said. Taking her arm, he led her outside.
The morning stage had not yet arrived, and the packet boat had already left. Except for two kitchen boys, dawdling on their way back from the chicken yard to chuck oyster shells into the canal, they were alone.
When that nice Mr. Turbyfill came outside and started toward them, Jericho waved him away. Which made Sara curious. “What did you want to talk to me about, mister—captain—that is, Jericho?”
For such an imposing man, he looked downright uncomfortable. He cleared his throat twice before he commenced to speak. “From what you’ve said, I take it you’re not of a mind to go back home to your, uh—your stepmama, is that right?”
Sara nodded.
“And so far, your intended hasn’t turned up.”
Again she nodded. What could she say? He knew, to her everlasting shame, that she had been the one to do the proposing—not only that, she had set the time and place. “I’m sure he’ll come soon. You see, he travels so much, and my letter probably arrived while he was away.”
Rucking back his plain black wool coat, Jericho braced his hands on his narrow hips. He stared down at the dust that had drifted onto the toes of his tall black boots and then turned to face her, not quite meeting her eyes. “I would take it kindly, Miss Young, if you was to hear me out before you give me your answer.”
Miss Young? Only last night it had been Sara.
Again he cleared his throat. “A few miles southwest of New Lebanon, there’s a farm that’s been in my family for a number of generations. It was prosperous once and could be again with the proper hand at the helm. I’ve set things in motion—that is, I recently hired on an overseer—a manager, you might say. There’s him and the family he’ll be bringing—a wife and a sister, if I recollect rightly—and the housekeeper, not to mention half a dozen or so new hands that have been hired on by now, I reckon. The thing is, I’ll not be going back.”
Jericho pondered over whether or not to tell her about the duel he was to fight and the very real possibility that he might not survive it.
He decided against mentioning it. Womanlike, she would probably try to talk him out of it, and there were some things a man had to do because they were the right thing to do.
“You’ll be going back to sea?” she ventured, and he took her lead and allowed her to think what she would.
“Wilde Oaks needs a mistress. My sister—”
“I should think it needs a master, even more.”
Ignoring that, he said, “My sister passed away recently. My folks died just over a year ago. There’s no one left, so you see, you’d be doing me a real favor if you was to consider my proposition.”
He shot her a quick glance, then stared down at his boots again, waiting.
Sara waited, too. And then she said, “Well. I reckon I might consider it, only you haven’t yet said what it was.”
If a man whose skin was tanned from years of exposure to the elements could be said to blush, Jericho did. “Marry me,” he said.
Sara’s jaw fell. That he should ask her that which all morning, ever since he had left her bed last night, she had been thinking about—
“It’d be to your advantage, Sara. You’d have a place to take those two old servants you set such store by.”
“But what about—”
She meant to say, what about love, but it suddenly struck her that she had been planning all along to many Archibald and she certainly didn’t love him. Never had. Probably never would.
But this was different. She wanted far more from Jericho Wilde than she had ever wanted from Archibald, only she wasn’t certain just what he was offering her.
“I’d not ask more of you than that, Sara. To look after my home. In return, I’m offering you a roof over your head and the protection of my name.”
Well. That certainly spelled it out good and proper. Sara still wasn’t sure what it was she had wanted, but whatever it was, it was certainly more than he was offering. Bristling with pride, she tipped back her head and looked him square in the eye. “No thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you, I’m sure, but Mr. Ricketts has already offered me the same.” Which was not precisely true, but she had to believe that he would.
“Sara, last night—”
“It was merely an unfortunate mistake.” He would have to bring that up.
“The talk—your reputation, I mean . . .”
“My reputation will survive. I’m sure Mr. Ricketts will be reasonable once I explain what happened.”
Jericho’s dark eyes gleamed with something that looked almost like amusement. “All of it, Sara? How are you going to explain what happened between us in that bed?”
It was Sara’s turn to flush, and flush she did. “I’ll simply lay out the facts. I don’t have to embroider them with all the details.” She wasn’t even sure she could, for she didn’t understand much of what had happened, herself. “And while I thank you kindly for the honor you do me, sir, I believe just wait for Archibald.” Face burning, she lifted her skirts above the tops of her cracked patent leather high-tops and made her way back to the hotel. With every step, she could feel Jericho’s eyes burning a spot right between her shoulder blades.
Let him look. The handsome devil might have been able to distract her momentarily, but she herself had chosen this path and she was obliged to follow it. It was the only sensible thing to do.
The trouble was, sensible no longer felt quite so . . . sensible.
*
Sara spent the remainder of the day in her room, ignoring knocks on her door, raps on her window and the raging headache she had developed, a result of the perpetual peat smoke, no doubt. It was getting so a body couldn’t walk outdoors without coming in all covered with fly ash.
The Jones sisters came by twice, calling through the paneled door to inquire if she was all right. She assured them both times that she was just fine, thank you very much, only suffering from a slight headache.
“All that excitement last ni—” one of the sisters began, when her sister loudly shushed her and offered solicitously to bathe Sara’s brow with lavender water.
Sara had to smile. She could imagine those two sharp noses twitching to sniff out every last detail of what had gone on before and after the grand spectacle.
And then Jericho came by to call through her door. When she ignored him, he went outside, rapped twice on her window and then raised the sash and poked his head inside.
“You set one foot inside this room, Jericho Wilde, and I’ll crown you with the washbowl.” The fact that she wanted nothing more than to fly into his arms and forget all about the Jones sisters and Titus and her obligation to Archibald made her angry, and she retaliated by glaring at him.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” he said plaintively. “I never meant to insult you, you know. Sara, are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fit as a fiddle. I wish you would just leave me alone and go about your own business—that is if you even have any business.”
Jericho winced, but doggedly stuck to his guns. “I just thought you might want to know that the evening stage just got in, and unless your young man is about four foot tall and wearing drop-seat breeches, he’s not among the passengers. There were two ladies, and I use the term loosely, one cleric who looks suspiciously like that pair of flap jaws that’s been haunting this place these past few days, and an old codger—” Jericho had spent the afternoon watching all the new arrivals, by land or water. He had it in mind to tackle the first young, good-looking fellow he saw and bribe him to move on.
Just then Sara threw a pillow at his head. With a look of mystification, Jericho ducked, closed her window, and went back to stand watch. The evening stage was due in most any time.
He watched the passengers alight. One old woman with a chicken in a basket. One half-grown girl, evidently the old woman’s granddaughter. And one old man in a sweat-stained hat, a dusty coat and a pair of loose-fitting homespun breeches. No sign of a lusty young buck.
Jericho tried to be concerned for Sara’s sake, but he couldn’t repress a satisfied grin. The last stage left the yard, the last packet boat was long gone. Which meant he had tonight to plead his case.
The thought that Smithers, too, was due in before morning never even occurred to him, which was a sign of just how distracted a man could get when he was thrown off course by a pretty woman.
*
Sara saw her intended from the window of her room. Taking time only to smooth her hair, she hurried into the lobby and shoved her way past the hoard that was headed for the dining room. “Archibald, over here,” she called out.
“Sara?” Clutching his hat in his hands, he glanced over his shoulder as if expecting someone else. “Sara. My dear, how pretty you look. Blessed land, that’s the roughest ride I’ve had, in many a day.” By now they were standing in the middle of the lobby. “My old mare went lame on me, so I come in on the stage. Have you had supper yet?”
They dined together at a table for two. Sara was uncomfortably conscious of the stares and whispers directed their way. She tugged at the high collar of her brown wool and tried to ignore the gleam of oil that had oozed down into the creases of his neck from his sparse crop of graying hair.
Should she tell him about what had happened? Would he understand? If she didn’t tell him, he was sure to hear it from someone else.
“I’d just as lief get on with it,” Archibald said, smacking his lips over the stringy roast pork.
“Get on with it? Oh . . . you mean the wedding.”
Of course he means the wedding, you nitwit! What did you think he meant? Dessert?
“I suppose tomorrow would be as good as any day,” Sara ventured, although she felt strangely reluctant. If she had more time to think, though, she might lose her nerve altogether.
“I already bespoke us a joiner. He’ll be here directly.” The peddler sawed off another big bite of pork and shoved it in his mouth. His teeth were the color of rutabagas. Sara had never noticed it before.
“Do you have someone to stand up with you?” She was grasping for excuses to delay the ceremony, even though logic told her that the sooner they were wed and on their way to Portsmouth, the safer she would be.
And the sooner she could send for Maulsie and Big Simon.
Be sensible, Sara! This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
And then, as if she weren’t confused enough, Jericho chose that moment to show up. He bowed to her—actually bowed!—tipped his hat to Archibald, then swung a chair over from the next table and straddled it, without even a by-your-leave.
“I take it you’re Sara’s young man?” He dared the old coot to say he was anyone’s young man. He’d been first disbelieving, and then mad as hell when he’d heard her call his name and watched her lead him into the dining room. This old relic was Archibald Ricketts? This was her young man?
She might not be willing to marry a chance-met stranger who didn’t know the first thing about sweet-talking a respectable lady, but he’d be damned if he was going to allow her to waste herself on a snuff-dipping, greasy-haired old sod who picked his teeth at the table—with a dirty fingernail!
Archibald looked as if he had swallowed his chunk of pork the wrong way. “Ricketts,” he said when he was able to speak. “And who might you be, sir?”
Looking as if she wanted nothing so much as to kick him under the table, Sara did her best to smooth things over. “This is Captain Jericho Wilde. He, um—that is, Captain Wilde has been keeping me compa—that is, he’s seen to my comfort while I’ve been waiting. For you, I mean. With the rougher element drinking and carousing till all hours, a lady can’t be too careful.”
“What Miss Young is trying to say, Ricketts, is that any lady left unattended in a place like this needs protection.” The words were not precisely an accusation, but they weren’t far off.
Archibald sawed off another chunk of meat. Sara glared across the table at Jericho. Jericho met her glare with a self-satisfied smirk.
Or at least she told herself it was a smirk. Truth be known, he was the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on, and he probably couldn’t have smirked if his life depended on it.
After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Archibald recovered his manners enough to invite him to the wedding. “Won’t be much of an affair, y’understand,” he said diffidently. “Me’n Sara an’ the joiner. Don’t take no more’n that, not in these parts.”
“Is this what you want, Sara?” Jericho’s face gave away nothing.
Sara looked from one man to the other. She felt like weeping. What was Jericho offering her? Would it be enough? With Archibald, she knew what she was getting, knew she would never want more from him then he could give her.
Jericho took her silence for an affirmation. With a parody of a smile that never reached his eyes, he said jovially, “Then I don’t see why we can’t manage a small celebration. It’s not every day a young lady gets herself married, is it, Sara? I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t arrange a suitable wedding celebration.”
“Now that’s right kindly of you,” Archibald allowed. He belched discreetly behind a liver-spotted hand.
Sara wanted to tell Jericho what he could do with his celebration, but good manners prevailed. For all she had instinctively trusted him from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him, he had a wicked look about him right now that was making her distinctly uneasy.
Or maybe it was the pork.
*
It was widely known in that area of the Dismal Swamp that marriage was reckoned to be a lay contract in Carolina, and thus could be performed by a justice of the peace as well as a minister.
Sara, dressed in her yellow, with the brand-new pair of matching slippers she had been saving for special, wondered if the man who stood before them, swaying ever so slightly, his hands trembling as he read the few lines that made her Mrs. Archibald Ricketts, was a preacher or not. No one ever said for certain, and it didn’t seem courteous to ask. He clutched a small black book in his hands, but it could just as well be one of Mr. Poe’s detective stories.
“Now p’nouce man ‘n’ wife, ‘cordin’ t’th’ mumble, mumble, mumble,” the man gabbled, and then he lit out as if his coattails were on fire. Sara tried to convince herself it was merely because he had a busy schedule.
It was Jericho who first kissed the bride. Sara was so befuddled she wouldn’t have noticed if the desk clerk had bussed her on the mouth, but Jericho she noticed. If he was trying to impress on her what she was giving up by marrying Archibald, he needn’t have bothered. She knew. To her everlasting sorrow, she suspected she had just made the single most devastating mistake of her life.
He kissed her cheek. Then he stood back, still holding her by the shoulders, and looked searchingly into her eyes. “Be happy, Sara,” he murmured, then leaned forward and kissed her again, this time on the mouth, so tenderly she felt like weeping.
Archibald had headed, directly after the deed was done, for the refreshment table Jericho had arranged to have set up in the lobby. There was already a crowd there, comprised mostly of the riffraff that frequented the taproom, with the two drummers and the two women who had come in on the evening stage.
And there in the middle of the table, amid the ham biscuits, the sweet potato biscuits, the salt herring, and the boiled potatoes, was a bouquet of goldenrod, swamp magnolia and marsh pinks.
Sara looked up at Jericho, her eyes brimming, and whispered her thanks, for she had no doubt he was the one responsible. He had been waiting just outside her door when she emerged a little while ago dressed in her wedding finery, such as it was. He had handed her a small bouquet of the same.
“Good luck, Sara,” he’d said quietly, and she’d simply nodded. She would need it. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Again she nodded. It had to be. She had thought out her plan very carefully, and this was the sensible thing to do. She knew Archibald. Had known him for years. She didn’t know Jericho—not really. She didn’t know how he could make her feel the way he made her feel, nor why, with a simple question, he could make her want to weep at her own wedding. It didn’t make sense.
Maybe it was because her new yellow slippers were too tight.
