clearly without turning around. “As you said, there are no shops here, no tearoom—why on earth would I even want to stay?”
“But Mrs. Sutton—”
She kept on walking as fast as she could, hoping to be well out of range when the dam broke. As it would. She was just too tired, too empty—too totally without hope, to hold back much longer.
The church. If she could just make it as far as the church…
But before she even reached the church, someone called out in a wavering, pain-filled voice. “Miss? Could I bother you for a hand up?”
Blinking away the moisture, she glanced over the neat picket fence and saw that the man who’d been standing on a ladder when she’d passed by the first time was now lying on the ground.
Without a second thought, she swung open the gate and hurried to his side. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
Obviously he was hurt. “My ankle,” he said with an apologetic look. “It’s not as young as I thought it was.”
It took her a moment to realize he was attempting a joke. In spite of her own situation, she was touched. “Let me help you sit up, and then we’ll see what needs to be done.”
He was not a large man. Pain clouded his eyes, but he managed a smile that cut through her defenses. Her own tears would have to wait.
Obviously embarrassed at having to ask for help, he attempted to lean forward to unlace his boots. With a soft, impatient murmur, Dora brushed his hands away and carefully removed his boot.
“Oh, dear.”
“Would you mind fetching St. Bride before he gets away? If he’ll help me into the house, I’ll be fine in no time at all.”
“It could be broken,” she said.
Fetch St. Bride? She’d sooner fetch the devil himself.
“Wrenched it good, that’s all. I’ve broke enough bones to know the difference.” His weathered face had paled noticeably. Dora could only hope he was right. Hadn’t the dragon king mentioned that there was no doctor on the island?
“If you’ll lean on me, I can help you inside. My father sprained his ankle once. They had to cut his boot off, it swelled so quickly.”
The injured man twisted around, peering hopefully at the house on the ridge of dunes while Dora looked for something to help her get him inside. A crutch, or even a walking stick would be perfect, but she was going to have to improvise. Scanning the tidy yard, she looked past the fallen ladder, past a sagging net pen holding a goose and several chickens to a handcart filled with gardening tools and a small wooden crate. Perhaps she could wheel him up to his porch and…
Perhaps not. It would have to be the crate. Dragging it closer, she managed to get him up off the ground and seated. Sweat beaded his furrowed face, but he thanked her as politely as if she’d offered him milk and sugar for his tea.
“As soon as you catch your breath, we’ll take the next step,” she said firmly. She might not measure up to his lordship’s lofty standards, but at least this much she could do before she left. “There now, if you’ll just take my hands…”
He was only a few inches taller than she was, and frail for a man who looked as if he might once have been far more robust. The steps up onto the porch were a problem, but patiently, she supported him until, hobbling beside her, he managed to get inside.
“There now, if you’ll just steer me to the settee I’ll rest a spell until the swelling goes down. I thank you kindly, that I do.”
“Who lives here with you?” Surely he had someone to look after him. The almighty St. Bride would have seen to that.
“Buried my wife two years ago, out by the fig trees. I’ve managed on my own since then. Can’t say I’m not glad you come along when you did, though. If that old gander of Sal’s was to get out again, we’d have had us a real set-to, with me down on his level.”
Hating her feelings of inadequacy, Dora located a towel, dipped it in a basin of cold water and applied it to his swollen ankle. In other circumstances she might have been embarrassed at such an intimacy, but the man was obviously in pain. She could hardly leave him here alone.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go. The boat that had brought her to the island would probably be returning to Bath as soon as it finished its business here. She could hardly go back there.
“I have a few minutes before I have to leave. What else can I do to make you comfortable before I leave?” she asked brightly.
He appeared to consider the offer. And then he said, “You’re one of St. Bride’s women, aren’t you?”
One of St. Bride’s women? How many did the man have, for heaven’s sake?
“You know about that? About the advertisement?” Fighting to keep despair from her voice, Dora managed to smile.
Ignoring her question, Emmet Meeks said, “’Pears to me we could both use a cup of strong tea, missy.”
“Dora,” she murmured. “Dora Sutton.” She had left Adora behind. The only good thing about being rejected was not having to go on with a lie. Or face the shame of admitting how gullible she’d been to believe Henry when he’d said he loved her. Of allowing him to—
Yes, well…from now on out, she was simply Dora.
“Emmet Meeks,” the man replied, still pale, still obviously in pain, but determined to hide it. It occurred to her that they were two of a kind in that respect. “My wife, rest her soul, swore by tea. Said coffee rotted a man’s bones. Reckon maybe that might be what ails mine?” His smile was more of a grimace, but it occurred to her that he must once have been a handsome man.
It also occurred to her that he was not in the best of health, sprained ankle notwithstanding.
The cottage was scrupulously neat. The walls had been whitewashed, the effect being warm and bright, with a faint pattern of wood grain showing through. There were hand-crocheted rugs on the floors and a basket of onions and withered apples on the kitchen table. Homely touches one would expect of a woman, but hardly of a man.
While Dora filled the kettle, her host told her where to find the teapot. “I can’t stay long,” she reminded him, almost wishing she could. Wishing she could linger in this unlikely sanctuary until she could think of what to do next, where to go. With no money, no family and no friends—with her reputation irredeemably shattered—perhaps she could just stay right here in this warm, friendly room and sip tea forever.
That old woman? Oh, that’s Dora Sutton. Ruined herself over on the mainland, don’t you know. Couldn’t go back, couldn’t go forward, so she just sat there and drank tea until she withered up like a dried plum.
Chapter Two
Once she had brewed a pot of strong tea, which more or less exhausted her culinary talents, Dora looked about for her valise and remembered that she’d left it out in the yard. She would tell someone at the docks—that nice red-haired man, perhaps—about Mr. Meeks’s ankle. Surely he would see to sending someone along to do whatever needed doing.
“So you’re one of Grey’s brides,” Meeks repeated. “Who’re you going to marry?”
Who? Well, no one, it seemed. Dora sat back down and stared at the man reclining on an old-fashioned settee in the tiny parlor. Pride alone kept her from telling him she’d been found wanting. He’d thought she was too pretty? Absurd, she told herself, feeling a rising inner heat that had to be anger. “Well…that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
“My Sal was the first,” Emmet confided wistfully. “Grey ordered her out special for me. Couldn’t have done better if I’d picked her out myself, and that’s the Lord’s truth. St. Bride deeded me