from the bedroom.
“You shouldn’t be up,” she scolded. He had upended a broom and was using it as a crutch.
“I’ll be dancing a fandango before you know it.”
“Fandango, indeed. You’re a scamp, Emmet Meeks, do you know that?”
His eyes, clouded though they were, had a decided twinkle. “Been called it a time or two. I reckon we’d best see to clearing out the back room. After Sal died I shoved everything inside and shut the door. There’s a bed under there somewhere. I built it. Didn’t do as good a job as James Calvin would’ve done, but I reckon it’ll hold a small woman.”
“Emmet, are you sure? I don’t want to—hurt your feelings.”
“Go to it, gal. Can’t have you sleeping on the floor.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Dora assured him. Although as long as she was going to live here, she would really prefer an arrangement that would afford her a bit more privacy, not to mention comfort.
After a leisurely breakfast of scorched sausage, overcooked eggs and embarrassed apologies, she helped Emmet out onto the front porch where he could watch the goings-on at the landing, arranging a stool for his ankle. The swelling had gone down, but he was still unable to pull on his boot.
Washing dishes involved bringing in water from the rain barrel, heating it on the woodstove, pouring it over a chunk of brown soap and scrubbing until the plates came clean, then heating more water to rinse them and drying them with a towel made of a flour sack.
In the process she managed to burn her fingers, drop a cup, which was thankfully thick enough that it didn’t break—and splash water all over her bodice.
“Well, that’s done,” she announced proudly, joining her employer on the front porch just as the redheaded warehouseman passed by.
“Morning, Clarence,” Emmet called out.
“Morning, Emmet. Miz Sutton.” It was the same man she’d seen yesterday when she’d stumbled off the boat. Evidently word had spread, as he obviously knew who she was. If he was surprised to see her still here, he hid it well. “Looks like rain tomorrow,” he declared.
Salty, Emmet’s yellow dog, who appeared to be a mixture of retriever and shepherd, yapped once and then curled back into her spot of sun on the corner of the porch.
“On his way up to fetch Grey’s ledger, I reckon,” Emmet said when the man walked on by. “With the way business is picking up, it don’t pay to let things slide.” Emmet’s rheumy gaze followed the lanky young man walking along the shell-paved road to Castle St. Bride, as Dora had come to think of it.
“Mercy, it’s warm.” She discreetly plucked her damp petticoat away from her body, wishing she had more than a single change. So far, she’d learned to wash drawers, stockings and dishes. Her education was progressing by leaps and bounds, but with every leap forward, she was aware of many more shortcomings.
Really, she thought, something should be done about women’s education. What good was knowing the proper seating at a dinner party for twenty-four when one could barely manage a simple meal for two?
Emmet eased into a more comfortable position. “If Grey had in mind to marry you to one of his key men, there’s Clarence, or James Calvin or Almy. You got any particular leanings?”
“If you mean do I favor any particular man, I’ve spoken only briefly to Clarence. I’ve never even met the others.”
Dora, who had already decided that she would far rather stay on as a companion than marry any man, asked, “What would have happened if I’d been accepted, but then my prospective bridegroom and I hadn’t suited?” Now that marriage was no longer a possibility, she could allow herself to wonder.
“I reckon you’d have suited any man with eyes in his head. St. Bride must’ve figured you wouldn’t thrive in a place like this. One thing I’ll say for the boy—when he makes a mistake, he’s not too proud to admit it. He’s hard, but he’s not heartless.”
The boy. Grey St. Bride had to be at least thirty years old, but then, coastal men, like farmers, tended to age earlier than men like Henry and her father. Although one would never have known it from his soft white hands, Tranquil Sutton had come from a long line of Beaufort County farmers. Sutton Hall had once been centered in more than two thousand acres of rich, productive farmland before it had been sold off, a few hundred acres at the time, to enable her father to go into what he called “investments.”
As it turned out, he’d have done better to lease out his land and live on the proceeds.
“You’re going to need a pair of real shoes. Pity Sal’s things won’t fit you. She was a sturdy woman.” He fell silent, and Dora completed the thought. But evidently not sturdy enough.
Looks could be deceiving. “I left my trunk in storage over on the mainland.” While it wasn’t a hint that he might offer to send for it, she could hardly stay on with only two dresses and a single change of undergarments.
“I’ll have Clarence send for it when he comes down the ridge again.”
“How much do you suppose it would cost to ship it out?”
“Cap’n Dozier’ll see to it. He brings out supplies two, three times a week.”
Grateful but embarrassed at having to accept charity, Dora reached down and scratched the ears of the dog sleeping beside her chair. Things were moving almost too quickly. Having her trunk shipped out—moving into Emmet’s house…There was still one big obstacle to be faced before she felt truly secure.
St. Bride.
“Well. I suppose I should—should go and find something useful to do.” Rising, she turned to go inside.
“Easy, girl, you’ll come about just fine.”
Dora was proud of each small accomplishment. Better yet, Emmet seemed just as pleased. Using her eyes and hands along with Emmet’s encouragement and Sal’s recipe book, she cooked another meal. After fanning the smoke out the window, they dined on underdone biscuits, scorched bacon and what was supposed to have been sauce made from dried apples, but ended up a tasteless, lumpy mush.
Emmet praised it all and Dora swelled with pride. If she could do this much now, she could do even better with enough practice. She wasn’t stupid, after all—only inexperienced.
The next day she accomplished two things. First she mastered the art of cooking beans, then she worked up her courage to slide a hand under Emmet’s hens and remove the eggs.
Unfortunately, the gander chose that morning to escape from his pen, which was separated from the chicken’s side only by a length of fishnet. The wretched bird chased her back to the porch, hissing and clacking his beak. She ended up throwing six of the seven eggs she’d collected at the vicious creature.
Emmet had laughed until she almost felt like throwing the last egg at him, but then, she’d had to laugh, herself.
After that had come the crucial test. Fish. “Filleted and fried?” she asked dubiously, thinking of the heavy cast-iron frying pan and the hot bacon drippings their old cook had always used, and the way the grease had always spattered. Could she do it without burning down the house?
“If you don’t mind, I believe I’d as soon have it stewed.” Evidently Emmet picked up on her uncertainty.
“Then stewed it is,” she said, covering her relief. “Sal says potatoes, onions, corn dumplings and salt pork.” She had read the book from cover to cover, trying to absorb in a matter of days the lessons of a lifetime.
“And fish,” Emmet said dryly, and they both laughed again.
That was something they did frequently. Laugh together. For the life of her, Dora couldn’t imagine why, because nothing either of them said was particularly funny. The best she could come up with was that they were