Heart of the Storm (Harlequin Historical) Read online

  A clock on the mantel ticked. Her wedding day had been only a year ago, it was but a vague memory now. The yards of silk, the vases of flowers and the elegant meal had faded to the shadows—almost as if it had never happened. Almost.

  The clock on the mantel chimed twelve times. She’d finished the collar and with the extra thread made two cuffs. Together with the collar, she draped them over a chair for safekeeping. Ben usually came home for dinner before his shift, but not tonight.

  Rachel picked up her lantern and moved into the kitchen. She knelt in front of the stove, opened the small door at the bottom and shoved in pieces of kindling. The red embers sparked and popped. Satisfied, she closed the door and rose. She pulled the kettle onto the front burner.

  She moved into the pantry and found the ham she’d seen earlier. With a large kitchen blade, she took the ham to the table. The knife felt unwieldy and awkward in her hand. She hacked away a small, uneven piece.

  Rachel dug the knife in deeper as footsteps sounded on the back porch. Startled, the blade slipped through the meat quickly and cut directly into her hand.

  She dropped the knife and looked at her hand. Blood oozed from her index finger.

  Ben strode into the room as she turned and headed to the sink to wipe the cut off. “What are you still doing up?” he said, moving toward her.

  She felt foolish for cutting herself. “I was hungry and wanted a snack.” She reached for the pitcher of water.

  “Have you cut yourself?” he said.

  Holding the full water pitcher with one hand while keeping her bleeding finger over the sink was awkward. “Yes. A stupid accident.” She curled her injured hand into a fist, as if to hide her blunder.

  He approached her with the lantern. He took her injured hand in his and inspected the wound. The cold night air still clung to him and he smelled of fresh air and the barest hint of oil.

  His hands were rough, deeply callused, as he uncurled her fingers. “I just sharpened that blade a few days ago. You’re lucky you didn’t cut your finger off.”

  “Who’d have thought a simple task would turn into such trouble? Agnes always made it look so easy when she carved.”

  He reached for the pitcher and poured the cool water over the cut. “Agnes?”

  She hissed in a breath. “Our cook.”

  “Our?” he said, never lifting his gaze from her hand.

  Rachel shifted and tried to pull her hand free. “My father had a cook.” Another half-truth. Another lie by omission.

  Ben held tight. “You’ve never talked about your father.”

  “He died more than a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He reached for a dry dishcloth and wrapped it around her hand. He covered her injured hand with his. His touch sent heat leaping through her. “You won’t need a stitch. Just keep this wrapped around your hand tonight and it should seal itself.”

  Lantern light flickered on his face. “Thank you.”

  His dark gaze bore into her. “So you’ve been on your own this past year?”

  “No.” She pulled away from him, reasoning somehow if he couldn’t see her face he wouldn’t see the truth she so desperately wanted to forget. She tensed, ready for more questions, but they never came.

  Drying his hands, he moved to the kitchen table and picked up the knife. “You’re hungry?”

  “Yes,” she said, grateful.

  He sliced the knife into the meat with ease. Soon four thick pieces lay stacked on the cutting board. “Then sit and I’ll make us plates.”

  She sat. “You’re always feeding me.”

  He shrugged. “You’re still too thin.” He laid a plate of sliced ham on the table.

  “How was your shift tonight?”

  “Not busy. No sign of ships.”

  “That’s good.”

  He moved to the cupboard and pulled down two mugs. He touched the side of the kettle to test the heat. “The water’s not quite ready.”

  “I only just moved it onto the heat.”

  He put bread on the table. “What were you doing up so late tonight?”

  This quiet moment seemed so normal. “I was making a lace collar and cuffs for Callie’s wedding dress.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Seems Sara had tried to make a collar but Callie wasn’t pleased.”

  He grunted. “Callie can be a bit choosy at times.”

  Rachel shrugged. “It’s good for a girl to know what she wants. I certainly didn’t at her age.” She hesitated. “Callie invited me to her wedding.”

  Ben nodded. “I’d meant to ask you but with all the work today I forgot.”

  It piqued her pride that he’d forgotten her today. She doubted he worried over social niceties too much. “I see.”

  “I will need to work in the morning before the service.” Lantern light flickered on his stoic face. “But I’d be pleased to meet you at the church. We can sit together.”

  His simple invitation had her blushing. “Yes.”

  Ben smiled. “Then it’s a date.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Warm days in March were rare this close to the water. Add to the fact that the children were home and there was a wedding today, it made sense that the village buzzed with excitement.

  Rachel, with the lace cuffs and collar wrapped in a clean cloth, walked down the center street toward the church, a small, white, rectangular building with a simple cross atop a spire. Fiddle music mingled with the sound of laughter.

  A crowd of villagers gathered by the front door of the church. The women reminisced about their wedding days. The men talked of younger days when their lives were simpler and full of possibilities.

  Rachel sidestepped the crowds by the front door of the church and went directly to the back. She climbed the three small steps and entered through a door that led to a small room behind the altar. There she found Callie and Ida.

  The room was simple, furnished only with two chairs and a small table pushed against the wall. A wooden cross hung on the wall. On the table lay a bouquet of wild flowers tied together with a yellow ribbon.

  Ida wore a light blue wool dress. She’d brushed her silver-gray hair up and pinned it under a smart derby-style hat. She’d fastened a sprig of sea oats tied with a white ribbon on her right shoulder.

  Callie wore a pale yellow dress. Her auburn hair hung down and atop her head sat a ring of flowers. Flushed cheeks accentuated eyes bright with nervous excitement.

  “You’ve made it,” Callie said.

  “I was starting to worry,” Ida said.

  “I slept a bit late this morning,” Rachel said. After she’d made her date with Ben last night, she’d been in knots. Unreasonably excited, she’d tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

  “Do you have the collar?” Callie said.

  “And cuffs to match.” Rachel unfolded the fabric and held the up for Callie.

  The young woman rushed toward her. Tears filled her eyes as she reverently studied the intricate work. “Oh, my, they are stunning.”

  Ida studied Rachel’s handiwork. “You are an artist, Rachel.”

  Pride swelled in her. “I wanted it to be just right.”

  “I’ve never seen lace more fine. You must have been up half the night.”

  All night, thanks to Ben. “Let me stitch it to your dress.”

  Ida pulled a small ladder-backed chair from the wall and set it in the middle of the tiny room. Callie sat and held up her hair.

  “This is so kind of you,” Callie said.

  “Aye,” Ida agreed. “The lace will make the day all the more special.”

  Rachel laid the lace over the collar. She pulled a small needle and thread that she’d pinned earlier to the cloth. “It fits perfectly.”

  Callie nodded. “This whole day is perfect.”

  “I saw Timothy,” Ida said. “He looks fine in his dark coat.”

  Callie’s eyes beamed. “He is a handsome man.”

  “Did Ben
come with you?”

  “He’ll be here soon. There were a few last-minute details to attend to at the lighthouse.”

  Ida nodded knowing. “There always are. But knowing my Ben, he’ll be here.”

  “He’s giving me away,” Callie said, her voice full of excitement.

  Rachel began to stitch the lace to the collar. This is how a bride-to-be should look and feel on her wedding day—excited and radiant. The day she’d been married, she’d been alone as she’d waited in the small room off the sanctuary. She’d held her bouquet of white roses, longing for her mother and wondering when the day would come when she’d look at her husband and feel love. The day had never come.

  Organ music in the church began. The rich notes filled the building. Rachel’s throat tightened with emotion.

  Ida squeezed her niece’s hand. “This is it. Ben should be waiting for you at the back of the church.”

  Rachel handed Callie her bouquet. She arranged ribbon streamers so that they cascaded neatly. “You look lovely.”

  Ida eyes widened. “Have you got everything you should have? Something old?”

  Callie touched a small crucifix hanging around her neck. “My necklace from Grandmother Betty.”

  “Something borrowed and something blue?”

  Callie produced a blue handkerchief from her cousin. “It’s borrowed and blue.”

  “And something new?”

  The young bride-to-be touched her collar. “The lace.”

  There’d never been anyone to ask these questions of Rachel. “You are ready to go.”

  “I am,” Callie said with a confidence borne of love.

  The next half hour sped by. Rachel took the place next to Ida. The tall windows flanking each side of the long narrow room were adorned with sprigs of sea oats and candles. On a table behind the altar, wildflowers filled a silver vase. The church was simple, some from her old life would say primitive, yet she’d never seen anything more beautiful.

  The organist stopped. Timothy came out the side door with his brother and stood at the front of the church with the minister. The minister nodded to the organist and she started to play louder.

  Rachel turned with everyone else and saw Callie and Ben standing at the back of the church. Callie stared up at him, adoration in her eyes. She looked stunning.

  Ben wore dark blue pants and a double-breasted jacket with brass buttons. He’d shaven and brushed back his hair, which curled just above the collar of his black turtleneck. Rachel’s heart tripped. She’d never seen a more handsome man.

  A wave of ahs swept across the room as Ben placed Callie’s arm on his and walked her down the isle. Timothy, standing tall, grinned with pride as his young bride moved up the aisle. Ben placed Callie’s hand in Timothy’s and stepped back. He sat next to Rachel on the pew.

  His shoulder brushed hers as he scooted closer. He looked down at her and winked. She nearly melted into the seat.

  Rachel dragged her gaze from his to Callie and Timothy.

  The young couple held hands and faced each other as the other couple repeated their vows. “Do you Timothy take Callie to be your wedded wife?” The minister’s voice echoed in the small church.

  “I do.” Timothy’s answer was strong.

  “Callie, do you take Timothy to be your lawful husband?”

  Callie beamed. “I sure do!”

  Everyone laughed. The young girl exuded so much joy and excitement.

  When the minister pronounced them married, Ben reached down and squeezed Rachel’s hand.

  She looked up into his smiling eyes. Instead of happiness, an overwhelming loneliness overtook her. She could never stand before a minister and pledge her life to Ben.

  And the thought broke her heart.

  The reception was held in a large boathouse at the end of town. The dories in for repair had been moved out, and sawhorses and wood planks had been set up and covered with an assortment of table clothes. An assortment of hams, vegetables, freshly backed pies, breads and cakes filled the table.

  Women milled around the food table happily swapping gossip and stories of recent births. The men had tapped a keg of whiskey next to a fiddle player who’d struck up a tune. Rachel spotted Johnny chasing Emma and Ruth with a worm.

  As she peered into the building, Rachel saw that Ben stood in a receiving line with Ida, Timothy and Callie. He glanced up at her and winked. Her heart melted.

  She’d dearly have loved to spend time with him but it was clear he’d not be free of well-wishers for a while.

  On her own, she felt awkward. She saw Mrs. Freely, Harter and Winters taking in a corner by the fiddle players. Mrs. Harter glanced up, saw Rachel, but made no move to welcome her. She turned her back as if she’d not seen her.

  Drawing in a breath, Rachel moved into the crowed room and stood next to the table. She traced circles with her finger on the tablecloth as the smells, the music, the laughter swirled around her head.

  She caught the eye of several women. She smiled. The women looked away. The men openly watched her, but none approached.

  Rachel hugged her shawl around her. She was very aware that she was an outsider.

  Drawing in a breath, Rachel walked up to a woman standing alone next to a half-eaten carrot cake on the table.

  Rachel made herself smile. “The cake looks lovely.”

  The woman, not much older than she, looked up with brown eyes filled with concern. “Do you think so? It’s half eaten. My brothers ate half while I was doing the wash yesterday. I was so mad, but I had no time to bake another.”

  “It looks so delicious. I bet no one will worry how many slices have been cut once they taste it.”

  The woman smiled. “Do you think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “My name is Hanna Winters. And you are Rachel.”

  Rachel accepted Hanna’s hand. Calluses rubbed against her smooth palm. “Everyone knows me.”

  “Not often Ben fishes a woman from the sea.”

  “Hopefully, I won’t need to be fished out again. Once was quite enough.”

  Hanna laughed. “Ah, the water is lovely to look at but we’ve all a healthy respect for it. Everyone here has lost someone to the sea.”

  “Have you lost any one?” The question was out before Rachel realized it. “I’m sorry, that’s a rude question.”

  Hanna shrugged. “Not rude at all.” She hesitated. “I lost my husband last year in a gale. It tipped his fishing boat and he drowned.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve managed. My mother-in-law has not fared so well.”

  Rachel pictured the somber woman with the stern, lined face. “I’ve met Sylvia Winters.”

  Her heart went out to Mrs. Winters. The pain of losing a child, even one fully grown, must be devastating.

  Before she could think what to say, the fiddle music started up. Hanna, seeming to shake off her melancholy, started clapping in tune with the music.

  Soon men and women started pairing up and moving to the center of the room. Women lined up on one side, the men the other and soon all were dancing a Virginia reel.

  Rachel started to tap her foot and soon she was clapping in time with the music.

  “Sloan plays the best fiddle in five counties.”

  Rachel watched the man pick at the strings as he sat on a crate. With a pint of ale at his feet, he laughed as several people around him started to sing.

  Their good humor was infectious. Rachel clapped her hands in time with the music.

  Two young men walked up to Hanna asked for a dance. One was as tall as a bean pole the other short and muscular.

  The shorter one smiled at Hanna. “Like to take a spin?”

  Hanna beamed. “I’d love to, Fred.” She accepted his hand.

  Fred drew Hanna close. “Maybe your friend would like to dance with Steve.”

  Hanna absently leaned into Fred. “Rachel? What do you say?”

  Panic hit Rachel. She glanced up at Steve. At least two dec
ades older, his full cheeks suggested he’d never missed a meal and his small back eyes reminded her of coat.

  He held out his hand. “Ma’am?”

  What could a dance hurt? Certainly, Ben wouldn’t mind. Besides, Rachel as doing what she’d wanted to do for months. She was living.

  Rachel took his hand. It was cold, damp with sweat. Steve guided her out to the floor they each stood in a line facing each other. Before she realized it, he’d spun her around. She fell into the steps easily.

  The line shifted and she faced another man. This gentleman looked to be in his seventies, but he had a spry step.

  Soon she was laughing, easily shifting down the row to another new partner. Time sped by.

  She looked up and spotted Ben across the room. He was dancing with a buxom woman with red curls. She had a loud boisterous laugh and she clearly liked dancing with Ben. Several times she leaned forward, touching her breasts to his chest, to whisper something in Ben’s ear.

  Rachel missed a step. Suddenly, she didn’t feel like dancing.

  To her surprise, she was jealous.

  Rachel was having her third cup of punch, which was very good indeed—so fruity. The sun had set and the air cooled, but she felt excessively warm and a bit lightheaded.

  She’d lost sight of Ben and the big-breasted redhead more than an hour ago, and she found herself feeling a bit put out. It wasn’t any of her business who he spent his time with. He’d made no promises to her and she certainly couldn’t make any. But that didn’t cool the jealousy humming in her veins.

  “So you’ve finally stopped dancing.” Ben’s deep voice sounded just behind her.

  Pride had her turning slowly. His shoulders back, his well-worn boots ate the distance between them.

  The noise around her faded. A potent, heavy desire hummed in her veins. His gaze bore into her. Heat rose in her cheeks.

  Two children ran in front of Ben, forcing him to halt his advance. He stopped, tall, proud, smiling ruefully as they ran past him.