MacGregor's Bride

Chapter One

New London, Connecticut - September 6, 1813

Captain Bruce MacGregor signaled all hands on deck to silence. One misspoken word or creaking timber, and the game would be up. For while the British regularly patrolled the coast, he hadn't figured on meeting up with two British frigates this close to shore. Only a quick correction of course had kept them from being discovered.

Easy, now. Time hung suspended as silently the Angelic Lady eased past the opponent's ships in the thick enveloping fog. Low on ammunition, MacGregor’s ship was in no shape for another skirmish. His men were worn to the bone, and the hull crowded with prisoners they were delivering to Fort Trumbull. Now if only their luck would hold a wee bit longer . . .

Bruce peered through the swirling ether, spying out his final approach. Another four hundred yards in this fog, he judged, and they'd miss the shoals and rocks just east of the river. Aye, 'twas good he knew these waters like the back of his hand. The lighthouse keeper had doused his lamp to confuse British warships lurking offshore.

As they entered the mouth of the river, he paced the rail, watching intently for familiar landmarks on New London's waterfront. Clew down! He signaled his mate to slacken speed.

Easing through the harbor, the Angelic Lady pulled alongside the landing below Fort Trumbull, and thirty-seven prisoners stowed in the hold were brought topside in the dark. After the last of a long line of straggling British marines filed past Colonel Rathbun and his volunteer regiment into the fort, Bruce strode back on board and gave the order to cast off. The gangplank was pulled in, the cables slipped, and the Angelic Lady headed up river to Old Paddy's Wharf, her mainsheets carrying them along with ease.

* * *

While the crew secured the Angelic Lady, Bruce raced down the gangplank to greet his warehouseman and good friend, Robert Harris, on the dock. Harris could be an exasperating devil to deal with, always haggling over price. But a stauncher friend Bruce never had; a steady rock through good times and bad.

Chuckling in anticipation of a lively debate, Bruce thrust his cargo list under Harris's nose. Here, Robbie, take a look! The finest teas, spices, dyes, coffee—

Aye, Bruce, not a bad haul. With nary a glance at the inventory, Harris planted his signature on the sheaf of documents to indicate receipt. I'll get you unloaded first thing tomorrow.

Bruce's jaw dropped. Wait! You haven't even checked my figures or walked through the hold, he protested.

Aw, lad. When have ye ever shorted me? Harris shoved the ledger back at Bruce and started walking back toward the warehouse.

But aren't you the least bit curious? I have the finest walnut furniture. Think of the price we'll get for it, man! he called, appealing to Harris's avarice.

I trust you, Bruce.

Tossing the cargo list to his first mate, Bruce bounded after Harris. Something was radically wrong. Usually Harris gave him a hard time, arguing over every last penny.

"Robbie, 'tis a grand bargain you're gettin.' Why, these English tables, highboys, dressers, desks, chairs and settles— You've ne'er seen finer! All bound for the Virgin Islands aboard the Princess Anne, when we overtook her. Why, that cargo should net close to seventy thousand this voyage!"

Thank God for that. Harris sighed, showing definite signs that he was perking up a little.

Relieved, Bruce clapped his friend on the shoulder. Let me buy you breakfast, Robbie. You can catch me up on all the latest news.

Together they crossed the road to Old Paddy's Tavern. After they ordered, Harris lapsed into morose silence again.

Robbie, what's going on? MacGregor complained cheerfully. I've ne'er had you agree so readily to my terms in all my born days! He inched his chair forward, his knees striking the low table; his legs were too long to fit comfortably, and the best he managed was a sprawl. Well? Out with it, Robbie! Are the wife and kids doin' all right? he asked in his strong Scottish brogue.

Family's fine. It's just I got bad news this marnin'. The ship I owned with Cap'n Masters went down in a squall off the Carolinas. Harris looked inconsolable.

Bruce shook his head. I mighta known. Judgin' by your long puss, you got hit in your pocketbook.

Harris eyed his young friend narrowly. Strong, bronzed by the sun, tall and muscular, Bruce MacGregor's body combined the powerful build of his Scottish father with the olive skin tones and brown eyes of his Portuguese mother. With coloring more Latin than Celtic, his black hair, long and rumpled by the wind, showed the first peppering of grey at his temples, even though he'd not yet seen his twenty-ninth birthday. Six feet six, he was, and a born leader.

His men knew him for a demanding taskmaster, but a fair one. Life being harsh at sea, a man couldn't afford to make mistakes, and Bruce rarely did. His men trusted him implicitly, for he'd brought them through many a fight against British merchantmen and warships.

Aye, Robbie Harris thought, if anyone could understand his predicament, surely Bruce could. 'Tis heartbroken I am, Bruce, he said. "Besides all the lives lost, the Silver Dolphin wasn't insured."

Bruce looked up from his bowl of porridge. My God, man! How'd you slip up?

Looking properly sheepish, Robbie Harris scratched his grizzled chin. Not that he'd admit it, but he'd been trying to save a penny. An oversight, he lied. Big mistake.

How much did you lose?

Twenty-three thousand.

Bruce let out a whistle through his teeth. A tidy sum. How much did Masters lose?

Everything. Of course, where he is, he'll not be worryin' aboot the debt. But his widow now, she'll have to scrape up close to thirty-one thousand to pay her husband's debts.

Steep. Bruce tore into his food, only half listening. I thought Masters was a rich man. How's she taking it? Bruce asked, polishing off his potatoes. The widow, I mean?

Robbie scratched his ear. I haven't told her yet.

That's heartless, man! I can hardly believe it of you.

He caught Bruce's condemning stare and hastened to explain himself. I'll get around to it. Maybe later today. I have pressing business to attend to first.

Business? When a partner goes down at sea? Bruce shoved aside his plate and leaned forward on his elbows. Dammit, man! You've got to tell the woman right away!

Harris tensed, knowing Bruce was still touchy over his wife's death. Nearly two years had passed since that windy December night, when Bruce had returned from a short haul across the Sound to find the drafty house on Montauk burned to the ground, his wife and two daughters trapped upstairs in bed.

I counted on you, of all people, to understand how hard 'tis to break such news, he growled.

Bruce's eyes misted over. Aye, he knew, too well. Losing Angela and the twins had left a deep hole in his life. Friends had done what they could to console him, but in the end, the rigors of his work at sea had helped him push beyond the crushing loneliness. These days the sea was his only mistress. Aye, and a damn cold bed partner she was, too.

I hardly need reminding. Bruce cast a savage look at Harris for bringing up the subject.

Suddenly Harris saw, sitting across from him, the way out of a sticky situation. Aye, he sighed, it breaks me heart to bear sad tidings to a fellow human bein'. Tell you what, Bruce: I'll add a hundred dollars bonus to the price of your goods, if you'll deliver Master's sea chest, which is stored in me warehouse, and kindly break the news to his widow.

Nothing doing, Harris. I've got business of my own to tend. Bruce threw down his napkin and got to his feet.

Have you now, lad?

He nodded. After I stow my gear at Mrs. Rafferty's boarding house, I plan to look in on my land agent and get my house sold. Bruce paid the bill and stuck out his hand in farewell. Take care, Robbie. You know where to find me.

Harris walked him out. Bruce, I'd consider it a great favor, bein' as how you're goin' right past the Masters' house—

Bruce's frown deepened. I'll not be doin' your dirty work, Robert.

Harris eyed him from beneath a shrewdly cocked eyebrow. The Widow Masters lives on Linden Street, right behind Mrs. Rafferty's place. Now, is it askin' too much for you to do an old friend a favor?

I'd rather not. Bruce glanced toward the wharf, avoiding eye contact with Harris. How could he break the woman's heart with such terrible news?

His friend persisted. I'll lend you me carriage, Bruce, he wheedled. Throw Masters' chest in with your own, let 'er know what happened, an' that's all the time it'll take. What do ye say, lad? Seeing Bruce hesitate, he added, I can't get away from here all day.

Bruce gave up with a sigh of exasperation, All right, but you'd better fill me in on the details, so I don't make a complete fool of myself on the woman's doorstep.

* * *

Back and forth the shuttles flew across the warp, like tiny mice running a relay through the myriad crisscrossing threads on her loom. Her hands, never ceasing, tamped each new strand of color in place, creating a tapestry. Then she released the next shuttle, while her feet beat out the seconds on the pedals of her loom. Up and down, back and forth the machine beat out the relentless rhythms of her industry. The work was progressing at a furious pace.

Seconds ticking. Never enough time!

Faster! she urged her tiring arms. Her pattern called for sixteen rows of creamy white, then two strands of cornflower blue linen yarn. Two more repeats of the pattern, and she could tie off the table scarf and proceed to the kitchen to oversee the final minutes of her weekly baking.

Intent on everything going perfectly, and near the end of her task, Lydia Masters bent her head over the delicate work on her loom, searching critically for flaws, real or imagined.

As she did so, a single silken strand of her pale golden hair fell forward and became entwined with the blue yarn as the shuttle shot across to her right hand. The faint tug at her temple signaled trouble, and Lydia, with an impatient thud of her pedals, abruptly halted work.

One long solitary golden hair winked up at her from the warp.

With a sigh of resignation, she set to work to rescue her project from the ragbag. Having no time to spare, she yanked the offending hair from her own fair head and bending low, plied a small wire hook to extract the golden strand from her weaving.

Why were there not more hours in the day, so she could get everything perfect? Long seconds passed while she struggled to remove her mistake. By her lack of progress, one might think mistake was her middle name. For no matter how she strove to keep busy and fill her days with acts of kindness and charity, something always went awry.

Finally she got the strand of hair out. But she had fallen behind. The table scarf would just have to wait until she got the bread out of the oven.

Snatching up the few scraps of thread lying about, Lydia rushed down the hall to the kitchen and tossed them into the crackling fire on the hearth. She glanced around her kitchen, sparkling with cleanliness. Aside from the robust aroma of yeast, there were no other signs that she had been baking most of the morning. Everything was neat as a pin. Not that it mattered to anyone but herself. She shivered a little, wishing her life was different, but since dreams rarely came true, she did the best she could with what she'd been given.

As Lydia stood by the brick oven built into the hearth, her eyes went to the clock. Three minutes remained before the six loaves she had placed in the oven forty-three minutes earlier would be ready.

At precisely five minutes before eleven, the front door knocker fell.

Now who could that be? she wondered.

Again it came, a second knock, more forceful this time.

Whoever it was would just have to wait, she decided, impatiently tapping her foot. With less than two minutes until the bread came out, she wasn't about to risk a whole week's baking for idle chitchat with a neighbor.

Ignoring the summons, she kept her eyes glued on the clock. She ran her life by that well oiled piece of machinery. Truth be told, that clock was her salvation, one of the ways she had managed to get through the past eight years without losing her sanity. After a frantic morning like this one, nothing and nobody was going to throw her further off schedule!

Ninety-five seconds later, Lydia deftly placed her long-handed kitchen shovel into the oven and drew out the first of the loaves. The crust was just the right shade of golden brown. Perfection. She smiled at another job well done and, placing the loaf on the table, turned to draw forth another.

* * *

The Masters' neat little clapboard house stood among several of similar construction, mostly occupied by seafaring men. Standing on the well scrubbed porch, Bruce MacGregor noticed that neighboring houses were bulging at the seams with growing families. Laundry strung on lines in backyards hung limp with humidity, while children dodged in and out, playing hide-and-seek.

Masters' house, by contrast, was marked by a singular absence of disorder. This puzzled Bruce, until he recalled that Frank Masters was thirty-seven and had probably married a woman near his own age. Aye, a barren woman, judging by the reigning quiet, and puritanically neat.

Getting no response at the front door, and thinking perhaps the lady of the house was hard of hearing, Bruce left Masters' sea chest on the front porch and followed the mouth-watering scent of fresh baked bread around to the back door.

As he raised his hand and tapped on the window pane, he saw a slender young woman with pale yellow hair transfer a loaf from oven to work table. She was just easing the last loaf from the oven when, distracted by his knock, she glanced up, saw him, and lost her grip on the kitchen shovel. Trying to keep the loaf from falling, she made a grab, burned herself on the flat metal scoop, and lost control.

Thunderation! Setting down the cumbersome tool, she swiped at the butter on the sideboard, and sucking the edge of her seared palm, flung open the back door.

Yes? she demanded.

Bruce was hardly prepared for the flashing blue-violet eyes gazing up at him. Sorry to trouble you, miss, he said uncertainly. Could you tell me where I might find Mrs. Masters?

Lydia felt a tiny shiver snake through her innards, as she stood tongue-tied, staring at the tall dark stranger outlined by the overcast rays of the sun. He was a towering giant, filling her doorway. Even without knowing his errand, she felt instantly wary.

His clothing, like her husband's, was that of a seafaring man, exuding a salty, masculine tang, which her nose easily picked up. Hard work had developed his enormous shoulders, and his broad chest tapered down past a trim waist to lean hips, and heavy blue twill breeches covered long muscular thighs and legs. Adding to Lydia's unsettled confusion, he had the most striking brown eyes she had ever seen, and thick black hair tied at the nape with a leather thong.

He was an overwhelmingly handsome specimen, full of robust health and virility, she conceded, trying to quell an irrational urge to smack him with a frying pan for disrupting her peace. Even if she could ignore the sun-bronzed perfection of the man, she knew better than to trust first impressions. One mistake made eight years ago had taught her that much.

Only by keeping a tight lid on her emotions all these years has she managed not to dissolve into a state of despair. Her marriage was a disaster, a sham, but she was bound by vows as strong as if she'd signed a pact with the devil himself. And were it not for her brother, she would have packed up and gone home years ago, confessing all, and resigning herself to playing aunty to her many nieces and nephews for the rest of her natural born days.

But that didn't prevent her secret heart of hearts from entertaining fantasies. It just made her extremely cautious. Mostly she kept to herself, knowing the viciousness of gossip.

Now, gazing up into the smiling face of a man who might easily fulfill every wild and secret desire she had ever cherished, she fought an almost overpowering tug of temptation. She was a lone woman, vulnerable and isolated, with few friends, and none to defend her if she fell. If she ever gave way to dangerous impulses, such as she felt now, her good name would be on the lips of every dockhand and drunken roustabout in the town before day's end.

Steeling herself against such wicked thoughts, Lydia swallowed hard. Best to let him think ill of her, than to become known as the town slut. She lifted her chin in a brave show of aloofness.

"I am Mrs. Masters."

Bruce saw a flicker of distress pass over the young woman's delicate but expressive features. The fleeting pain in her pooling blue-violet eyes summoned up a corresponding empathy within his own heart. He wished he knew a gentler way to tell her about her husband's death, but he was at a loss for words. Fumbling with his cap, he cleared his throat. May I step in for a moment? he asked cautiously. I've come about your husband.

Are you one of his men? Her voice, soft and hesitant, made him wonder if his rough appearance made her afraid of him. Judging by the trembling hands clenched in her apron, he had somehow gotten off on the wrong foot.

"No, ma'am. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Captain Bruce MacGregor, commander of the Angelic Lady. Mr. Harris, your husband's partner, asked me to drop by."

Well, what is your errand? she snapped, fighting to keep up her guard. She didn't dare budge from the doorway, for once he stepped over the threshold, there was no telling how fast she might ruin eight years of impeccably moral living.

Ma'am, there's no easy way to tell you. Perhaps if you sat down, it would be best.

She looked him up and down, hoping to disguise her impossible attraction behind an icy stare. Captain, I doubt any tidings you bear will surprise me, especially where my husband is concerned. Just tell me and be done with it.

Keeping a firm grip on his patience, Bruce wondered why she was glaring at him, like he was a pelican that had just dumped a load of half-digested fish down the front of her starched white apron. He was doing his level best to break the news to her gently.

Your husband and his ship were lost at sea. Only two men survived.

Thank you very much, she replied, as matter-of-factly as if they'd been discussing the weather. She started to close the door in his face, but he stuck his foot in the crack.

I'm not finished yet, Mrs. Masters.

Oh, but I am!

Bruce felt his temper rise. Madam, I have your husband's sea chest on the front porch.

Oh. She cracked the door slightly. Perhaps you could bring it inside for me? He nodded. Good, she said. I shall meet you at the front door, Captain.

Without further ado, Lydia closed the door, removed her apron, and walked briskly to the front hall. By the time she got there, Bruce MacGregor was standing on her porch with her husband's sea chest slung over his shoulder.

As he entered, he saw ample proof of her orderly habits about him. If awards were being given out for cleanliness and tidy perfection, she would have beat all her neighbors, hands down. No children here to lay waste to her labors; not one smudgy fingerprint anywhere on the whitewashed walls, he noticed. No cobwebs, no dust. Nary a stick of furniture out of place.

To the left was the parlor, where even a laid-out corpse would have looked relaxed, compared to the precise arrangement of her furniture. The room to his right was occupied by a loom and spinning wheel; again nothing was out of place, all the spindles of yarn stood in neat rows, as untouched looking as the woman who had put them there.

If you will follow me, please, Captain?

She preceded him up the narrow stairs with a fine sway of the hips, which Bruce, having been away at sea for some time, was quick to appreciate. At the top of the stairs, she paused. Supposing that she desired him to take the chest into the nearest bedroom, Bruce opened the door immediately to his right.

He stopped in his tracks, puzzled by the obvious contradiction between the strict puritanical lines of the furniture downstairs and the lavishly decorated bedroom, heavily influenced by French design, although executed by an excellent American craftsman. 'Twas Sam Whipple of New Bedford did the work, judging by the unusual delicacy and ornate carving on the legs of her vanity stool and the posts and headboard on her dainty fourposter, all decked out in laces and satins. For a minute, he felt as if he'd been transported across the ocean to some French lady's boudoir.

Sunlight drifted through the lace curtains, bathing the room with warmth. A soft lawn nightgown was draped over the back of a dainty chair, and satin mules lay beside the bed. Silver brushes, perfume bottles and toiletries lay scattered casually on the dressing table. Without question, it was the bedroom of a deeply passionate woman, one who found pleasure in surrounding herself with beautiful things.

Bruce turned, his eyes reflecting surprise. How did all this match up with the pale little ramrod standing in the hall, her hair scrunched into a knot so tight it had to hurt?

Seeing the knowing flash of recognition in his warm brown eyes, Lydia averted her face, but not before he saw a rush of hot color flooding her cheeks. In one sweeping glance, he had seen past her bold front to the secret self she indulged behind that upstairs bedroom door.

Shaking his head, Bruce chuckled at her secretive look.

How dare, sir? she flared up at him, her hands clenched into small fists. Her pale hair, her flushed features only emphasized the brilliance of her lavender-blue eyes.

Aye, he had stumbled onto a rare bird, he could see that much. And despite her obvious attempt to conceal the fact, Mrs. Masters was an unqualified beauty. His curiosity stirring, Bruce took a step closer. At once she flinched, and he stopped, sensing her rising alarm.

Where would you like the trunk? he asked quietly, to allay her fears.

He heard the sharp intake of her breath. She didn't speak but gestured toward a closed door at the end of the hall. Hoping to make a quick end to his errand, Bruce opened it and found himself in what was surely Captain Masters' bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it was cold, orderly, and impeccably clean.

There we go, Bruce said with more bluff good humor than he felt, and eased the sea chest from his shoulder. As he came out into the hallway, he noticed that she had closed her bedroom door. He couldn't help himself. He broke into a broad smile at her furtive air of secrecy.

To Lydia, the brightness of his flashing white smile and the twinkle in his eyes made her realize how misspent her life had been. So many years lived alone in this house, separated from family and friends. Thanks to a bad marriage, her life counted for nothing, gone up in smoke, like a candle untended. Overwhelmed that so few of her hopes and dreams had turned out as she had hoped, Lydia dropped her face to her hands with a sob.

Instantly Captain MacGregor's arm went around her, drawing her close. Easy now, lass, easy, he said and patted her shoulder clumsily.

Overcome by the strangest yearning, Lydia felt as if her heart would crack wide open. The deep comforting resonance in his voice made her reach out blindly. In that terrible moment of weakness and vulnerability, she sagged involuntarily against his broad chest, wishing she had her father or one of her brothers to hold her, just till the storm of emotion blew over.

I am so desperately alone, she thought. I have no one. But then a sliver of prudent reality intruded, as Captain MacGregor reached a long arm around her and opened her bedroom door.

No . . . oh, no! she protested, as he started to lead her inside.

Puzzled when she began to struggle against him, Bruce stepped back a little, hoping to reassure her that he had no ulterior motives. Even so, he was careful to keep a steady hand on her shoulder, lest she swoon, for she was extremely pale and upset, and not being all that wise to the ways of women . . . He cleared his throat. Mrs. Masters, he told her in kind but firm tones, perhaps you should lie down. I think your husband's death has hit harder than you realize.

She pulled away, and the tears continued to stream unchecked. You think I weep for him? Her laughter broke, followed by awkward silence between them.

Fearing she was on the verge of hysterics, Lydia made a supreme effort to pull herself together. She held herself ramrod stiff, fighting for composure. I-I won't take any more of your time, uh . . . Captain Mc-McCracken, is it?

MacGregor, he said patiently. Are you sure you wouldn't like me to fetch a neighbor woman to stay with you?

No. I-I need to be . . . alone. Swallowing painfully, Lydia caught herself staring at his mouth. His lips were firm, yet not harsh. With a conscious effort, she wrenched her eyes from his face. Squaring her slender shoulders, she turned and marched downstairs ahead of him.

Mr. Harris said he'd stop by later to express his condolences. Bruce hesitated, studying her in the entryway. Well, if there's nothing else—?

She held the door open pointedly. Goodbye, Captain, and thank you.

The tall Scot bowed slightly, taking the hint. Madam.

She lifted her chin, willing him to go. And so he did.

But as Captain MacGregor turned to descend the front steps of her porch, Lydia suddenly felt a strong prompting from the depths of her soul: Call him back.

But, of course, she didn't. Unthinkable that she would call out to a stranger! Biting her lip against such an impulse, Lydia stared dully after him. She couldn't remember when having to face this empty house made her heart ache more.

Chapter Two

Thank God, none of our husbands went down with his ship, said Mrs. Slater, echoing the unspoken fears of every woman gathered that afternoon in Mrs. Rafferty's cluttered parlor.

Proximity to the sea left a permanent salty dankness that clung to the scattered rugs and heavy drapes at the narrow-paned windows. These native smells blended with the woodsy fire crackling on the hearth and the sweet aroma of sassafras roots steeping in the teapot from which Mrs. Rafferty poured out a cup for each of her guests.

Poor Captain Masters. Mrs. Abernathy lifted her teacup in a sentimental toast.

Tragic. Deeply affected by the sad news, Mary Ann Rhees, whose husband had been out to sea for over a year, retreated to the front parlor window; dabbing her eyes.

The dimple-faced Widow Rafferty passed around crumb cake, then came straight to the reason she'd called the meeting: We must rally 'round Mrs. Masters in her time of need. She is positively heartbroken!

Several of the seafarers' wives lifted their eyebrows at this, but only Millie Orkin, the youngest matron present and never shy to venture an opinion, dared speak. I wonder why Frank Masters so rarely set foot in his own house.

Constance Jones nodded. He practically lived on that ship of his, even in port.

Lydia is such a persnickety housekeeper, no doubt he felt unwelcome, Pamela Smythe said with a self-important air.

No wonder she has no children!

A half-dozen tea cups clattered indignantly in their saucers at Lydia's dereliction of her wifely duty.

Now, now. Let's not be so quick to judge, Mrs. Rafferty chided. She suspected some of the younger women would have given their eye teeth to trade places with Captain Masters' strait-laced wife. A handsomer man was hard to find. Still, she couldn't deny the Masters' relationship seemed always to inspire talk. Quickly she turned to news of the war being waged against the town: I hear Old Man Caitland lost his cow and chickens to the British last night.

No! You don't say!

Aye. Cleaned him out and set fire to his barn.

Mrs. Abernathy sucked in a mouthful of scalding tea. With the Redcoats sneaking ashore to rob us blind, and the price of food sky-high, it's beyond me how we keep our children fed!

Oh, look! Mary Anne exclaimed, peering through the curtains. It's Lydia Masters, coming up the walk to pay a call.

Pamela was instantly on the edge of her seat: What's she wearing?

An excited cluster of women formed at the window. Definitely not in widow's weeds.

Mrs. Rafferty waved them to silence. Mrs. Abernathy, will you please refresh the teapot? Now, ladies, I am counting on your help. Mrs. Masters has received a severe shock. She bustled toward the door, holding her heart to contain her excitement. Truly this war is enough to test a woman's mettle!

Tiptoeing back to her seat, Millie whispered, You'd never guess by the way Lydia Masters acts that there's a war going on.

Pamela giggled. Unless it's a war against dust!

* * *

Captain MacGregor came running down the steps of Mrs. Rafferty's boarding house, as Lydia started up the path, carrying a large loaf of bread to her neighbor.

Instantly he doffed his cap, a poorly knitted affair that drew Lydia's attention. He was in dire need of mending, though she chose not to say so.

Beneath his tousled black hair, his face lit up with a smile. We meet again! he exclaimed with an eagerness that rocked her knees. At your service, ma'am. He made a small bow, holding his cap over his heart.

She nodded, Captain, wary of engaging him in conversation, lest she give him a wrong opinion of her and already rattled to see several of her neighbors gawking at her from behind Mrs. Rafferty's parlor curtains. No doubt speculating as to why she wasn't dressed in mourning.

Fortunately for her, Mrs. Rafferty chose that moment to emerge onto her porch and wave.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Rafferty. Moving past the Captain's unsettling presence, Lydia mounted the steps and handed a loaf of bread to her neighbor.

Beatrice Rafferty's dimpled face broke into a welcoming smile. Rumpled but good natured, she was one of the few neighbors who never spoke a word against Lydia, and so for the past three years, they had made the giving and receiving of bread a weekly ritual of friendship and mutual gratitude. You are such a dear always to remember, she said. Do come in. The ladies and I were just discussing your terrible loss. I am so sorry, my dear.

Bracing herself for an ordeal, Lydia glanced down at her dark grey dress, set off by a small pearl brooch and eardrops. Perfect for her meeting with the library committee at three o'clock, but sure to provoke comment among women of the neighborhood, she realized too late.

I feel a little conspicuous, she admitted to her neighbor. Perhaps I should go home and change first.

Nonsense. You look lovely. Come in, come in. Mrs. Rafferty draped an arm familiarly around her waist, and Lydia found herself propelled forward into the good woman's parlor.

Everyone was properly civil in expressing their condolences, and Lydia took her seat reluctantly, wedged between two of the younger wives, Pamela and Millie, on the settle.

We were just having tea. Mrs. Rafferty busied herself arranging tea cups and saucers. Oh, dear me, I forget. Do you take sugar or lemon in your tea, Mrs. Masters?

Lydia smiled. A little sugar would be lovely, Mrs. Rafferty.

I know what a shock your husband's death must be, led off Mrs. Slater in doleful tones.

It came as a surprise, certainly, said Lydia, but I'm sure that I shall manage.

Please feel free to call upon any of us, if we can be of service, said Mrs. Abernathy.

Captain MacGregor said you were quite distraught, Mrs. Rafferty added.

Indeed? said Lydia, stiffening up, and a slight chill settled over the room while tea cups were refilled and carefully sipped.

Will you be holding a memorial service for your husband? asked Mary Ann Rhees, not willing to let the conversation drift into silence.

Truthfully, I haven't given it much thought. Lydia knew precisely what she would like to do to Frank Masters: Purge all memory of him from her heart and soul. But private thoughts of vengeance were not fit to share in polite company.

Of course, you must have a great many concerns about the future, now that he's gone, said Mrs. Rafferty, on a fishing expedition.

Of course. Lydia took another sip.

Mrs. Rafferty flushed a delicate pink beneath her fleshy dimples. Over the years her beautiful young neighbor had never seen fit to confide in a soul, and it genuinely grieved her, for she was convinced that, behind her reserve, Lydia had a heart as warm as the tropics where her husband's ship had so often sailed. Why, only last spring, when she was down with la grippe, Lydia had come to her rescue, sending over food for her boarders, and sitting up with her for two nights. Only a truly caring person was capable of such kindness!

After several more attempts to pry information out of her had failed, Lydia set down her tea cup and rose. Ladies, I really must go. I have a prior engagement.

I'll see you to the door, Mrs. Rafferty offered.

As they drifted onto the porch, saying their goodbyes, Bruce MacGregor charged up the steps, his hair windswept and his brown eyes gleaming. He paused long enough to doff his cap. Ladies, excuse my haste. The fish are biting! He left them staring at his handsome backside, as he sped upstairs to his room on the second floor.

Mrs. Rafferty shook her head and laughed. Mercy sakes! Now there's a man for you! she said. Always in a hurry. I never saw so much energy in such a large package.

Indeed. Lydia was careful not to sound interested. Goodbye, and thank you for the tea, she murmured, taking her neighbor's hand.

Please remember, my offer of help is sincere.

You are most kind. Carefully lifting her skirts, Lydia descended to her waiting carriage. If she hurried, she might be still in time to help the library committee select a few suitable books for the children of New London.

As she took up the reins and set her horse into motion, she smiled, thinking about the tea party she had just left. Mrs. Rafferty and her friends really ought to save their sympathy for someone who needed it. For what possible difference could her husband's death make now?

* * *

When Mr. Harris came to call on her that evening, he brought her husband's lawyer with him. Together they had taken the trouble to compile documents and statements outlining in detail the true nature of her husband's financial situation.

Mrs. Masters, I wish I were the bearer of better news, said Peter Bradshaw, his manner businesslike but kindly.

This house is my husband's only asset?

Yes, and it has a mortgage of ten thousand dollars.

Most unexpected and unwelcome news, indeed! Lydia had hoped she would at least have a roof over her head. She moved restlessly around the room, adjusting pictures on the parlor wall, even though they did not need straightening, while she reviewed the disturbing facts. She paused before her husband's portrait, wishing Frank's image could