A Proper Marriage (7 page)

Delia smiled. “Yes, we know. But you two are welcome at our meeting. And you must begin attending church somewhere. Otherwise people will talk.”

“We will. We’ll go this Sunday. To the Baptists or the Presbyterians.”

“The closest church is Presbyterian, and it’s thirteen miles from here,” Delia said. “Such a long trip just now would not be good for the little one.”

Olivia refrained from reminding Delia that she had traveled in a wagon all the way from Blue Gap to Sweetbriar Creek. It wouldn’t do to offend her closest neighbor and the wife of Luke’s employer. And it was true that the prospect of a thirteen-mile journey over a rutted road exhausted her. “I will speak to Luke about it.”

“Samuel already has. Luke wants to come. But not without his wife, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I know our way of quiet contemplation must seem strange,” Delia said, “but peace is found in the silences. It’s in the moments when everything is still that I feel closest to our Lord. As if I’m in the same room with him.”

Olivia nodded. But the last thing she wanted was to be in the same room with the Almighty, who was no doubt displeased with her beyond all redemption. She got to her feet. “I don’t know about you, but I’m parched. Would you like some tea, Delia? The stove’s still hot. It won’t take but a minute.”

“Not today. I should be getting home. I left Charlotte to start the ironing, and I must go lend her a hand.” At the door, Delia paused, her calm, gray eyes taking in the wrinkles and stains on Olivia’s brown skirt. “I will have Samuel bring the washtub over here this evening. If that rain up on the mountain makes it down to the valley tonight, the tub should be full by morning.”

Delia ducked out the door and hurried across the wooden bridge spanning the creek. A few minutes later Luke arrived, the chickens flapping and fussing in his wake.

“What’s for supper?”

“Delia brought chicken and dumplings.”

“Sounds good.” He filled the tin washbowl from the bucket in the kitchen and washed his face and hands. He took a stained towel from its hook, then tossed it aside. “Is there a clean one somewhere, Olivia?”

“I haven’t done the washing yet.”

“So I noticed.”

“Don’t criticize me. I’m doing the best I can.” She went to the kitchen, took down two bowls, and dished up the dumplings. They smelled good, but she was in no mood to enjoy anything.

Luke seated himself at the table. He mumbled a hurried blessing and tucked into the dumplings. “Did Delia talk to you about going to meeting with them this Sunday?”

“Yes, but I got the impression that asking me was merely a formality. She said Samuel invited you and that you are eager to go.” She took a bite, but the food stuck in her throat. It seemed that even the smallest details of her life—when to do the wash, where to go to church—were decided by somebody else. She no longer remembered who she was, what she wanted out of life. She was invisible, as inconsequential as the air. She set down her fork and pushed her plate away.

“I thought it was something we could do together.” Luke helped himself to more dumplings. “We barely see each other these days.”

“I’m not the one who hides out in the barn all night.”

His spoon clattered against his plate. “You’ve hardly made me feel welcome in here.”

Her face went hot. “I told you from the first moment you proposed marriage that I wouldn’t . . . that I didn’t want us to—”

“Yes. You made that very clear.” Something flashed in his dark eyes, and she realized nothing else she might do could pierce his heart as deeply as this rejection of all he longed to give her.

He stood and started for the door. “It’s starting to rain. I need to help Samuel finish the milking. Don’t wait up.”

Chapter Eight

S
eated between Charlotte and Delia on the hard wooden bench, Olivia folded her hands in her lap and tried not to weep. For more than an hour, the profound silence of the Friends meeting—broken only by the occasional cough or the rustling of pages when a desultory wind wafted through the open windows—had pressed on her fragile nerves.

Across the aisle, Luke sat with the other men. Olivia studied the comb tracks in his shaggy hair, the sun-browned skin on the back of his neck. He bent forward, his hands clasped loosely at his knees. Was he praying or merely exhausted from the week’s labors? She had given up trying to understand him.

Clearly he regretted marrying her. She could see it in his eyes when he looked at her, could feel the tension in him when he lay beside her on the corn-shuck mattress, fully clothed and wakeful in the darkness. Guilt sat like an anvil on her chest. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t appreciate his good qualities and the chance he had given her to remake her life?

Her fingers sought the edges of the letter tucked into the bottom of her reticule. When George came for her, certainly it would be awkward. Luke would hate her for accepting his kindness and then betraying his trust. But she truly believed that once his anger and shock passed, he would see that her leaving with George would be best for all of them. Then he would be free to begin anew with a woman more deserving of his steadfastness and affection.

Olivia fanned her face as the silence continued. How did one dissolve a marriage? She and Luke had been wed so short a time. Perhaps there was a simple way to undo what never should have been done in the first place. The baby moved, and she pressed a hand to her swollen belly. It was too late for a proper wedding to George, but not too late for the two of them to build the life she had dreamed of.

The life he had promised her.

Out in the yard, a horse nickered, and the sound took her back to the afternoon last December when she’d encountered George Mackenzie in the woods. It had been unusually warm for the time of year, not the kind of crisp, cool day that put her in mind of Christmas. Nevertheless, she had taken her shears and her basket and set out on the trail that led upward through the woods behind her father’s house to look for evergreens and holly berries for the fireplace mantel. Ruth was home from school, and Olivia wanted to surprise her younger sister.

A mile or so into her walk she spotted a perfectly round ball of mistletoe growing between two branches of an old tree. She clambered up, snipped it, and tossed it into the basket below. She swung lightly to the ground just as a black horse thundered through the woods. Its rider, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark-brown hair curling over his ears, reined in and smiled down at her.

“As I live and breathe,” he said. “A wood nymph. In North Carolina. Who would have guessed?”

His gaze, expressive and frank, unsettled her. She fussed with the greenery in her basket. The last time she’d seen George, she had been a shy young girl in awe of his good looks and courtly ways. But they had both gone away to school, and after that she’d heard from Mrs. Fondren that George had gone abroad. She hadn’t known of his return. Certainly when she left the house this morning, George Mackenzie had been the last person she expected to see.

Not that his company was unwelcome.

He dismounted. Holding loosely to the reins, he covered the short distance between them. “Does this lovely creature speak?”

Lovely creature? She had actually looked around, thinking he must be speaking of someone else. Most people described her as smart, sturdy, reliable. Occasionally, when she was fancied up for one of her father’s dinners, someone might remark upon her appearance. But no one had ever described her as lovely. Now she knew for the first time how the beauties at Miss Pritchard’s school must feel every day. Did they know how lucky they were to be so admired?

“George Mackenzie,” he said. “And you, I believe, are Miss Olivia Brooks.” He gave her a friendly nod. “You grew up while I was away.”

“I remember you. Barely.”

He raised a brow. “Barely? Should I be insulted?”

She laughed. Whatever else he might have mastered during his schooling and his travels, he had certainly learned how to charm a girl. “I saw Luke at the mercantile yesterday. He didn’t mention that you were home.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. My brother and I aren’t the closest of friends.”

Olivia knew that too. According to Mrs. Fondren, Luke’s father favored his older son, and when old Mr. Mackenzie went to his heavenly reward, George would inherit everything.

Luke never spoke of it, but Olivia was offended for his sake. It wasn’t Luke’s fault that his mother had died giving him life. And Mr. Mackenzie wasn’t some English lord bequeathing a grand estate to his firstborn. He was merely a successful merchant and landowner. And a bitter man who took his anger and grief out on his younger son. In Olivia’s considered opinion, the odious old coot ought to be ashamed of himself. And George, too, for refusing to share the old man’s legacy.

“I should have called upon you much sooner.” George reached out and, with a gloved hand, tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. Their eyes met, and Olivia’s uncharitable thoughts dissipated. “But this is actually nicer, don’t you think? A chance meeting on a beautiful winter’s day. With no one to chaperone we may speak freely.”

“I should go.”

“Not yet. Not until you promise to meet me tomorrow at my little camp just over that ridge.” He pointed to a cabin nearly hidden behind a rough outcropping farther along the path. “From there we can hike to the falls. It’s beautiful this time of year. I’d love for you to see it.”

“I couldn’t possibly. This is highly—”

“Please. It isn’t as if we’re complete strangers. We won’t stay long.”

They started down the path toward home, George leading his mount, the basket swinging between them. They were within sight of her father’s house when she spotted a large cluster of bright-red berries beneath a tangle of undergrowth. She pushed through the brambles and removed the berries. Ruth would be delighted with such a large bouquet.

“You’ve scratched your face.” George trailed a finger across her cheek. “I should have battled those brambles for you.”

“I’m all right. And really, we must part here. My father will be furious if he sees us arriving together.”

He leaned over and kissed the scratch on her face. She drew back and looked into his eyes, blue and clear as a mountain creek. And she was utterly lost.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “I’ll be waiting.”

That night, as she and Ruth prepared for bed, her sister asked about the scratch on her face. But Olivia didn’t want to share anything that had happened on this miraculous day. George Mackenzie thought she was lovely. He had kissed her. Tomorrow he would wait for her in his cabin.

She wouldn’t go, of course. But just for tonight, she could dream about what it would be like to have someone so smart, so kind and handsome, in love with her. She doused the light and lay in the darkness for the longest time, recalling every word, every glance, every inflection of his voice, the memory of it hers and hers alone . . .

“Olivia?”

Luke was beside her now, urging her out the door of the Quaker meeting house and into the dusty yard. He jammed his hat onto his head and clasped her hand as they headed for the wagon. “Did you enjoy the meeting?”

She lifted one shoulder. “I miss the singing.”

He smiled. “Me too. But the quiet is nice. Gives a man time to think.”

He boosted her onto the wagon seat and then climbed up beside her. “Samuel and Delia are going to the Thornburgs, so Samuel asked me to drive his wagon back. We’re invited to eat with them too. Are you up to it?”

“Would you be disappointed if we didn’t go? I seem to be tired all the time.” She thought of the letter inside her reticule. Remembering George, the way he made her feel, fueled her determination to send it. “And besides, I need a couple of things from the store.”

“It’s closed on Sundays. You know that.” He snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward.

“But I heard Mrs. Thornburg telling Mrs. Mills that sometimes Mr. Prater opens for a little while after meeting, to save people another trip into town.”

“What’s so important that it can’t wait till next Friday? Samuel and I will be coming in to sell the first of the strawberry crop. I’ll be glad to get whatever you need then.”

She sighed. “If you must know, I haven’t been feeling well. Mrs. Mills said I ought to try Dr. Smallwood’s tonic. It’s made especially for ladies’ . . . digestive ailments.”

“Oh . . . oh.” Luke’s ears turned bright red. “All right, we’ll go. If Mr. Prater isn’t around, you can come with Samuel and me on Friday.”

Delia waved to her as the Millses’ wagon made a wide turn in the meadow. Olivia returned her wave and tamped down her feelings of guilt. When had she turned into such an accomplished liar?

Chapter Nine

O
livia! Grab your pole. I think you’ve got a bite.”

Olivia let her water-stained sketchbook slide onto the grass and reached for the bamboo pole Luke had baited for her. He picked up his own pole and the battered creel he’d found in the Millses’ barn and jogged along the creek bank toward her.

She lifted the pole. A fat trout glistened in the late afternoon sunlight.

“He’s a beauty.” Luke expertly removed the fish from the hook and put it into the creel. “It’ll make us a fine dinner tonight.”

When she wrinkled her nose, he laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it and fry it up for you myself.” He baited her hook again and tossed the line back into the clear, cold waters of Sweetbriar Creek. “You’re one up on me. I haven’t caught a thing.”

She smiled. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Mind if I share your fishing spot? Maybe it’ll improve my chances.”

“I don’t mind.”

She made room on the grass. He sat down beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. In the weeks since their first meeting with the Friends, tensions between them had gradually eased. Maybe it was because she was feeling better these days, though the late July heat seeped into her bones and left her limbs heavy as iron. Luke still spent most evenings after supper in the barn, but she had adjusted to spending most of her time alone. During the long summer twilights, she took her sketchbook out to the orchard and sat among the peach trees, now heavy with fruit. She drew scenes of the creek, the wren that had nested in a rusted-out bucket beside the fence, the yellow and white wildflowers dotting the meadow.