Beloved Counterfeit (6 page)

“That was two years ago, Doc. You can’t use past history as an excuse.” Micah paused. “You wanted my advice, so I’m giving it to you. Marry the woman and be done with it, or leave her be.”

“That’s it?”

Micah nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some eating and some praying to do, and I am long overdue on both.”

The doctor reached out to stop Micah. “Thank you,” he said with what seemed to be great relief in his voice. “I knew that’s what should happen, but I resisted it.” He paused. “For all the obvious reasons.”

Micah studied him for a moment but found nothing to understand in the man’s sudden change of attitude. “Yes, well, glad to be of service,” he said as he resumed his walk. “Give her my best if you think of it.”

“Micah?”

Biting back a sharp retort, Micah let his shoulders sag and his pace slow. “What is it?”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, though when he turned to see what sort of response his statement might have garnered, Dr. Hill was gone. “Odd fellow,” Micah muttered as he stretched out the arm the man had patched back together after last year’s accident on the reef. “But a good doctor. That much I’ll give him.”

Chapter 6

“Tea, no,” Emilie said. “I have a few visits to make. Though it would take little to see me staying long enough for you to read that letter.”

Viola shook her head as she broke the seal. “I fail to understand how. . .” She read the first line twice before she fully realized whose hand had composed the words. “Remy?”

“Yes.” Emilie moved into her line of sight. “He was a bit concerned about surprising you, so he came to me first and asked that I pave the way for a reunion.”

Viola found the nearest chair and sank onto it, unable to remain upright. “That’s impossible. My father would never allow it.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t doubt you. Tell me where I can find Remy, and please understand I still find it a bit difficult to believe it’s true.”

“I think that story is best told by him. Shall we go, then?”

“Yes, I’m anxious to see him.” Viola shook her head as she rose to find her bonnet and wrap. “When I left it seems he was barely out of knee pants.” She felt the tears sting her eyes but blinked them back. Some things that she’d left behind when she stepped aboard the ship with Isabelle and Emilie had caused her more pain than others, her relationship with her younger brother chief among them.

“An exaggeration, to be sure,” Emilie said, “and yet when I posted my answer to his letter, he responded quickly and with great enthusiasm. It seems as though the law was not his forte, and neither was the prospect of joining Henri.”

“Wait.” Viola stopped short and looked at Emilie. “He sent a letter to you? When? And why not to me?”

“Some months ago,” she said, “and he asked that I not mention his desire to see you.” Emilie paused. “He has a particular purpose in coming here, but I will let him tell you that.”

Viola thought of Remy, the gentle younger brother who called her Vivi because it irritated her. The scholar who, from a young age, was more likely to be found with his nose in a book than not.

The lad whose interest in books was bested only by his interest in the fairer sex.

“I wonder what he’s like. Is he handsome?”

Emilie’s grin was her answer.

“Of course he is. And what of his studies? I suppose he’s done with them now and is likely practicing the law, though perhaps he joined the family business. Does he have a wife with him?”

Viola closed the door and joined Emilie. Together they turned toward the eastern side of Fairweather Key, where Emilie and Caleb’s cottage sat at the end of a narrow lane.

“No,” Viola answered herself, “he’d likely be chasing away any potential wives and be miserable toiling away under Henri’s command. Henri is still in charge of the company, I assume. Do hurry, Emilie.”

Emilie shrugged as she hurried to keep up. At the corner, they met several children on their way to the parsonage for some of Mary Carter’s afternoon treats.

“Don’t be late, children,” Emilie called as Viola dragged her away. “We’ve a busy afternoon ahead.”

“Henri always did fancy himself at the helm of Dumont Shipping,” Viola continued when she had Emilie’s attention again. “Even as a boy. I can remember while Remy and I were playing school, Henri would be ordering about the cats or the chickens or whatever else he could find. Later it became the servants and, I suppose, his wife and children. Surely by now he has children. And Papa? Likely he still lives.”

“Likely.”

That she did not know gave Viola pause. Another regret of leaving New Orleans without saying good-bye. “Yet he did not come himself nor seek any further contact with me after news returned of Andre’s death.”

“I cannot explain it,” Emilie said, “though I do suppose that he and my father may bear much grief and burden over Andre’s death.”

“Grief and burden? They merely sent him. It is because of me that Andre is dead.”

Emilie linked arms with her, likely as much to slow Viola’s pace as to offer comfort. She smiled at the baker’s wife, who waved from the building across the street, then turned her attention to Viola. “Might you have lived had you not?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.” Viola met the gaze of the woman who might have become her sister by marriage. “I have tried on many occasions to offer this up as an excuse, and the words fall flat when compared to the result.”

“My brother had a horrible temper, Vi,” Emilie said. “Andre did not go to the doctor’s home that day with good intentions.”

Viola stopped to lean against the fence rail, her eyes falling shut. “I tried to love him. I wanted so to please Papa and make this a good match.”

Emilie let her cry until the tears were spent.

“I’ve made such a mess of things, Em,” Viola said.

“And now you are making Remy wait.” Her friend’s tone was gentle, her purpose obviously to distract.

She decided to allow the ruse to work. “Indeed,” Viola said. “A moment longer, and I’ll be ready to meet Remy. Do I look awful?”

“No, Vivi. You look every bit as beautiful as I remember.”

Viola whirled around to find that her little brother was not so little anymore. He towered a head taller and wore his mop of dark curls in a much more adult manner than had the young man she left behind.

“Remy!” She made to hug him and felt her feet leave the ground. The horizon swung about, and when the ground rose to meet her, Viola nearly stumbled.

“Easy there,” her brother said as he gathered her close. “Didn’t mean to knock you off your feet.”

“If you two will excuse me.” Emilie pointed to the end of the lane. “I see two of my students I’ve been meaning to speak with. Carol and Maggie, would you come here, please?”

Viola looked past Emilie to see the O’Shea twins scampering toward the beach. As Emilie chased them down and turned them toward town, Viola stepped out of her brother’s embrace to hold him at arm’s length.

“Remy Dumont,” she said as she blinked back tears yet again, “what in the world are you doing on Fairweather Key? Shouldn’t you be reading for the law or choosing a wife by now?”

He winked. “I should, but I’d rather be here with you.”

“Surely you’re not planning to stay here.”

“No, but I plan to take you with me when I leave.”

Chapter 7

Ruby stirred the stew then tapped the edge of the pot with her spoon. Behind her, she heard little Tess do the same. “What are you cooking, Miss Tess?” she called over her shoulder as she counted up the plates and utensils for the noon meal.

“I need a spoon to make my stewp,” the four-year-old said, peering up with eyes that made Ruby’s heart lurch. So like her father, those eyes, and yet nothing like him at all. Well, perhaps in her bursts of temper, but beyond that, Tess bore him no resemblance.

“Stew,” Ruby gently corrected before hefting the tray onto her shoulder to deliver it to the barge-sized dining table.

A tug at her apron string caused Ruby to turn. “No,” Tess said. “You made stew. I made stewp. I’m gonna feed Red.”

Another day, she might have bent to gather up the girl or join her in her nonsensical talk. She might even have allowed her to put some of her imaginary creation out to feed Red, the rooster that snapped at the heels of everyone except Tess.

Today, however, Ruby had yet to shake the morning’s trip to the beach or the reason for it. Then there was the troublesome reminder that she’d likely soon see Micah Tate.

Would that the man might actually miss a meal. Dared she pray it?

She turned her thoughts to Tess, who now sat on the kitchen floor with her favorite wooden spoon and a scowl. “So you made soup?”

“No,” came the sullen response.

Ruby picked up the empty tray and retraced her steps back into the kitchen. She’d handle Tess later. Likely the girl would emerge from her mood as quickly as she’d settled into it. She generally did. For now, however, the noon meal must hold Ruby’s attention.

Besides, with all but one room in the boardinghouse claimed, there’d likely be at least ten around the table. A glance at the clock warned her they’d all be coming through the door soon. Wrapping the fresh bread in a tea towel, Ruby reached up to retrieve a basket then placed the barely cooled loaf inside.

Ruby pressed past Tess with the bread in one hand and a stack of linens in the other.

The place might have been only a modest boardinghouse in faraway Fairweather Key, but Mrs. Campbell insisted on proper manners, proper meals, and good linens. She’d boasted that her entire collection of napkins and tablecloths—reportedly once used by royalty—had been purchased for next to nothing at a wrecker’s auction. To back up her claim, each item bore the crest of Britain’s ruler in the corner.

Though Mrs. Campbell had left Ruby to do as she pleased both in the kitchen and with the rules of the boardinghouse, Ruby had kept all in order as if the former judge’s wife still ruled the roost. Should she return tomorrow, Mrs. Campbell would indeed find everything quite unchanged. Except the recipes. Those Ruby had adjusted a bit.

Another tug at her apron strings caused Ruby to nearly tumble backward. The bread basket, however, was not so fortunate. While the basket clattered to the floor and slid toward the kitchen, the bread parted ways to skid to a stop near the window. In her rush to help, Tess stumbled and stomped on the cloth-covered loaf.

Or perhaps the act was intentional.

Surveying the damage, Ruby decided the bread was ruined, though she might salvage enough of it to make a bread pudding for tomorrow night. She turned to walk back to the kitchen, and with each step, she prayed she might tamp down her anger lest she—

The crumbled mess that had formerly been a stellar example of her bread-making skills went flying past Ruby’s head and slammed against the far wall. “Stewp! Say it. Stewp. Stew and soup!”

“Maria Teresa—” Ruby covered her mouth even as her heart sank. One name more and, well, she’d not contemplate it.

Tess looked stunned. “You said never to—”

“I know what I said.” Ruby’s fingers shook, rendering her unable to retrieve what remained of the bread. “It was a mistake, Tess.”

The door opened then shut, indicating the first of the hungry boarders had arrived. “What are you making, little one?” a familiar female voice called.

“Stewp, Miss Emilie!” Tess said with more than a little quaver in her voice. “For Red.”

“Soup and stew?” Ruby turned to see Emilie Gayarre standing in the doorway. “And look at this.” The schoolteacher stooped to reach for the mangled loaf. “You’ve made mush to go along with it.” Her gaze met Ruby’s, and Ruby thought she detected more than a note of sympathy there. “Busy morning?”

Ruby mustered a smile before taking the remains of the bread and depositing them into the slop bucket. “I’ve had better.”

Before Emilie could respond, Carol and Maggie burst through the back door and clattered to a halt when they spied their teacher. Looking like the cat that ate the canary happened too often with this pair, but today the expression was especially pronounced.

Ruby glanced over at Emilie then back at the girls. So often since the twins were born, Ruby had wondered if there might be some sort of unspoken communication between them, some language of signals and expressions that only the two of them were privy to.

As if hearing her thoughts, Carol stared at Maggie, who slowly and solemnly nodded.

“There’s nothing a bit of practicing won’t cure,” Emilie said. “Isn’t that right, girls?”

Both nodded, though Ruby noticed there was little enthusiasm in either response.

“And what, pray tell, are you practicing, girls?”

“Our names,” Carol said.

“We spelled the wrong ones,” Maggie added.

“The wrong. . .” Ruby felt her stomach clench. Little troubles like this would surely add up to one big problem should she be foolish enough to remain in Fairweather Key for long. Poor children. She’d asked much of them.

Possibly too much.

Yet what else could she do? Almost every evening since August 2, she and the girls had spent their last few minutes before bedtime going over the story of who they were and how they came to be on Fairweather Key. Not the whole truth, but a reasonable version of it with the proper protection included for the innocents.

More than once since she’d decided to heed the preacher’s warning, Ruby had wondered if she ought to come clean with the townspeople like she’d come clean with Jesus. She’d decided, at least for now, that while the Lord would love her and the girls no matter what, the church folk likely would not. The hardest part of this realization was trying to explain it to the girls.

What she’d ended up with was something Rev. Carter said two Sundays ago. “When you can’t tell anyone else, you can always tell Jesus.” The who and the where of their past were matters, Ruby told the girls, that were just for Jesus to know.

Ruby turned around to give the stew a vigorous stir it didn’t really need. “You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?” she inquired of Emilie.

Emilie touched her shoulder. “I thought we might speak in private, Ruby.”