Making Waves (14 page)

She started to protest, but stopped. She didn’t want to impress Roger, and maybe if she wore the lavender dress, which made her appear pale and sickly, he’d be a gentleman and make it an early evening.

“That one will be perfect, Mother.”

Her mother stared at her, eyebrows drawn together. “Marguerite, are you sure you aren’t ill?”

Back to his tediously dull self, Roger kept the dinner conversation fixated on the stock market while Marguerite struggled to stay awake. Certain the rattan furniture had left a waffle imprint on her behind by now, she shifted in her chair as she pushed the corn around on her plate, creating a tunnel for the gravy to escape its mashed potato crater.

“According to the
New York Times
, stock prices have more than doubled since the same time period last year.” Roger forked a piece of fish.

Edward patted his mouth with his napkin and set it beside his plate. “And securities have reached a new high this month. Things are looking quite good for all of us.”

Roger leaned back in his chair. “Marguerite, what is your opinion of the recent rise in stock prices?”

Her head jerked up. Did she hear the question correctly?

“Don’t be ridiculous, Roger.” Her mother sipped from her water goblet. “Marguerite doesn’t have opinions in such matters.”

“On the contrary. I believe your daughter has a great many secrets.” He pinned her with his gaze.

She stiffened. What was he trying to prove? Did he know about the sailing? How could he?

Trying to remember the initial question, she took a deep breath. Stock prices. She had read about them. “I believe the Vanderbilts and the Grangers lead the improving market.”

Roger shook his fork at her. “But what about prior losses in the market?” The dark eyes beneath his spectacles held no warmth. Was he toying with her?

“The recovery more than wiped out those losses,” she said. “Foreign buyers have been active, and the forecast of good crops seems to indicate a bull market is at hand.”

Roger threw his head back and let out a loud guffaw. “Who would have known our Marguerite had a mind for investments? You see, she is good at keeping secrets.”

“Apparently not as good as you.” Breaking a piece off her roll, Marguerite met his eyes.

Her mother let out a slight gasp. “Wall Street is hardly an appropriate dinner topic. Perhaps we could talk of more pleasant things. I saw there is to be a regatta soon.”

Marguerite choked on her roll.

“Sweetheart, are you all right?” Her father patted her back.

She gulped down a glass of water. “Yes, please pardon me. I must have swallowed wrong.”

“Certainly.” Roger dropped his arm around the back of her chair. “You seem in fine health now. Truly a vision.”

The hollow compliment further confused her. She turned to him. “Thank you.”

“As I said yesterday, you are like a painting – to be treasured.”

And hung on a wall in your private museum?

“Marguerite, isn’t that a lovely sentiment?” Her mother patted his arm.

“Yes, thank you.” Marguerite pushed back from the table. “I’m afraid I’m developing quite a headache. Roger, if you’ll forgive me, I believe I’ll turn in for the night.”

“I understand.” He stood and held her chair. “You probably have a big day planned tomorrow. I’ll walk you to your tent.”

She avoided his accusing gaze and accepted his arm. “Indeed I do. Mark and I are going cycling.”

“By the way, how did you injure your hand? I noticed you favoring it.” He lifted her palm and examined the reddened marks with his finger.

She yanked her hand away. “Too much cycling, I guess.”

“Then perhaps you should curtail your morning activities. On second thought, maybe I’ll join you one day soon.”

Swallowing hard, she forced a smile. “That would be a surprise.”

Roger’s mustache twitched. “Indeed it would.”

Back in her tent, Marguerite tossed the lavender dress on the humpback trunk and slipped a lightweight nightgown over her head. She sank onto the edge of the bed. “Roger knows something, Lilly. I can feel it.”

Lilly stopped brushing her chestnut tresses and gathered the discarded gown. “How could he? You think he was following you?”

Marguerite shrugged. “He knows a lot of people, and he’s become so sneaky. Every minute with him is pure torture.”

“You should tell him the truth, Miss Marguerite.”

“What do I say? ‘I’m sorry, Roger, but you bore me to tears’? Or perhaps I should send him a note. ‘Dearest Roger, I find very little about you to which I am attracted.’ Or maybe I should wait until he proposes and say, ‘Roger, I can’t stand to be in the same room as you, let alone share a bedroom with you.’”

Lilly scowled. “My mama would wash your mouth out with soap if she heard you say that. A lady doesn’t talk about such things. I’m surprised at you.”

“But don’t you see? I can’t tell him that.”

“You don’t have feelings for him, and he should know that. God would help you say it – properly.”

Marguerite slid beneath the crisp cotton sheets. “Daddy will handle it.”

“I don’t understand you. You stand up for yourself in every other way, why not this one?”

She fluffed her pillow. “One word – my mother.”

“That’s two words.”

Marguerite rolled her eyes.

Lilly folded the gown and opened the trunk. “Deep down, you know I’m right.”

“Maybe. I’ll pray about it.”

“A you-telling-God-how-to-run-things prayer or a real Thy-will-be-done prayer?”

Marguerite opened her mouth to speak, but clamped it shut. If it was God’s will that she marry Roger, could she do it? What was His plan for her? Had she even considered His will when she’d come up with the plan to learn to sail? The thought left her mouth dry.

Even though Lilly usually took care of Marguerite’s evening toilet, tonight Marguerite sat in her bed and drew a brush through her own unpinned locks. Did she dare tell anyone the truth?

Trip’s face came to mind. A few days ago, she’d thought of him as arrogant and rude, but now she found herself enjoying his presence. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met. If she told him the truth now and he dismissed her and Mark, she feared she would miss more than the sailing lessons.

Lilly laid the horrendous lavender dress in the trunk, then moved to put on her own nightgown. After she’d washed her face in the basin, she crawled beneath the thin sheet on her cot. “Good night, Miss Marguerite. Sleep well.”

“You too, Lilly.”

Marguerite set her brush on the washstand, then doused the lamp beside her bed. Darkness entombed her, pressing in on all sides. The suffocating heat, suddenly more unbearable, made taking a breath a chore. Lilly’s steady breathing told Marguerite that slumber had already claimed her friend. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep, trying to think of anything other than Trip, Roger, sailing, and lies.

But her thoughts refused to submit.
No, no, no. I cannot
do this another night! I have to get some sleep
.

Marguerite stirred from the bed and pulled on a robe despite the heat. Stepping outside of the tent, she sought the comfort of her stars.
Sorry, Lord. I know they’re really Yours.
I don’t mean to get into Your territory by claiming them as
my own
.

Warmth flooded her. Two years ago, she hadn’t even had an ongoing conversation with the Lord, her best friend. Back then, she hadn’t even known Him – at least not personally. Sure, her parents attended obligatory services on holidays and enough Sundays to keep them from being considered heathens, but neither of them walked with the Lord like Alice and Lilly did. As Marguerite grew up, she’d wondered why God was so important to them. Then she’d found out.

Walking along the edge of their camp, she saw the lake glistening in the moon’s pale light. Marguerite was transported to another lake, where her life had changed. Two summers ago, Aunt Carolyn had asked her to come stay with her in Chicago. Marguerite never dreamed she’d get the opportunity to go to Chicago, not to mention the added bonus of seeing the World’s Fair.

Much like the Lake Manawa resort, the whole city had teemed with life that summer, and Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Mort took her to the Columbian Exposition soon after her arrival. The Ferris wheel left her breathless. The original copy of Charlotte Brontë’s
Jane Eyre
brought tears to her eyes. The grand, gilded, arched entrance to the Transportation Building awed her. And the Yerkes Observatory telescope on display in the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building ignited her dreams.

Yet it was a tent meeting outside the fairgrounds that changed her life. A friend of Uncle Mort’s had spoken. A man named Brother Brumback.

Now, as the tangy breeze wafted off Lake Manawa, Marguerite could almost smell the lake where Brother Brumback had immersed her. She’d never felt so clean or free. Crowds on the bank had sung:

What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Another wave of guilt washed over her as sure as the lake’s tide. How long had it been since she felt whole? Her life had been split in half by lies – one lie with Roger and the other now with Trip.

That day in Chicago, she’d given control of her life to the Lord. Was she now trying to take it back? Do things her way?

She shook her head.
God understands. He knows I have
to do this. He does
.

An owl hooted above her head and she jumped. Senses on alert, she heard the rustle of canvas, followed by heavy footsteps. She froze. The footfalls moved away from her. She spun silently in the dirt, and her heart sank like an anchor. Those broad, square shoulders and that deliberate gait could belong to only one man. A man who could fix anything, right every wrong, and make her believe she could do or be anything.

Her father.

Not once had she ever doubted him, but something felt wrong. Why was he sneaking away in the dead of the night – again?

9

To Marguerite’s great relief, the noxious scent of glue and varnish no longer bothered her when she entered the boat shop. She pressed her hand against the stitch in her side. Once more, Mark’s dawdling had forced the two of them to ride faster than she planned.

Mark tugged his cap into place as they crossed the threshold. “So what do you think Mr. Andrews will have for me to do today? Maybe shine his shoes? Walk his dog? Sew on a button?”

“Mark . . .” She attempted to sound stern, but inside she swallowed a giggle. “Be fair. A few days ago, he took us out on the
Endeavor
, and I think it was a reward for all your hard work.”

“Some reward. I got sick.”

“But that wasn’t Mr. Andrews’s fault.”

Passing into the workshop, Harry told them they’d find Trip outside on the pier. She spotted him inside a small twelve-foot sailboat, big enough for a couple of passengers. What had he called it? A dinghy? The sound of the word made her want to giggle again.

Trip looked up from the rope he was winding and wiped his hands on his tan trousers. “Mark, I didn’t think you’d be late on your first day to sail.”

“Sorry, sir, I – did you say I get to sail?” Mark’s eyes widened. “You’re actually going to start teaching me?”

Trip chuckled. “I’ve been teaching you all along.”

“I know. Just not . . .”

“Just not what you wanted to learn.” He stood up in the center of the boat, one arm on the mast. “Let’s get started.”

Marguerite studied the precarious vessel. Would it hold all three of them?

Trip looked at her and laughed. “Yes, it’s big enough for you too. Climb aboard.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

“One foot at a time.”

Bracing her hand on a post, she lowered one boot into the flat-bottomed keelboat, glad she’d opted for the Turkish pants over the looser divided skirt.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t as tippy as you think.” He took her other hand and held it firmly. “Now, let go of the post. Come on. Trust me.”

Marguerite did and felt the boat tilt. She stumbled, falling into Trip.

He caught her waist. “No lively stepping in here, Marguerite. Just take your seat.” He pointed behind her to a darkly varnished plank seat wedged in the front of the small boat.

She half sat, half fell into the seat in a most unladylike fashion.

A wide grin spread across Trip’s face, but he didn’t voice his thoughts. Instead he stepped over the middle seat and sat next to the tiller. He motioned Mark into the empty seat in the center.

“What do I do now?” Mark asked. “Untie the boat?”

“First we have to learn the parts of the boat.” Trip explained that starboard was always the right side when looking toward the bow, and port was the left. He nodded toward the mainsail and showed Mark what knots he’d used to attach it to the mast and boom. The mainsheet, he patiently clarified, was the line that controlled the boom.

Marguerite soaked in each word and found Trip’s explanations simple and thorough, but when he came to telling Mark that the leeward and windward sides depended on the direction of the wind, she shook her head. She would never get it all straight.