Lucky's Lady (The Caversham Chronicles Book 4) (43 page)

She greeted Sally as she entered the home through the kitchen this day, curious as to what the housekeeper was cooking. The smells of Sally's delicious fish stew and fresh bread cooking were at first tempting, but quickly turned her belly. She sped through the kitchen, calling behind her "It smells delicious, Sally. I can't wait. You know how I love your fish stew."

The lies were starting to come too easily now, and she hated herself for it. Had she never started on this path of deception to have the child she wanted, she'd never have become such an adept liar. Mary-Michael had to speak first with Mr. Watkins about her condition, so she could let everyone else know. She wasn't going to be able to hide it for too much longer.

His bedroom door was cracked a few inches and she knocked, waiting to hear if he was moving around inside. Mr. Watkins' bedroom was directly over the front of the house, facing the bay and catching all the afternoon breezes off the water. His room was the most comfortable one in the entire house. He needed it because he spent so much time here, and he deserved it because of the kind of man he was. The kind man he was.

"Sally, I told you I can't..." His voice didn't sound any more feeble than it had this morning, did it? She couldn't tell. She hoped not.

"It's not Sally, sir. May I come in?"

"As long you aren't going to force more of that vile tasting medicine down my throat, you're welcome to enter."

Mary-Michael entered the room and saw Mr. Watkins sitting in his favorite chair, near the window taking advantage of the breeze. He had the afternoon newspaper in his lap, and his reading glasses on his head. His gaunt features were not just pale, but also had a yellowish tint. She knew Sally had a difficult time getting him to eat, and made the meals she knew were his favorites. Mary-Michael and Sally both knew Mr. Watkins was not long left for this life. Mary-Michael hated the thought of it, but knew it was long past time to make that planned trip to the farm with her husband and Father Douglas. She and Mr. Watkins had even been preparing the shipyard for this day by giving promotions and elevating Andrew Nawton and Robert Temple to co-managers, and William Bailey to crew chief. She'd given them authority to run the yard in her absence, with Mr. Baxter and their banker having oversight for financial and legal matters. New orders would wait until her return.

She went to his side and knelt down next his chair. Resting back on her heels, she smiled at her beloved mentor. "I shan't force you to take your medicine sir, though after you hear my news you might wish to get well as quickly as possible." Their eyes met, and his took on a hopeful, optimistic expression as he scanned her face for clues.

"Is it... what I think, Mrs. Watkins?" His voice was hesitant, almost reverent. She smiled at him and nodded. For a man in his condition, he sprang upright in his chair, dropping the newspaper to the floor. Unable to stand on his own now, he pointed at the door with a shaky hand. "Get vellum, pen and ink from my desk. You have to send a note to Frank Baxter. We need our attorney right now. This evening. And send another to Gideon. Have them both come for dinner. Make it clear in your note," he said with more determination than she'd seen him have in weeks. "I will have no excuses this night."

"What do you plan on doing, sir?" Mary-Michael asked, a little confused. "Telling the entire village?"

"It might appear so, my dear wife," he said through his grin. It had been weeks since she'd seen him smile like he was at that moment. Not since the sea trials of Ian and Lucky's boats. "But in truth, Mrs. Watkins, I must protect you both, and this is the only way I know how."

"What are you going to do? I don't want you over-exerting yourself, sir."

"If dictating a codicil to my will to my attorney, with my priest as witness is over-exerting myself, then I might as well call the cabinet maker to measure me for a coffin now."

"Sir, I wish you would not speak so," she admonished as she crossed herself. "I feel as though you taunt the devil when you say things like that."

"Bah! Nonsense. Go write those notes and have Victor deliver them by hand to both men."

Mary-Michael gave him a glance before leaving the room, and the old man grinned and winked at her causing Mary-Michael to smile. "You did it, Mrs. Watkins. You will have that child after all."

"I certainly hope so, sir."

As she walked down the hall she heard him say, "Tell Sally I want a bowl of that blackberry cobbler she made yesterday."

"Yes, sir." She hoped this desire for cobbler meant his appetite for food was returning now. She'd do anything to make him happy. Anything he wanted.

 

O
n a warm July evening several weeks after moving the household to the family farm near Mount Airy, with just Mary-Michael in the room, Spenser Watkins slipped quietly into death. Father Douglas arrived at the bedroom door to find her kneeling at her husband's bedside, hot silent tears trailing down her cheeks as she held his hand. The priest called for Sally to help Mary-Michael to her room, as he began saying prayers over his friend's body for his soul.

The very next afternoon, Spenser Watkins was buried beside his first wife in the family cemetery behind the house, under a giant spreading oak tree. Mary-Michael watched as Victor, and several of the farm workers, shoveled dirt onto the plain wooden casket containing the body of the man who was the only father-figure she could remember. He had been her mentor, her teacher, and her dearest friend.

And to the rest of the world, he was the father of her unborn child.

Two younger black men carefully placed a marble cross-shaped headstone into a footer in the ground, the cross bearing simply Spenser Watkins' name, the year of his birth, and a space for that of his death. The stone had been prepared earlier, waiting for its proper time, yet another example of Mr. Watkins' attempts to make things easier for her.

She and Sally held on to each other as they turned and went back into the house. Mary-Michael had so much to think about now, so much to do, and so much life to live. She rubbed the barely-there bump below her navel and smiled, once again, thanking God for her beautiful good fortune.

 

T
wo hours after dropping anchor in Curtis bay, just off Watkins' shipyard, Lucky and Ian stood in Robert Temple's office at Watkins Shipbuilding. Lucky held his hands clasped behind his back, listening to the accountant's explanation for the obviously incorrect amount on the ledger for his and Ian's company. Somehow, Lucky prevented himself from punching a hole, or two, or three into the wall next to him. This was Mary's doing. And he didn't know why.

"Captains," Mr. Temple, the balding older of the two men began, "I was told by Mrs. Watkins that the balance for both vessels were paid in full directly to Mr. Watkins in private. Those exact amounts were then deposited into the yard's operating account before they retired to the country for the summer." He turned the ledger for Lucky and Ian to view, and said, "There is supporting documentation to corroborate all is as she said. We had no reason to doubt her word. If you would like, I shall pull the banking records..."

"That will be unnecessary," Ian said, looking as frustrated as Lucky felt. Only frustration was the least of his emotions. It took every bit of patience Lucky had to portray the facade of composure. Especially when he sensed the two men in the office with them were hiding something. Something to do with Mary and Spenser.

"How long ago did the Watkins's leave?" Lucky asked.

"They left a few weeks after your departure with the new ships," this came from the new Shipyard Manager for Watkins Shipbuilding, Andrew Nawton. "Mr. Watkins doesn't tolerate the heat as well as he used to. Though, in the last batch of paperwork from the farm, Mr. Watkins has stated he is feeling much better now that he is in the cooler climate of the mountains."

"So you are in contact with him?" Ian asked.

"Yes," Mr. Nawton replied, "we are in weekly communication."

"Then may we have their direction so we may thank them for the fine work done?" Lucky asked.

"We are not allowed to divulge that information," this came from Mr. Temple.

"Though, if you leave a note we can send it with our next outbound correspondence," added Mr. Nawton. "If you require a reply, it will arrive the following week.

The accountant removed a wrinkled kerchief from a trouser pocket and patted his wide brow of perspiration. Lucky was unsure if it was from nerves, or from the intense heat and humidity.

He pushed away from the wall and said, "Thank you sirs, for your time."

"Yes, thank you," Ian added.

As they left the building, Lucky wanted to open the door to Spenser's office, just to see if she was there but unwilling to see him. He refrained from doing so, but only because the accountant walked behind him.

He and Ian left the offices and walked toward the village. First stop for the men was the rectory, to try and get answers from Mary's brother, or Mr. Watkins' good friend. Upon arriving there, the rectory's housekeeper said they were both out of town on church business and not expected back for a week or more, and if they needed to speak to the visiting priest for confessions, they would find him in the church.

They thanked the woman, then left. Lucky led the way to the tavern and inn, owned by Becky Parks and her husband, David.

His heart twisted inside his breast, and food and drink was the furthest thing from what he desired. He wanted answers. How could he help Mary if she wouldn't let him in while she was hurting? Because that's what he thought was really going on. She was hurting. Likely, Spenser was near death and she was doing her best to protect herself. As he and Ian walked down the wooden walkway, Lucky thought his own footfall sounded menacing even to his own ears.

"Something is not right," Lucky said. "I feel it."

"In the absence of her brother and the old priest, all we have are Mary's friends," Ian said.

"I don't know any other than Becky Parks," Lucky said, what little patience he had, had long-ago begun to wear thin. "She mentioned several, but I don't remember who they are."

Seated at a table in the corner of Becky's, in between her luncheon and evening crowd, he and Ian were the only customers in the entire tavern. When they placed their order, Ian had charmed the server into conversation, asking the girl if Becky was available.

Lucky wanted to wring Mary's pretty little neck for disappearing on him, or better yet, throw her over his knee and spank her till she begged for mercy. But he knew he could do neither. In fact, he was the one in need of pity and compassion. Because the clawing at his heart, the burning, tearing sensation in his chest was growing more unbearable the longer he spent in this tiny, nowhere village unable to see her. It was making him sick with worry to wonder if she was well. He wanted to know how she fared physically and emotionally with her husband as ill as he remembered from the spring.

The clinking of the tin flatware on the pewter plates was the only noise in the dining room, as two customers ate in a corner of the room. The raven-haired Becky Parks came out from kitchen through the door to the left of the bar.

She gave them a slight smile upon recognizing them, and said, "Hello Captains. It's nice to have you back."

Lucky thought it was a practiced smile, and a contrived welcome. He looked to Ian, and his ever-charming partner returned the greeting and asked, "Mrs. Parks, we were wondering if you might help us."

"I'm not sure if I can," she said, smoothing her apron and glancing at Lucky before settling her gaze on Ian. "But, what can I do for you Captains?"

"We are looking for Mr. and Mrs. Watkins, as we would like to pay our respects to Mr. Watkins, and thank him for the fine work done on all our boats."

"They are gone to the mountains for the summer. It is where Mr. Watkins has a farm. They usually do this every year, and they—"

"She left no note for me," Lucky rudely interrupted, "when she knew I was coming back this month." He realized his voice sounded a little more terse than he intended, and not because his friend bumped a knee into him, before giving him a glaring eye. Lucky quickly apologized, realizing he couldn't afford to antagonize anyone who might have information.

Ian held a steady composure. "Mrs. Parks, you know that my father was good friends with Mr. Watkins years ago," Ian said. "I was wondering about Mr. Watkins' health, and if there was anything I could do to help both of them."

"Have you heard from Mrs. Watkins?" Lucky asked the woman.

She returned his intent stare with frost-flecked blue eyes. "I have heard, Captain, and it may not be the news you seek," she stated. "You see, Mr. Watkins' health is drastically improved under the care of his physician, and he and Mrs. Watkins have decided to seek a cooler, drier clime to sustain his newfound good health as his doctor has recommended."

"So she's never coming back?"

"Not—" A sympathetic look came over her, almost as though she wanted to say more but was unable. "—not for quite a while."

All of the sudden, Lucky couldn't breathe. The burning, ripping sensation in his chest felt as though his soul was being torn to shreds. He prayed to die, while at the same time wanting to live so he could hate her for eternity.

The chair fell behind him as he stood, and he practically ran from the room. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out of the building. He had to get away from the entire area and be done with it all. He'd had dreams. Dreams of a home with an auburn-haired wife who spoke to him of real life matters, not of French fashion and invitations to parties. A woman who had visions of a future they would build together, not one whining about things she didn't have. He'd wanted a home filled with children, whether she bore them or not. He already knew that he could love children not of his blood, because he still loved Maura. And he remembered Mary telling him she and Spenser had tried to adopt a brother and sister, children whose relatives eventually came for them, breaking her heart.