Breakwater Beach (5 page)

“Yes. Let’s make the rounds of the others and save that one for last. It really needs a lot of work and the others are polished gems.”

Betty drove past eerie, deserted cottages, down secluded lanes, and into tiny cul-de-sacs. Of the five listings, only the center hall colonial next to a cranberry bog was big enough for a B&B, but it was too far from the beach.

When they drove up to the Barrett house, Liz saw why there was no Internet link. The yard was a tangle of dead weeds and vines. What was left of the white picket fence hung crooked. Still, it wasn’t hard to imagine how inviting the entry would be after clean up and landscape work. While only the widow’s walk was clearly in view of the road, the tower and upper stories materialized as Betty negotiated around debris and downed tree limbs strewn across their path.

They pulled into the circular drive, and the beauty of the immense Queen Anne Victorian showed through, even though it was in desperate need of paint and repair. Sun glinted off leaded-glass windows. Liz could barely wait until the car stopped to get out, the first time she’d been excited about anything since Gerry fell ill.

Rickety porch steps sagged under her feet, but she could just imagine ladies in bustles and crinolines strolling the perimeter of the house, admiring the views and aromas of the lush pine grove and Cape Cod Bay. Betty fumbled with the lock. The double oak doors creaked open. Breathless with anticipation, Liz stepped inside first.  

Dustcovers lay over the furniture like white shrouds. An aura of sadness hung like cobwebs in the corners and off musty drapes. Despite the soot and grime caked into the crevices and carved cherubs decorating the mantles, she could picture the ladies sipping tea and chatting, their gowns puddled around poufs and side chairs.

The heat was off, and their breath vaporized like wisps of smoke from the gentlemen’s cigars. As they wandered around the rooms, Liz imagined what it had looked like in its heyday, and how beautiful it could be once again. Every detail of the woodwork and fixtures bespoke elegance and luxury.

She wandered from the parlor into the dining room. A cold, denser than any she had ever experienced, wrapped around her. Liz turned up the collar of her coat and put both hands in her pockets.

Betty followed and pushed open a swinging door. “This way into the kitchen.”

Liz peered out the dirty windows out into the yard. An adorable clapboard cottage with a gabled roof and diamond-mullioned windows sat to the left, and to the right the remains of a corral poked through tufts of dead grass and weeds. The barn sat on a small hill, weathered and battered, its windows cracked, but not lopsided like so many she’d seen at abandoned farms along the roadways.

“It’s like looking back in time.” She shivered back to reality and the dated kitchen. “What is the condition of the heating, plumbing, and electrical systems?”

“The house was built in 1875 so there are fireplaces in most of the rooms. A gas burner was installed, but all the utilities have been turned off. There’s been a succession of owners but none could afford to maintain the property, never mind restore it. There is a bank appointed caretaker living on the grounds to prevent any vandalism. It’s in foreclosure, and the asking price is $1.5 million plus back taxes.” Betty had saved the choicest tidbit for last.

“And it needs a lot of work.” Liz swiped her finger over the dust covering every surface.

“Yes, the buyer of this house will be doing it for love, or historical restoration.” Betty strolled past the antique cast iron stove, through the butler’s pantry, and into the mudroom. A pair of work boots still sat on the floor and an old raincoat hung on a peg near the door. “Wait until you see the upstairs.”

The polish was worn on the sweeping central staircase. Liz traced the mahogany bannister on the way upstairs. Every one of the five bedrooms needed major restoration. She explored the musty wardrobe, cluttered with boxes, and the dressing room and bath in the master suite. But it was the bay window that curved 180-degrees from the front to the side corner of the octagonal tower in the corner of the room that drew her to it like a magnet.

Clouds swirled like ghostly wisps along the horizon, offering tantalizing glimpses of Cape Cod Bay. Transfixed, lost in memories of happy summer days with family and friends, Liz wanted to claw through the curtain for an unobstructed view of the past. Pressure mounted in her chest. She took a few deep breaths.

“Go up to the widow’s walk.”

Liz turned to Betty, who was poking around the wardrobe. “How do you get up there?”

“Up where?” The realtor’s brow furrowed.

“To the widow’s walk.” Exhilaration turned to queasiness. Talking to herself had become a habit, one she needed to break.

“Oh, this way.” Betty led her down the hall and stopped in front of a round-top door sandwiched in between two others. “The middle door leads to the staircase, but I don’t know if it’s safe.”

“I’ll be careful.” Liz tugged on the crystal knob, but the door was swollen shut. Still breathless, she exhaled her frustration, resisting the temptation to claw through it like a caged animal trying to escape.

“Better let an inspector check it out first. We can go down the back staircase.” If Betty knew how smitten Liz was, she wasn’t showing it by rushing the showing.

The four smaller bedrooms, two down either side of the hall from the master suite, were perfect for guests. With an adjoining bath between each pair, she’d have plenty of privacy. They took the servants’ staircase, no less solid and polished than the main one and wound up back in the kitchen.

“So, what do you think, Liz?”

“Magnificent. I’ll get an engineer to inspect it. After I get some estimates, I’ll put in a bid.”

Betty stopped mid-stride, her eyes round as saucers. “Liz, securing that kind of financing . . .”

“It will be a cash sale.”

“One more thing I should mention, Liz.” Betty hesitated then clasped her hands together as if praying. “There are rumors the house is filled with, well, bad luck. Some say it’s haunted. None of the previous owners have stayed here for more than a year.”

Couldn’t be any worse than the ghosts in mine.
“I’m not superstitious, Betty. I’m sure it’s the cost of restoration and maintenance that’s haunting this house.” Was the realtor concerned about the snap decision or befuddled by the prospect of a huge commission as the Cape real estate market dropped like a lead sinker into a pool of red ink?

“Victorian art and architecture are my specialties.” Liz returned to the dining room and stroked the drapes framing the bay window. “Look at that bullseye glass—and the wainscoting! It’s like someone engineered this opportunity for me.” She lifted a few of the dustcovers and ran her hands over the musty, dusty furniture. “What a crime to leave it to rot like this.”

Betty slammed the door behind them and struggled with the lock again. Liz turned as she drove away, watching the house disappear like a sinking ship. They were back in the real estate parking lot in a few minutes, and she was already thinking about what would be her first restoration project.

This time, her excitement to get out of Betty’s car was driven by the need to get back into hers and go take a more leisurely stroll around the outside. “Thanks, Betty. I will be in touch once I find an inspector.”

“Sure thing, Liz.” Betty closed Liz’s car door and waved as she drove away.

No matter what the route, that widow’s walk stood like a lighthouse guiding her eyes to it. Liz parked near the cottage, went down the drive, then crisscrossed around the dune grass to the nearby beach. Whitecaps at Paine’s Creek frothed the bay. Seagulls battled the wind, tossed around like tiny white kites. She strained to see any boats on the horizon, but it was too blustery for pleasure craft. Even the fishermen were holed up somewhere, waiting for warmer days.

Hood up, gloves on, chin buried in the collar of her coat, Liz started up the drive toward the silhouette of the widow’s walk against the murky sky. She wandered around the yard and outbuildings. Shutters hung askew. The door to the barn was ajar. Liz shoved it open and peeked in. It still had a faint horsy smell even though the stalls were swept clean of straw. Though tarnished, she could make out the name ‘Ruddy’ on one nameplate. Tears flowed, like an open faucet for a long dead horse.

Shredded leather straps dangled from old tack hung from the hooks along the sidewall. What must have once been someone’s beloved saddle lay upside down like a dead horseshoe crab, stirrups splayed like broken legs. She picked it up and brushed dust and dirt off the cracked leather.

Despite the freezing temperatures, Liz’s palms burned and she struggled to breathe past a lump caught in her throat. A forceful exhale led to a spasm of coughing that left Liz resting, with the saddle still in her hands, against a stall door. Antiques were often charged with the energies of their owners—good and bad. And this one emanated a confusing mélange of bittersweet relief that it had been retrieved and deep melancholy that spritzed shocks of static electricity with every tap of the metal stirrups against her legs.

Two stirrups on one side. This was a woman’s sidesaddle. Would anyone care that she’d found a beloved artifact, a vestige of a life and a longer story? Would the woman be pleased or disturbed if Liz took it? Was she just attributing some mystical qualities to a hunk of leather to deal with her own loneliness and desperation?

Liz draped the saddle right side up over the top of the stall and turned to leave. It fell to the ground with a sickening thud and puff of musty, horsy dust. She put on her gloves and buried her nose in her collar to block whatever irritant was in the air before picking it up the second time. The stirrups waved as if to say hello. So, desperation or not, restoring the saddle would be the first of many projects, and that resolution brought a long lost smile to her lips.

Liz pulled the door closed behind her and wandered to the caretaker’s cottage to let them know she was taking it, and that she might become its rightful owner. No one answered her knock. She peered over cafe curtains at a tiny kitchen and living area. Clothes and dishes were strewn about. Though the furniture was shabby and in need of a spruce up, at least it emanated some sense of life.

What had become of the man who had built what must have once been the showplace of this sea captain’s enclave? The extent of the house’s disrepair spoke to not only lives long lost, but dreams as well. What was life—anyone’s life—really worth if no one honored it, appreciated it, or remembered it?

She rested the saddle in the trunk, got back in her car, turned up the heat, and studied the gingerbread, elegant colored glass, mullioned windows, and the impressive octagonal tower punctuated with bay windows on the first and second floor. The widow’s walk stood higher on the gabled roof than the peaked tower.

Never mind the bay, you can probably see the entire Cape from up there.
Even if they tell me it’s falling down, I’m buying it.

Chapter 5

Spring 1873

Surrey, England

Edward had traveled thousands of nautical miles since first trotting up the drive to Apthorp. This time he had a new title, his own ship, an impressive uniform, a plot of land, and plans for a home the likes of which a tiny sea captain’s town had never seen. All done for a woman whose hand had merely brushed his, but had wormed her way into his soul like no other had before.

Elisabeth was beautiful and rich, but that had ceased to matter. If her father resisted, she’d be as pretty and penniless as any tavern girl or farmer’s daughter. Merely the thought of having her as his wife had propelled him toward greater ambitions than he had ever considered. But Lady Elisabeth stopped writing after he’d hinted about a marriage proposal.

It seemed a natural progression, after they’d traded tales of his adventures and of her unhappiness. His wanderings and her restlessness. His dreams and her wish to make them come true—together. Perhaps he’d scared her off, or she’d finished toying with him, bored with the brief diversion. Dread wrapped around him like a shroud. She might be married off by now, if her father had gotten his way. Should he just turn the horse around and leave, his pride intact? Was wondering worse than knowing he could never have her, that he would never see her again?

The conservatory came into view as he approached the house, a giant glass birdcage off the left side. Was Elisabeth imprisoned in there? Or had she flown off with another, by design or desire? A groom appeared to take Edward’s horse. His boots thudded on the turf as he dismounted. His heart beat as hard as his heels on the marble as he ascended the stairs.

Last night, he’d spit-shined his boots and the brass buttons on his coat and laid out a brand new shirt. During the transition from sackcloth to wool, and from a lowly smuggler to captain of a legal trade ship, he’d learned to navigate the east coast of the United States, hobnobbed with wealthy businessmen and traders, and proved to Somersell he could be trusted with a vessel of his own. Now he had something to offer Elisabeth besides a quick escape and empty pockets. Was it too late?

A sullen footman answered the door and ushered him into the hall.

Edward offered his card, prepared by one of the finest calligraphers in London. “Captain Edward Barrett, calling for Lady Elisabeth Baxter.”

The man extended a small tray and accepted it. “Please wait here, sir.” He gestured to a sitting room just off the entry, then walked off.

Edward paced, perusing the Latin titles on leather-bound books, trying to remember what little of the language he’d learned as a schoolboy. A sooty smell from the cold fireplace lingered, along with the still-pleasant scent of pipe tobacco.

Edward took that as a bad omen. How in God’s name had he summoned the nerve to show up again?

A young maid appeared just outside the door, smiled, and nodded her head toward him. “Her ladyship will be down shortly.”

A mere moment later, a glimpse of Elisabeth was sufficient reminder of why he was here. The intimacy of their written exchanges had eliminated the emotional and social distance. Her dress, the color of succulent purple grapes, bustled high in the back, swishing behind her, quickened his heart. Gloved hands held up the hem. Tiny matching shoes, secured with buttons at the ankles, peeped under the front.

Properly reserved, she held her head high, showcasing a stunning neckline. “Mr. Barrett, I feared you’d never return. It’s been months since we last corresponded.”  

The formality was expected with the arrival of Lord Baxter imminent. But was her breathlessness purely from rushing?

“Did you not receive my last several letters, my lady?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “My father discovered one in the post and was not pleased to learn of your intentions, or my interest in them. He made quite a show before he tossed it into the fire. I’ve had no opportunity to read any subsequent ones, nor pen any reply.” Sadness hung in her voice like black crepe at a funeral.

Edward resisted the temptation to take her hands. “Then he must already know I’ve been commissioned as a captain with a job that pays handsomely and intend to propose marriage. Once I get established, I’ll send for you to come to America.”

Her voice was breathy, strained. “This, coming after the uproar over the Lord Thornlea affair has garnered me the reputation of an ill bred, vulgar woman. You must leave. Now. I fear for your safety. Trust me, he has no compunction about using his hands, or his power.”

Edward considered several responses, his tongue thickened by racing thoughts and thoughts of finally having the pleasure of her in his arms. Doe-like eyes gazed into a place inside Edward never knew existed. Essence of lavender tickled his nose-a welcome change from wet hemp and men desperately in need of a bath. Naiveté, desperation, elegance: Well worth a fight. Heavy footsteps shattered the magic moment.

“Meet me after dark near the gazebo.” Elisabeth slipped toward the door.

Always quick thinking, this woman was. Ready and willing to make a plan and enact it. He’d be there to fulfill both their wishes.

“Lord Baxter, Captain Edward Barrett of Somersell Shipping.” The footman stepped aside.

The statuesque yet burly earl strode in. Dilated veins of one who partook of far too much traversed his furrowed cheeks and nasal bridge like a well-worn map.

Elisabeth raised her chin and stared at her father, always defiant, despite her vulnerability.

The expression on His Lordship’s face as he regarded his lovely daughter projected abject disgust; his lips sneered, his eyes narrowed.

“My lord.” Edward bowed.

“Captain Barrett. The one who has been plying my daughter with unwanted attentions?” Lord Baxter’s lips pursed and he cocked his head to the side. A mannerism Elisabeth had clearly inherited, but the effect was hardly as charming.

“Your Lordship. I’ve returned from another trip to the Orient, and this time I have a gift for your daughter.” Edward proffered the package he’d held since his arrival.

He’d worried that the gift shouldn’t be too personal or otherwise inappropriate, and now was glad to have chosen some of the finest spices and teas, wrapped in an embroidered silk bag.

Lord Baxter took it and nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Davis, please take this to the countess.”

Davis bowed. Edward seethed as the footman took his leave. He’d envisioned Elisabeth carrying the deep crimson and gold purse.

“Elisabeth, please see that tea is prepared for our guest.” Baxter dismissed her with an off-hand toss of his head and sarcastic undertone, which undercut the polite words.

Elisabeth left, her gaze trained at her feet.

How could he leave her here? But how could he, and where would he, take her? “I’ve come to formally pay my addresses to your daughter, Your Lordship. Now that I’ve secured a fine contract and have commissioned a builder for a home suitable for Lady Elisabeth . . .”

Lord Baxter’s head drew close enough that Edward heard the whisper as a shout. The stench of stale alcohol and tobacco on the Earl’s breath reduced his stature in Edward’s opinion to that of the lowliest brigand.

“Captain Barrett, no matter how important you’ve become in the American shipping industry, I remain unimpressed. In addition, I’ve looked into your past dealings. It seems not long before you accepted this so-called commission, the ship you sailed on was heavily involved in smuggling and transportation of stolen goods, slaves, and contraband. You are to cease harassing my daughter. If I ever see you on my lands again, you’ll be arrested for trespass, and I’ll see you prosecuted for piracy. Shall we have tea before you take your leave?”

A pirate has little time to judge a man’s mettle in order to plan a successful attack. Earl Baxter would wage a dirty battle and use every advantage his status afforded, but there were no pistols or knives involved, so no need for a rash move.

Edward forced himself to walk next to him. Nausea roiled his stomach. He would not give Baxter the pleasure of following a few steps behind, of bowing to his threats. Their footsteps on the butter-coloured marble were the only sound as they passed a curved staircase on the way toward the rear of the manor.

Leather-bound books covered three walls in a library. A sitting room on the other side had disgorged some of its sculpture onto plinths that stood like guideposts in the hall. Portraits and oils of local landscapes adorned the route.

The butler was preparing a table for tea in a salon overlooking a formal garden. Blood-red roses already studded the green foliage. A spring breeze rustled the leaves giving the illusion of a warm day outside, but a chill settled in Edward’s chest.

The smell of money seeped into his skin and tickled his nostrils, taunting him. His childhood home had a dirt floor. His mother and father had worked the fields and milked cows. Below deck sailors lived in lice and flea infested squalor. The only escape was ports of call where they shaved your head if the itching was too bad, taverns offered clean rooms, and pretty barmaids served a lot more than beer.

Edward had vowed to live like this someday, but wondered if all the questionable things he’d done in pursuit of that goal had been worth the moral compromise. He’d fought hand-to-hand and tossed many a man overboard without a second thought. Seeing Elisabeth next to the table, staring blankly ahead, defeated, despondent, and degraded, gave him more pause, more regret. Particularly now that Lord Baxter held up a shield of righteousness to defend her honour in the right hand while he cut her down with a sword in the left. Social warfare required a different battle strategy. He’d see this through and allow Baxter to rub his face in dung. Tonight, he’d meet her to plan the next round.

The Countess of Camberley swept in, wearing a smile too wide to be genuine. Elisabeth favoured her in looks, save for the fact the older woman was quite a bit heavier.

The Earl looked askance at his wife. “Captain Edward Barrett of Somersell Shipping.”  

“Captain Barrett. Thank you for the teas. We shall sample them today.” The simpering smile and raised eyebrows belied that she had been informed of the real reason for Edward’s call.

“Your Grace.” Edward bowed and waited while the butler pushed in the ladies’ chairs, then gestured him to a seat between Lord and Lady Baxter, directly across from Elisabeth.

“Please be seated, Captain.” The countess proceeded to pour tea. “What a lovely purse. Where is it from?”

It lay on the table, open. Her handkerchief was already inside.

“Siam.” Fury boiled inside him.

She put it down and selected some cakes.

Lord Baxter chewed slowly and sat back in his chair, no doubt savoring the torture.

Elisabeth sipped tea. “It’s exquisite. Best without cream, I imagine.” Her eyes drew him in like an oasis promising relief to a parched traveler.

“I believe so, my lady.” This show was for the Earl and the Countess of Camberley to assert their power. She’d had enough presence of mind to ensure they could talk frankly later.

Teacups clinked and spoons stirred. The tea tasted like bile, the cakes like hardtack. Edward drained his cup and cleared his plate to be polite.

He rose. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lord, my lady. I have business to attend to in London.”

“Good day, Captain. And thank you again.” The countess stroked the silken purse as if it were a kitten.

“Godspeed, Captain.” Elisabeth’s eyes swam in tears.

This woman tore holes in places he never knew existed.

“Yes, my good man. Safe journeys. Hartman, see the Captain to the door.” The earl selected another cake.

The countess poured another cup of tea. Elisabeth slumped in her chair, likely wondering if he’d dare return. He followed the butler out, planning to pass the time in a nearby pub.