Twice Loved (copy2) (47 page)

Rye was on his feet. They squared off almost nose to nose. “Oversexed goat!”

“Yes ... oversexed goat!”

“Y’re one to talk. I didn’t see y’ puttin’ up much objection! And I did not come here t’ claim y’ like a prize at the fair! I came here t’ do y’r chores, y’ ungrateful hussy!”

“Hussy? ... Hussy! Don’t you use that name on me, Rye Dalton, not when you’ve been fooling around with her while I was 
unavailable."   
Though she didn’t know it, Laura looked very much the hussy with her fists on her hips, clothes wrinkled, voice raised.

“I never 
fooled around
 with DeLaine Hussey,” he sneered.

“You expect me to believe that—a man with the 
drive
 you have?” She scooped the pillow off the floor and fluffed it with irate jerks.

“Maybe I should’ve! The lady was willin’ enough!”

Laura gaped at Rye. Her mouth dropped open in surprise." So you 
were
 fooling around with her! Damn you, Rye Dalton!” She threw the pillow at his head and he ducked too late. But when he straightened, he held it in a fist and swung it back at her, catching her on the side of the head, forcing her back a step.

“I scarcely touched the woman, fool that I am. Instead I remained 
honorable
 because of you, and what do I get for it but the sharp side of y’r tongue.” The pillow was still clenched in his huge fist. He thrust it against her chest, letting go, and turning to scoop his hat off the floor.

She was nearly knocked off her feet, but recovered her balance in time to reach his jacket before he did. Instead of handing it to him, she swiped it at him. “With a tongue as sharp as mine, maybe I won’t be wanted in the Michigan Territory.”

He stood as still as a statue for several endless seconds. “Does that mean y’ don’t want t’ go?”

“It’d serve you right if I didn’t.”

He shrugged into his jacket. “Suit y’rself. Y’ can let me know when y’r mind’s made up.” He headed for the door. “Meanwhile, y’ can find someone else t’ do y’r daily chores. I got all I can handle down at the cooperage, gettin’ ready for the trip, without wastin’ my time up here where I’m not wanted.”

The door slammed behind him.

Laura stood for a full minute, staring at it, wondering what had happened. Then, in utter childishness, she stuck her tongue out at the door. But a moment later she fell to her knees, burying her face in the pillow upon the seat of the chair, bawling and blaming him. You don’t understand what I’ve been through, Rye Dalton! You don’t have the vaguest notion what I need right now!

She howled to her heart’s content and socked the pillow with a fury that felt wonderful! Cathartic!

But never for a moment did Laura doubt that she would leave this island with Rye in only nine short weeks.

Rye Dalton stormed down home, cursing all the way, calling her names he didn’t mean, bellowing deprecations at women in general and her in particular, feeling masculine and self-righteous and thoroughly purged. He kicked at hunks of snow in his path, promised the Almighty that Laura Dalton would never feel his hardened member against her again—not if she begged till he was feeble and impotent—knowing even before he reached the cooperage that he didn’t mean a word of it, and she’d damn well better be ready to make up for lost time when she was Mrs. Rye Dalton again!

***

Within a day’s time they both came to understand what it was that had caused the irrational anger. The sexual tension and frustration had been building up for months, with a myriad of human emotions having been brought into play: desire, guilt, love, recrimination, hope, fear, impatience. And with at least two months to go before the situation could be resolved, their anger was a natural vent.

She stewed for a week.

He stewed for a week.

He felt revived.

She felt refreshed.

Damnit, but I love that woman, Rye Dalton agonized.

Lord in heaven, but I love that oversexed goat, Laura fumed.

I’ll give her a couple weeks to realize what she’s lost.

I’ll give him a couple weeks to admit I was right.

Let her carry her own wood and water for a while!

Let him eat Josiah’s cooking!

Three weeks till March.

Three weeks till March.

I wonder what she’s doing.

I wonder what he’s doing.

Sausage ... (he smiled) ... ah, what a woman.

Smelled it cooking, did he ... (she smiled) ... probably the steam off his own body.

Two weeks till March.

One week till March.

Damnit, but I miss her.

Wait till we’re married, Rye Dalton. I’ll make you pay for this misery!

***

They waited for the courts to set her free, and meanwhile, Josh remained belligerent, often scowling at Laura, angry because Dan was gone from the house. She grew sick and tired of looking at his lower lip protruding as if a weight were attached to it, and often had to keep herself from speaking out in self-defense when he watched her making preparations for Michigan and acted as if she was doing him some grave misdeed with every stitch she took, every item she stockpiled.

She readied an ample supply of clothing, for once they left the convenience of New England’s mills, that commodity would become precious. She bought great hanks of yarn for socks and mittens and heavy cloth for sewing longer pants for Josh next winter. Garden seeds were carefully tucked into small cotton bags and packed between layers of clothing, where they could not freeze. She took inventory of her household goods, making decisions about which to take and which to abandon—any item made of wood was automatically left behind, for Rye could fashion a new one when they reached Michigan. It was glass and metal that would be precious on the frontier. She kept a growing list of necessities: needles, paper, ink, schoolbooks, mosquito netting, enough soap to last during their trip, lanolin, spices, herbs, medicinal ingredients, candle wicking, bedding, soft cotton for bandages, and wire—more simple home repairs were made with wire than anything else.

Meanwhile Rye, too, was preparing to leave. He and Josiah built up as large an inventory of barrels as possible, for when they left, the island would be without a cooper until one could be enticed away from the mainland. For their own use, special waterproof barrels were fashioned for that all-important commodity, gunpowder. Larger ones were constructed for clothing, and medium-sized barrels to carry their coopering tools. He purchased a new John H. Hall percussion rifle and bought molds for bullets. He made lists also, though his were concerned with survival and providing rather than with domestics: knives, spades, spare metal parts for harnesses, hoof trimmers (for horses would be necessary in Michigan), unguent, grease, and oil.

And Rye worried every day that the court would drag its feet and leave him and Laura in a quandary when it was time to leave. But then came the news that the hearing was scheduled six months to the day from the date Dan Morgan had first filed papers.

***

The probate court of the county of Nantucket, Commonwealth of Massachusetts, had been in existence since 1689. Throughout its history, it had dissolved many marriages by proclaiming missing seamen dead. But to the best of his knowledge, Judge James Bunker had never before heard of one being dissolved because a missing seaman was declared alive.

In his chambers on the second floor of the Town Building on Union Street, the Honorable Judge Bunker reviewed the case before him on this windy mid-March day in 1838, attempting to disassociate his personal knowledge of Rye Dalton, Dan Morgan, and Laura Dalton Morgan from the legal aspects to be considered. Bunker’s Puritanical leanings made him averse to divorce. But in this case, knowing the history of the three and considering the bizarre set of circumstances cast upon them by fate, Judge Bunker found it impossible to do anything but grant the dissolution of the marriage.

As his gavel fell, its reverberations echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Ezra Merrill inserted the relatively few papers into a leather portfolio and reached for his greatcoat. Dan and Ezra shook hands and exchanged a few low words Laura couldn’t hear, then the lawyer turned to her, wished her his best, and left.

In the ensuing silence, Laura met Dan’s eyes with a wan smile.

“And so, it is done,” he stated with an air of resignation.

“Yes, I-”

“Don’t thank me, Laura. For God’s sake, don’t thank me.”

“I wasn’t going to, Dan. I was going to say I doubt that Judge Bunker has ever come up against a case like this before.”

“Obviously not.” Silence fell again. Dan reached for his coat, buttoned it slowly, then stared at the tips of his shoes while asking, “How soon will you be leaving?”

“At the end of the month.”

He looked up. “Ah, that soon.”

“Yes.” The guilt she’d once felt was gone, but she hastened to add, “You’ll want to spend a little time with Josh before we leave. I’ll let you know exactly when that will be.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Again that discomfiting silence settled between them. “Well then, I guess there’s nothing left to do but go our separate ways. Shall we?” He turned, took her elbow in a courtly manner, but dropped it long before they reached the street.

They bid each other good-bye, and Laura turned toward home. Down below the shrill whistle of the steamboat 
Telegraph
 lifted with an ear-splitting shriek. The 
ka-whoozh
 of the whistle rattled the air again, and suddenly Laura’s heart seemed to soar like the sound.

I’m free! I’m free! I’m free!

She stopped in the middle of the street, whirled around to see if she could spot the 
Telegraph,
 but though she couldn’t see it, she knew it was picking up passengers at Steamboat Wharf, as it did every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. And one day soon it would take her away with Rye. All at once it came to her that she was totally free to go with him at last. She suddenly smiled at the memory of the spat they’d had. Good lord, Laura, you fool! You’ve never even asked him exactly what day you’re leaving!

She turned and her feet flew up the street toward home. Her bonnet brim fluttered in the stiff March wind, and a thousand unasked questions danced through her mind. She’d never felt right about asking those questions of Rye, about discussing their plans while she was still Laura Morgan. But now she could ask Rye anything. As she hustled up the shell path to the house there was one—only one—question of utmost importance filling her pounding heart.

The message arrived at the cooperage late that afternoon, and Rye tossed a coin to Jimmy Ryerson, recognizing Laura’s writing on the note. He took the stairs to the living quarters with great impatience and perched on the edge of his bunk while tearing the seal.

Dear Rye,

I’m sorry. Will you marry me anyway?

Love,

Laura

His face burst into an enormous smile. She’s free! He let out a raucous whoop of joy and sent Chad up to the house with an immediate reply.

Dear Laura,

I’m sorry, too. I accept your proposal.

Can I come and carry your water?

Love,

Rye

Dear Rye,

Stay away from me, you oversexed goat.

It’s not my water you’re after.

All my love,

Laura

Dear Laura

Then can I carry your wood? Or how about steaming up a sausage?

All my love,

The oversexed goat

Dear Rye,

Not until we’re married. When do we leave?

Everything is ready to be packed.

With love,

The ungrateful hussy

p.s. I need three big barrels, maybe four.

But don’t bring them, send them!

Dear Laura,

Am sending Chad with the first of four barrels. If you need more than four, let me know. We leave on the Albany packet, Thursday, March 30. What do you say to getting married by the captain?

I love you,

Rye

Dear Rye,

Yes, yes, yes! Everything is all ready. Have room left in one barrel for any of your clothes if you’re short of space. When will I see you again?

I love you, too,

Laura

It was two days before they were due to leave when the final message was delivered to Laura’s door. But this time it was delivered by Rye himself.

She answered the knock to find him not on the wooden step, but backed off about ten feet, standing on the scallop shells. “Rye?” Her heart seemed to stop up her throat at the sight of him. He was dressed in a rugged ecru sweater and the body-conforming sailor’s breeches with belly flap and bell bottoms. On his tangled hair nested a Greek fisherman’s hat of black cheviot wool, its shallow visor dipping at a jaunty angle across his tan brow. The rakish tilt of the cap set off his brawny handsomeness to great advantage, and as her dark eyes met those of sea-blue, Laura’s face brightened into an enormous smile that was immediately reflected in Rye’s.

“Hello, m’love.” He swallowed, then said no more, only hooked his thumbs in his waist flap and gazed up at her as if he could not get his fill, the smile having softened into something far more eloquent upon his rugged features.

“I’ve missed you terribly,” came her hearty admission.

“I’ve missed y’, too.”

“I’m sorry for the things I said.”