Deborah Hale - The Bonny Bride

At last he spoke up. “Yer singing sounded pretty.” He could not keep himself from humming part of the tune.

Though she’d given no sign of knowing he was there, Jenny did not startle at his words. She replied matter-of-factly. “Kirstie taught me that song.” Her voice took on a note of private remembrance. “We used to argue over it all the time.”

“Argue over a song?”

“Aye. Kirstie said it wasn’t very romantic for Lizzie to quiz her beau about his prospects. She said the lass should’ve accepted Lord Ranald before she found out who he was.”

Perhaps Kirsten Robertson had a crumb of sense in her pampered golden pate, after all.

“Ye disagreed?”

Jenny gave a derisive sniff. “I should say so. Lizzie Lindsay was a wise lass. It’s as easy to love a rich man as a poor one. A sight easier to stay in love with him after the courting and the wedding, too.”

“Do I hear the voice of experience?” Harris asked quietly. He had the feeling Jenny was talking more to herself than to him.

“Aye.” It was a small word to hold so much bitterness. “There’s nothing romantic about working yerself to death to make ends meet. Worrying how ye’ll scrape together a few bawbies to pay the doctor bill. Flowery dreams are well enough, but they wither fast in a cold wind.”

“Ye do love this Roderick Douglas, though. It’s not just his money?”

“I used to sit in kirk and watch him,” murmured Jenny. “He was that handsome, with his dark hair and dark eyes. He had such a fine, confident way of moving and speaking. Ye just knew he’d go places and do grand things. Wedding him will be my dream of a lifetime come true.”

Harris listened as Jenny recounted the merits of her future husband. With a pang of regret, he realized that he could never measure up to her ideal.

“Ye ought to get some sleep.” He didn’t mean them to, but the words came out as a gruff command.

“Aye.” Her reply floated on the wind like a sigh. Turning from the rail, Jenny picked a cautious path to the companionway. Harris dogged her footsteps like a morose shadow.

At the door to her cabin, she turned to him. “We’ll start reading Waverley tomorrow. Good night, Harris. I had a fine time this evening.”

Before he could turn away, she raised herself on the tips of her toes and planted an impulsive kiss on his cheek. It landed a little low of the mark, brushing against the scars on his jawline. Harris opened his mouth to say something. Before he could get anything out, Jenny bolted into her cabin and firmly closed the door in his face.

“Where are we now?” Jenny peered around Harris, toward a distant smudge of land perched on the horizon.

After six weeks at sea, she felt as though she’d always lived on a boat, instinctively adjusting her walk to the roll and pitch of the deck. For the longest time there had been no tangible evidence they were getting closer to their destination. Captain Glendenning had his chronometer, of course, and something he called “dead reckoning.” As far as Jenny could tell, they might have been sailing in circles around the Atlantic.

Then, suddenly, there it was. Land. It beckoned Jenny with promises of her new life.

“Ye’ve asked me that same question every hour since yesterday when we hailed that Nantucket whaler,” Harris snapped, without even bothering to look at her. “We’re an hour closer than we were the last time ye asked.”

Abruptly he pulled back from the bow railing and stalked off without a further word. Jenny, who’d been leaning against him, lurched forward, barking her shin in the process.

“Now what’s got into him?” she grumbled, rubbing her injured leg. “Much good it’s done, my trying to teach him some manners.”

In the past twenty-four hours, Harris Chisholm had reverted to his old sullen self. Brusque, unapproachable…downright rude at times, Jenny would have been quite happy to leave that Harris Chisholm back home in Scotland. Harris, the patient teacher. Harris, the enthralling storyteller. Harris, the endlessly stimulating companion. Where had he gone?

“We’re offshore of Nova Scotia, Miss Lennox.” The master of the St. Bride appeared at Jenny’s elbow. He pointed westward, at a slight indentation in the irregular strip of coastline. “We’re making for a wee channel that cuts between the mainland and the Island of Cape Breton. It’ll take a day or more off our journey, not having to sail all the way around Cape Breton.”

“Do all the ships from Miramichi go that way?” Jenny asked, Harris Chisholm temporarily forgotten. She was eager to learn as much as possible about shipbuilding and seafaring, so she could discuss those subjects knowledgeably with her betrothed.

Captain Glendenning shook his head. “Canso’s a treacherous passage in foul weather or with an inexperienced crew. We’ll get through her fine today, though. I can smell a squall brewing in the sou’west, but we’ll be well through Canso afore she hits. With any luck she’ll hold off until we make harbour at Richibucto. The shoals and sandbars at the mouth of the river are dangerous enough in fine weather. More than one ship I’ve lost…”

“Richibucto?” Jenny asked, with a mixture of annoyance and alarm. “I thought we were destined for the Miramichi.”

“So we are, lass. So we are,” the master reassured her. “We only stop in Richibucto a day or two—more’s the pity.”

Jenny cast him a questioning look.

“It’s my home port,” Captain Glendenning explained. “Got a little farm near there, where my wife and family live. I won’t get much chance for a visit with them this time. Though I may be able to help my brother-in-law get some hay in.”

“It must be hard for yer wife, having ye away from home so much,” said Jenny.

The captain shrugged, but she detected a slight flinch in his craggy, weathered features. “It costs money to build up a good farm. Money for seed, tools and stock. A man can make good pay with his master’s papers. Besides,” he owned, somewhat sheepishly, “I’m one of those bootless fellows with salt water for blood. Every winter I say I’m done with it, going to settle down on the farm for good. Then come spring, when all the wee shipyards on the river launch their new crop of barques and brigantines, I get bitten by the sea bug again, and I’m off.”

Jenny had to admit the attractions of the life Captain Glendenning described. In six short weeks, she’d come to feel quite at home on the St. Bride. She loved the clean tang of the ocean breeze, and the rhythmic slap of the waves against the hull that lulled her to sleep each night. When a freak easterly filled the barque’s sails and sent her bousing along with her rigging taut and straining, something in Jenny’s soul stirred with a sense of expectancy and adventure.

“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Lennox.” The captain touched the peak of his cap. “There’s a few things I must see to, before we make Canso.”

Jenny excused Captain Glendenning with a cheery smile. At the moment her heart brimmed with goodwill toward the whole human race. By nightfall they’d be through the Strait of Canso, heading for a short stopover at Richibucto and then on to the Miramichi. Impossible as it had once seemed, her dream was coming true. Thinking of her dream made Jenny remember the man who had made it a reality.

“Thomas,” she called up to the apprentice boy scaling the rigging. “Any sign of Mr. Chisholm?” If Harris was on deck at all, Thomas Nicholson could easily spot him from aloft.

“Back by the poop deck, Miss Lennox,” the boy yelled down.

So Harris was waiting for her in their outdoor school. That was it, Jenny decided in a flash of insight. Preoccupation with the end of their journey had made her forget her reading lessons. That was why Harris had spoken to her so impatiently. She’d sensed his enjoyment of their studies together. It must be a marvelous feeling to open another person’s mind to the world of books and knowledge. One day she would pass along the precious gift Harris had given her, by teaching others to read.