Gillian: Bride of Maine (American Mail-Order Bride 23) (14 page)

“H
appy Birthday,
mon plus cher
.”

Gillian lifted her face to meet Rhys’ mouth in a brief kiss. She sat at the dining table, and he stood by her chair, his nod aimed at the small package wrapped in brown paper and string. “Open it.”

Picking up the gift, she smiled at Rhys. “Thank you.”

“There’s more to it than paper and string, Gillian. Open it.”

He seemed more eager than she was. She opened the package and box quickly, and almost choked at the cameo sitting in the box. Silver filigree around the edge and a beautiful blue background, but instead of a woman’s silhouette, it was the white silhouette of their lighthouse. She lifted the precious gift from the box and traced the image of Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse with her finger.

“How?” She didn’t look up, but continued to stare hoping she wouldn’t dissolve into sobs.

“Mr. Poulin had it made a year ago. It’s been in his shop ever since. I guess the rest of us take the old lighthouse for granted, but I knew you’d appreciate it. Do you…do you like it, Gillian?”

She pushed back her chair and flew into his arms. “I adore it! I couldn’t love any gift more.” She stood back and stared at the pendent on a blue ribbon. “It’s almost too beautiful, Rhys.”

His hand caressed her face. “It could never be beautiful enough to adorn your neck.”

Gillian lifted her gaze to his, and couldn’t keep the tears at bay. “Thank you.” She handed him the precious necklace. “Would you put it on me?”

“My pleasure.”

After he fastened the necklace, he dropped a kiss on the back of her neck. “Beautiful.”

She turned, glad she’d worn the blue wool dress that day. He frowned when he saw her, and Gillian’s heart stopped.

“We need to go back into the village and get you some material and dresses for spring and summer.”

“Rhys, you’ve spent so much on me already. I have the dress I brought.”

“And you’ll need more.”

She leaned into his touch when his hand caressed her cheek. “We’ll get material then. It’s unnecessary to buy ready-made when I can sew.”

“And an excellent seamstress you are. Those sails you mended are better than new.”

“I’m pleased I could help.”

His gaze drifted to the window, and her birthday dinner soured in her stomach. “Seems I’ll need your help today and tonight,
ma petite
. I’m afraid the storm is getting worse.”

Gillian watched the heavy snowfall; the wind hadn’t picked up yet, but Rhys believed it would. Like his birthday, they’d celebrated hers over the dinner hour, and by the set of his shoulders, her party was over.

“Go back to the tower, Rhys. I’ll change into trousers and be there in a blink.”

He turned his attention back to her and brushed a kiss over her lips. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s our life. And you have given me the finest birthday of my life. Now go and keep your lighthouse, it’s who you are.”

With one more kiss, Rhys shrugged into his peacoat and then layered his slicker and a fisherman’s hat. It wasn’t the look she loved most on him, but she’d soon be his twin, so she kept her comments to herself.

Gillian hurried upstairs to change. She gave one last look at the precious gift then removed it, storing it in a small box Rhys had carved for her. She made quick work of removing her clothes and layered up again with long johns, trousers, a flannel shirt and heavy socks. She went back downstairs and completed the look with Wellies, and the slicker and hat like Rhys wore.

By the time she made it to the tower, the wind howled to match Wee Jacques when they accidently left him outside. It banged against the tower as though demanding entrance. Gillian climbed the stairs and shivered despite the layers of clothes she wore.

“They were wrong again. We’ve got a full-on nor’easter.” Rhys had to shout above the sound of the wind and the waves crashing onto the rocks below. To someone not guarding the sea, the scene might even be pretty in its ruthlessness. Waves capped with white foam pounded the snow-covered rocks as the wind slapped the heavy flakes this way and that as though undecided how it wished them to fall until they eventually sought refuge on the rocks, lighthouse or house.

“The sloop?” she shouted.

He shook his head. “Secure, but not seaworthy.”

A loud wail like a banshee’s cry split the air, and Gillian felt an icy hand squeeze her heart. She turned to the window and faced the monster trying to climb its way to them with huge paws made of water.

“Gillian! I need your help.”

Rhys’ voice brought her attention back to all that needed to be done. While he trimmed and lit the wicks, Gillian replaced the dirty chimneys with clean ones. All those times sailing past the many lighthouses along the Maine coast, she’d never given thought to the man inside and all that had to be done. It was easy to take for granted a light would guide her to safe harbor should an unexpected fog roll in, or storms threaten. All the while, men like Rhys worked feverishly to see to their safety. Now she was a part of that legacy, too. She hoped to prove worthy, even as another howl had her tucking her head into her shoulders as unseen fists pounded against the tower.

From below, a crash sent them both hurrying down the stairs.

“Blast!”

The window on the bottom floor lay shattered while the wind fed snow and water into the tower. Rhys took a step.

Gillian rested a hand on his arm and shouted above the drums beating against the shore. “You need to see to the lamps. I’ll go.”

He shook his head. “No.”

She was already halfway out the door to retrieve the supplies to board up the window to keep more water from pouring into the beacon. Racing to the shed, she grabbed a piece of plywood. The tools needed were already up in the service room from a minor repair they’d completed a few days before.

The wind seemed to scream her name and gibe her as it blew her off steady and pelted the frozen snowflakes into her like cannon shot. Waves rose just above the cliff, taunting ever closer like a hand reaching for her. She sent up a quick blessing that Rhys had temporarily forgotten her condition or the fool man would try to do this alone.

When she made it back to the tower, it seemed he remembered. As he set the tools down, he turned a horrified gaze to her holding the plywood. “I’m so sorry, Gillian. Please…”

“No! Don’t even ask it!”

He nodded. They worked together to quickly board up the window the best they could, fighting against a storm that seemed determined to enter. At least it was a window not needed to watch for ships, or heaven forbid, a storm pane in the lantern room. She pushed down the nausea that rose at the thought of the dome being threatened.

“Is the light…?”

“A wick needs to be changed, of all things.”

With the window fixed the best they could, they ran back to the service room. Rhys turned back to his main concern. His gaze traveled over her shoulder and a violent curse rose above the shrieking wind.

“A schooner! Stay here. Change the wick.”

She nodded. She wouldn’t waste time arguing; it wouldn’t do any good. He would tie her up before letting her go down to the hazardous rocks again. He grabbed two lanterns as he barreled down the spiral stairs. Gillian shuddered to think what he planned to do with those lanterns. He’d no doubt perch at the end of the cliff waving them and risk his own neck.

Gillian set to work. He’d shown her how to change the wick; she just had to remember. Going to the supply box where he kept the extra wicks, she ran through the instructions. The principle was much the same as changing a wick in the oil lamps in her sitting room, just on a larger order.

She removed the damp wick and disposed of it so the oil on the end wouldn’t drip and cause a fire. A bell cut through the wind and waves. It didn’t clang like a madman was ringing it without reason. Instead, gongs were in patterns a schooner’s captain should recognize as a warning, not just another bashing against his ship, or a sound misleading him and guiding him to the rocks instead of away.

The waves tossed the vessel, and Gillian hurried her pace. Her hands shook, and she took deep breaths to bring happier times to mind. The storm refused to let her mind turn to anything but its fury. She would not let Rhys down, and she could not let the men on that vessel perish. She screamed the same curse Rhys had issued when he saw the schooner. Thinking better of it, she began to pray.

Though her hands continued to shake, she used the large screw to thread on the wick carrying tube, scrolled the wick through the seed oil, and finally through the slit. A gust of wind rattled the makeshift plywood window cover below, and Gillian rushed as the sound of wood crashing against stone rang too close to what could happen to the schooner if she wasted a second.

She lit the wick and replaced the chimney. The bell continued to clang and a small flicker of white light caught her eyes as Rhys dashed from waving the lanterns to ringing the bell. When he caught sight of the familiar red light he waved a lantern in salute to her and then returned to the bell.

The fishing vessel was still headed toward the rocks. The bells continued as well as the white lights of Rhys’ lantern. She watched, desperate for the captain to act. She couldn’t think of the carnage a shipwreck would produce on the very rocks she considered part of her home, and the poor men broken or destroyed…She screamed in desperation even as the bell, wind, and waves drowned her out.

Running down the stairs, she flew out into the harsh whiteout and joined Rhys on the rocks with a lantern. He took her light and nodded toward the bell.

She rung it in the same pattern he’d been using. She thought for sure she and Rhys would be climbing down to the wreckage of the schooner. Gillian almost bit her tongue until it bled to avoid screaming his name when Rhys did as she feared and maneuvered down the rocks while still waving the lanterns. Fingers of the waves slapped against him as he stood almost as stalwart as the beacon behind him. She rang the bell as she negotiated with God for Rhys’ safety. Her tears mixed with the salt water splashing against her and snowflakes melting on her face. As she braced to hear the horrible crunch of a ship mangled on the rocks, the schooner angled away from the rocks and altered its course toward the village.

Rhys’ arms fell to his side, and he turned toward her. His eyes were dark and his scowl deep. “Go back inside and tend the lantern, Gillian.”

She gave a sharp nod, and when she would have passed him, he grabbed her arm. “You were amazing, wife. I’m proud to have you by my side.”

He released her arm and nodded toward the tower. She smiled, or tried to. “Thank you.”

Gillian had never been as cold, wet, or exhausted, and she’d never been more full of purpose. She tended the water-soaked floor. It would be wet in seconds between her and Rhys, but at least the majority of the water would be gone to keep them from slipping. Making quick work of the floor, she climbed the steps to the lantern room. The red light outlined her in shadow against a storm pane and illuminated the terror just outside the thick glass and metal.

The winds shook the storm panes, and the glass groaned against the punishment. “Oh sweet mercy, please don’t let those panes give way.”

A hard slap against one pane almost sent her to her knees. She’d heard of lighthouse keepers or their wives going mad, and this night, she could see why as nature seemed to unleash its fury against their small beacon. The storm wanted its sacrifices, and she and Rhys had robbed the sea of a prize. Another schooner appeared, and she made out the bells. She turned to join her husband again, another battle in the making.

‡

T
he snow continued
to fall well into the afternoon of the next day, so heavy at times it seemed a white curtain had been draped over the glass of the lighthouse. Gillian trudged through the mountain of white up to her mid-thigh. At least the snow kept her steady against the winds that refused to relent. Wee Jacques hopped alongside her, not being playful but so he could make it at all. Rhys continued ringing the bell as another schooner safely made it up the coast and closer to shelter at Bass Harbor. The storm had caught so many unaware.

She stopped beside the imposing figure of her husband and tapped his arm to get his attention. His gaze swept over her, and the deep scowl he’d worn each time she’d checked on him, darkened his eyes. “Blast it all, Gillian, stay inside.”

She frowned hoping to match the intensity of his stare. He’d been in a few times to check the lantern and help her with the vents and clockworks. Each visit, he praised her for her diligence. Then he’d stopped checking the light and ringing the bell only long enough to better shore up the broken window, and the next time, to quickly change out of his sopping wet trousers. That time she’d managed to force a sandwich and hot coffee down his throat, but that was hours ago.

“You need to come inside, too, Rhys. You need food and dry clothes.”

“I’ll come in a minute. Please, wife, go inside.”

“You said that an hour ago.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Wee Jacques and I will stay here until you come with us.”