Mistaken Bride. Renee Ryan
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before.
And if Bridget wasn’t mistaken, she heard Nora’s breath hitch in her throat. Interesting. But unsurprisingly, her sister recovered quickly and explained how they’d found the baby in the ship’s galley. “When no one came to claim her, we realized the child had been abandoned. And we,” Nora said as she smiled at Bridget, “plan to care for her until someone comes forward to claim her.”
“Commendable, to be sure,” he said, his eyes again holding Nora’s a beat too long. “But that doesn’t explain why you’ve brought the baby to me. Why not report her situation to the authorities in Boston?”
“Can you not do that for us?” Nora asked.
“Of course I can.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “But that doesn’t explain why you are here, in Faith Glen.”
Nora turned to Bridget. “Show him the deed.”
She dutifully reached inside her reticule and retrieved the precious document that had led them to America.
The sheriff accepted the deed and Bridget held her breath. After what seemed an endless eternity, he raised his head. “Who is Colleen Murphy?”
“Our mother,” Nora answered. “She died ten years ago.”
He considered her response a moment then redirected his gaze to the document once again.
“Is the deed legal or not?” Nora demanded, her patience evidently reaching its end.
“It would appear so.”
“Well, then.” She plucked the paper out of his hand, relief softening the tight lines around her mouth. “If you would be so kind as to direct us to our home we would be ever grateful.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Bridget gasped. “But you said the deed was legal.”
“I said it appears to be legal.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately, there’s no way of knowing for certain until we check your document against the official copy in the County Clerk’s Office.”
Bridget’s heart sank. “But we were told the deed was all we needed to claim the property.”
“That may be true in Ireland, but not in the state of Massachusetts. Every land deal requires two copies of the transaction.” He spoke with genuine remorse, as though he understood how important this was to them.
“Two copies.” Bridget pushed the words past a very tense jaw. No one had warned them of this possibility.
“The law originated back in the early colonial days,” he explained. “When fraud was at a premium.”
Nora rose to her full height. “We did not travel all this way to commit fraud.”
“Didn’t say that you had.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a gesture surprisingly elegant for such a big man. “Nevertheless the law requires that the original deed be compared against the copy, the one that is kept in—”
“The County Clerk’s Office,” Nora finished for him. “And where is this…office?”
“In Dedham, about eight miles due north.”
Bridget glanced at the afternoon sky in frustration. Even if they left now, there wouldn’t be enough time to travel eight miles north and back again before the sun set.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered.
The question had been rhetorical, but the sheriff answered her anyway. “You will be able to verify the deed come Monday morning. I’ll escort you there myself.”
It was a gallant offer, but Monday was three days away.
“It’s just a formality,” he promised, his voice full of encouragement, his smile wide.
“Will you at least show us the house?” Bridget asked.
Not quite meeting her gaze, he shook his head no. “I would suggest you wait until we’ve verified ownership.”
He wasn’t telling them something, something important about the house. “But we only wish to see the property.”
“Not today.”
And with those concise words, spoken in the brief, decisive tone of a determined lawman, Bridget accepted the reality of the situation at last. She would have to put her dreams on hold for another three days. Three…more…days.
* * *
Early the next morning Will entered his private study with a heavy heart and a mind full of turmoil. Regret played with his composure as he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and closed his hand in a tight fist. Bridget Collins had, indeed, fallen to her death. And now he was in possession of the girl’s luggage, the undeniable proof of her identity.
Closing his eyes, he sucked in a harsh breath. He’d been responsible for the woman, having taken on the cost of her passage and ensuring the details of her trip were in order. Yet he’d failed her. And, in the process, his children, as well. His sad, motherless children.
Will swallowed back the hard ache rising in his throat. He was in no better position than before he’d decided to acquire a mail-order bride. Acquire. What a miserable way to put it, as though finding a wife was a matter of walking over to the general store and pointing to the woman he liked best. There. That one, I want that one to be my wife.
He should have known better.
Yet what other choice had there been? His aging mother was doing her best with the children. But the physical demands were taking their toll.
Running a hand through his hair, Will looked out the bay of windows on his right. The sun was making its grand entrance for the day, spreading tentative, golden fingers through the hazy dawn. A kaleidoscope of moving shadows flickered across the floor at his feet, creating an eerie accompaniment to his somber mood.
Pulling out the ledger he’d brought home with him from the mill, Will went to work. Despite the early hour, the air already felt hot and sticky and promised to turn unbearable once the sun was fully in the sky. He’d made the right decision to close the mill for the next two days. Grinding cocoa beans and turning them into blocks of chocolate was hot work on any given day. Deadly during a heat wave like this one.
Will was proud of the fact that the Huntley-Black Mill had a reputation for treating its workers well. He employed most of the residents of Faith Glen, including many of the Irish immigrants unable to find work elsewhere.
An unexpected image materialized in his head of the pretty Irish lass he’d met yesterday on the docks in Boston. Bridget Murphy had been beautiful and compassionate. But not his. His Bridget was dead.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, rubbing his forehead with his palm. The gesture did nothing to relieve the ache growing stronger behind his eyes.
He had to find someone to care for his children, a stable woman who wouldn’t leave them when boredom struck and then show up again when the round of parties ceased to amuse her. In other words, a woman nothing like their mother. At least in death Fanny had finally offered her children the consistency she’d denied them in life.
But her loss had still come at a cost to both Olivia and Caleb. They were far too subdued for their age. Will had never wanted perfect children in his home. He wanted happy children.
A tentative knock sounded at the door. He set down the quill and called out, “It’s open.”
The door creaked on its hinges and soon a head full of white-silver hair poked through the tiny opening.
“Well,” his mother said with a smile. “You’re up early.”
“No earlier than usual.”
“I suppose not.” She stepped deeper into the room, looking especially tired this morning