The Barefoot Bride Read Online Free Page B

tucking the little girl's head under her chin.
    “Did you say hello to Captain Sturgis?” Molly asked.
    Whit's gray-green eyes sought out the seams in the planked wooden floor. “I did.”
    “What did he have to say?”
    Whit's whole attention focused on the toe of his shoe, which he was trying to fit into a knothole one-tenth its size. “Not much. Only that the
Mary Lee
is ready to sail on the morrow.”
    Molly shook her head and smiled faintly. “He never was a talkative man, as I remember. Well, dinner will be ready soon. Go wash up.”
    Whit seemed reluctant to go. He stood there a moment longer, opened his mouth, shut it, then backed his way out of the room.
    Molly had never understood the attraction of any man for the sea. The sea was so unforgiving, and it took as often as it gave. She had already tried to interest Whit in some other occupation than whaling, but so far, without much luck. She took comfort in the fact that Whit was an obedient child; she only hoped she could lead him away from a life on the sea.
    Dinner was a quiet affair. Whit said few words. Nessie said nothing. Molly was too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice. Sheput Nessie down to bed right after they had finished eating and soon after came to help Whit get settled for the night.
    When James was alive—and at home—he had helped Whit at bedtime while she took care of Nessie. Then they had changed places for a last good-night kiss. Now Whit depended on her to follow James's ritual. Molly wasn't James, and she couldn't ever take his place. But because she understood Whit's loss, she did as her son asked and ignored her own feelings of awkwardness.
    She sat down beside Whit, gave him a quick hug, then helped him scoot down under the covers. She began firmly tucking the wool blanket around him, following the shape of his lanky frame down one side, as he had told her James used to do.
    Molly was tucking her way up the other side when Whit stopped her. “Wait,” he said. “You forgot to do my toes.”
    “What?”
    “Da always used to go around my toes.”
    Molly took a deep breath and bit down on the cry that sought voice. /
am not your father. Your father is dead!
Instead, she forced a smile and tucked down Whit's side again and around his toes and back up the other side.
    “Thanks, Mother,” Whit said. “That was almost as good as Da.”
    Almost as good.
Molly leaned over and kissed her son on the forehead. The ceremony was done. Not as good as Da. Not perfect. But all either of them had. And a constant painful reminder to both of them of all they had lost.
    “Good night, Whit. I love you.”
    “I love you, too, Mother. Remember that. Whatever happens.”
    Molly frowned. She opened her mouth to ask what Whit meant, but he turned and tugged the covers up over his shoulder—in complete disregard of all those careful tucks —and said, “Good night, Mother.”
    She blew out the lantern and left the room to seek out her own bed. She could finish the letter to Seth Kendrick in the morning.
    But in the morning, her son was gone. All Molly found was a note on Whit's pillow.
    Dearest Mother,
    I'm to be cabin boy for the
Mary Lee.
Please understand that I have to go. Da would expect it of me. I'm the man of the house now. I shall bring home my share ofthe whaler's catch to provide for you and Nessie. You don't have to cry anymore.
    Your loving son,
Whit
     
    Molly raced for the wharf that cloudy spring morning with her heart in her throat. She couldn't seem to catch her breath and held a fisted hand against the agonizing stitch in her side nearly the whole way. She half-laughed, half-cried in relief when she reached the wharf and saw the
Mary Lee
had not set sail. From the activity on deck, it appeared she didn't have much time to find her son.
    “Hold! Please, hold!” she cried as she stumbled up the gangplank.
    “Hey! You, there! No women on board ship!” a sailor cried, reaching out to stop her. “It's bad luck!”
    She eluded him,