Trouble Cove Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Trouble Cove

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  I stood alone on the deck

  of the sturdy little craft. The sea rolled and roiled, bigger and bigger from one moment to the next. I should have been afraid. We had every chance of sinking this little pleasure craft out on this wild sea. Terror should have touched my heart.

  Instead, I stood alone, poised between ocean and sky and felt, quite ridiculously, free.

  Brent’s The Ship poem fluttered into my mind, all uncalled for, with its odd parallel between shore and death. I felt alive. Like listening to divine music, I lost myself in what was both a long time and a short time; endless, yet, wanting it to never end.

  Michelson struggled the length of the deck to check the sail. I couldn’t spare a moment to watch him, but I knew he took some pains over the boom.

  A tiny orb glimmered in the distance. Could it be a harbor light? It faded almost at once. Still, I scanned what I could see of the island. The shoreline was no more than a hulking gray shape in the dimming daylight.

  Surely, we would see the lighthouse’s bright beam soon? I was sliding past exhilarated and heading toward exhaustion. I had no real idea of the distance we had come, though I could clearly envision a map of the coast we sailed.

  We journeyed up the east coast of Cape Breton Island, the northern tip of Nova Scotia. We needed to sail by the lighthouse south of McLellan’s Harbor before we turned to enter the harbor itself. It would be a trick to bring the boat around at the exact moment to glide into the mouth of the harbor.

  Trouble Cove

  by

  Nancy Lindley-Gauthier

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Trouble Cove

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Nancy A. Lindley-Gauthier

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Historical Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1413-6

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1414-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Kent, like always

  Prologue

  Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia

  Late autumn, 1916

  …a horrible war embroils Europe. Canada has already leaped into the fray by sending men, munitions, and even food. Though we every day fear invasion ourselves, for most of us, life remains curiously the same. Yet, I cannot say any of us remain untouched.

  Chapter One

  The Thistle

  Thistle dove bow-first into the heart of a white-capped wave. Foaming water rushed down from the transom, straight over the cockpit, and straight over me, clutching the wheel.

  “Steady,” Michelson, momentary captain, as it were, shouted over the howl of the wind. Calm, and utterly in command.

  I gasped, drenched and freezing, but didn’t respond. Steady was simply impossible! Mr. Michelson might act like we were a young couple out for a jaunt around the bay, but I was not used to screaming up and down monstrous, white-crested waves. I white-knuckled the argumentative wheel of the sailboat to keep our course.

  Michelson scrambled lightly around, double-checking the ropes on the heavy boom before he gave a quick look to the mast. Then he threw a long length of rope at me.

  I jerked back and glared. If I’d had a free hand, I might have tossed it right back at him.

  He didn’t pause or bother to explain. He grabbed up the trailing end and fastened the long loop of rope to the mast and then threw the line over to the side. A precaution then. No doubt he expected one of us to wash overboard any moment. The trailing line of rope might offer one chance for a rescue.

  Perhaps, it might be better to avoid any thought of ‘overboard.’ I pinned my gaze on the white-capped ocean swells before me.

  “You’re meeting them just right.” Michelson brought a pair of binoculars up and gazed ahead. “The trick will be tacking east at the right moment.” Even with his deep, resonating voice, the rest of his comment was lost to the storm.

  Neither of us knew the Thistle, built by Halifax’s best and raced all summer by the wealthy socialite Avery Brookeson, very well.

  Earlier in the day, when Avery, with his polished drawl, had said, “you go get the boat harbored then. I’m not spending my day on the water,” to our delivery man, I had to step in. This Michelson fellow delivered fish up to the hotel kitchen, for heaven’s sake, and spent his days running a dory, dragging nets, or whatever the local men did. What on earth would he know of fancy sailboats, to say nothing of sailing through storm? He might be young and strong with an intriguing, sharp-eyed gaze but, er… Oh dear, I discovered I was gazing at Michelson like a love-struck school-girl.

  Avery had scowled at me. He treated me like I was general help, but I was the manager’s assistant, not his.

  “Avery, what are you thinking?” I had argued. “Surely, we can secure Thistle well enough here at the dock?”

  “There isn’t much time.” Mr. Michelson had jerked his head toward the front window. “If she’s to be moved, it will have to be now.”

  Avery had crossed his legs and bent, fussily straightening the cuff of his pants. The dawn’s red rays glinted off his sterling silver watchband. He never cared what trouble he put people to, or what risk he asked them to take. He didn’t look at Michelson as he spoke. “I’ll see you get a tenner if you anchor her up safe in McLellan’s harbor.”

  “Ten!” If I’d had one of the parasols any nearer, I’d have clobbered Avery with one of them. “You spent more on the wine for that boat’s delivery party this summer! Why, it’s practically brand new, and you can’t even be bothered to take care of it!”

  Avery had lolled back in the soft chintz of the day room chair. “Wine is an excellent point, Elizabeth. You should definitely take the horse and trap to Ingonish for a few incidentals. Organize a storm party. You can be my date, you lucky gal.”

  “I’ll take the boat to safe mooring.” Michelson had growled. “I’ll hike back down the island road tonight and collect my money.”

  Looking back at the exchange, I felt anger all over again. Stupidly, I had run out the door to help Michelson. The angry sea whipped up white caps, even then. The pennants on the little vessel had fluttered madly as the darkening, slate blue horizon promised worse to come.

  I should have hung back, should have used some reason, but I did not.

  My impulsiv
eness was completely to blame for my current circumstances. Cape Breton Island’s coast wasn’t littered with shipwrecks for no reason. I had never before met the wind full-gale nor been so far from shore.

  I pointed the nose of the Thistle at the high spot of each wave and clung on as we flew up and up as if we would slice through the very clouds above. Thistle plunged over each crest only to dive again and again.

  The hours drew on and the blue-green ocean swells grew mountainous and the day darkened to an early night. Still, a competent sailor sails from this moment to the next, and so we did. Michelson left me the helm as he secured and re-secured the little vessel. He kept a sharp watch out for rocks and shoals, besides.

  He wore the raingear from the hold; Avery’s gear, I guessed. I had a huge shapeless sou’wester over my day dress and was too busy to feel the cold.

  Thistle did not make speedy headway, yet we did gain north steadily. The waves carried us alongside the craggy coast. The boat dipped and bowed, but Michelson had set the tiniest reef in the low sail and kept us moving.

  We plunged over one more massive wave. I dared to think we were getting there.

  “I don’t care for that boom stay,” Michelson shouted. “I’m going below after more rope. Safer to sure-secure it.”

  I stood alone on the deck of the sturdy little craft. The sea rolled and roiled, bigger and bigger from one moment to the next. I should have been afraid. We had every chance of sinking this little pleasure craft out on this wild sea. Terror should have touched my heart.

  Instead, I stood alone, poised between ocean and sky and felt, quite ridiculously, free.

  Brent’s The Ship poem fluttered into my mind, all uncalled for, with its odd parallel between shore and death. I felt alive. Like listening to divine music, I lost myself in what was both a long time and a short time; endless, yet, wanting it to never end.

  Michelson struggled the length of the deck to check the sail. I couldn’t spare a moment to watch him, but I knew he took some pains over the boom.

  A tiny orb glimmered in the distance. Could it be a harbor light? It faded almost at once. Still, I scanned what I could see of the island. The shoreline was no more than a hulking gray shape in the dimming daylight.

  Surely, we would see the lighthouse’s bright beam soon? I was sliding past exhilarated and heading toward exhaustion. I had no real idea of the distance we had come, though I could clearly envision a map of the coast we sailed.

  We journeyed up the east coast of Cape Breton Island, the northern tip of Nova Scotia. We needed to sail by the lighthouse south of McLellan’s Harbor before we turned to enter the harbor itself. It would be a trick to bring the boat around at the exact moment to glide into the mouth of the harbor.

  Thistle jauntily swung up a great swell. I looked for the red-trimmed lighthouse. The storm so darkened the late-afternoon skies that I could make out no more than vague shadows.

  At the peak of the next wave, finally, I caught a glimpse of a flickering light. “McLellan’s light,” I shouted. Without planning or thought, I leaned into the wheel.

  Michelson lunged over next to me and helped me bring her around. We were a tangle of arms and legs, both trying desperately to drag the wheel left against the pull of the current. His enormous strength made the difference. The boat started to come around.

  I looked again for the light, but saw, instead, the roofline of Widow Trumbull’s house, clearly lit and shining brilliantly into the face of the storm. Her lights shown day and night this last half-century, or so it was said.

  Mrs. Trumbull, forever vigilant, forever hopeful and…too far south.

  “No,” I screamed. “We’re still south of the harbor!”

  I jerked back on the wheel without regard for waves. Michelson mirrored my efforts, and somehow turned the Thistle away. She started to heel sharply and crept up the next massive comber almost sideways, but luck smiled on us. The sturdy little vessel leaned terribly, then righted.

  “That wind and waves could speak!” My companion shouted Wordsworth’s words at the sea. “Too close, too close the boundless deep!”

  “Not too close,” I shouted right back at him. Our voices carried on the screaming wind as if we’d become part of the storm. Who was this fisherman, this man who shouted poet’s lines at the raging seas?

  “I thought I saw the point lighthouse,” I gasped. “Only then I saw Mrs. Trumbull’s! I might have killed us, there on the rocks.”

  “I thought I saw the lighthouse, too.” He stood by me with one hand lightly on my waist. He likely meant to help me keep my balance, but my heart flip-flopped, and I caught my breath. ‘Doubt not love at first sight, for I recalled the day our eyes first met and…’

  Oh, great stars! I had to keep my mind on the sea!

  “I know McLellan’s Light,” I choked out. “I won’t mistake it again!”

  I inched aside to offer him the wheel.

  Gruffly, Michelson said, “No, miss, keep to your station. You’re a better sailor than I. We both mistook the light.”

  At his words, the chill of the freezing salt spray disappeared entirely. The wind and waves were as nothing. What man ever stood aside for a woman, no matter how competent?

  I looked around in all directions. “We can’t be far from the lighthouse beacon. We’ll both see it and agree this time, before we pull her around. We need to pull her around quickly, as we risk a knockdown.”

  “Lead the way, Captain.” He flashed me a wicked grin.

  Captain!

  The unceasing roll of the waves threatened to flatten us if we made the slightest mistake. I could not ignore the fact that if the boat went over, we would both drown in the frigid waters. My lack of concern was foolish, and yet, I fought down a ridiculous desire to sing. If fear wanted to visit me as I stood there at the helm, my companion had utterly banished it.

  Who was this Michelson, our fishmonger, our all-sorts delivery man?

  He stood tall even among his fellows, bearded like most but somehow apart. He strode with confidence, whether on land or sea.

  We had barely exchanged two words all summer, though I had noticed him weeks ago. I had been setting up the ballroom for a dance, and he had brought in a delivery from Ingonish.

  Oh, who could imagine! It had to be my ridiculous, whimsical nature. Only I could stare into a stranger’s eyes and find both wisdom and humor. Only I could believe I saw past the handsome visage and look straight into his soul.

  He’d made his delivery as I stood, frozen and speechless. We’d gone our separate ways, but I could not escape the thought of him. The deliveryman! My mother had not wrangled me a position working among the swells for the summer, only to have me chase after a deliveryman!

  Yet, I had. If I made myself be honest, I had risked my life, not to fetch this charming boat to safety as I pretended, but for this one chance to stand beside him.

  “The light,” Michelson abruptly growled. Indeed, the steady, yellowy light that marked the harbor’s rocky point shone faithfully through the dark and mist. It was unmistakable.

  Thistle started down into greenish water of a deep swell, and I knew the other side of this monstrous wave would be our opportunity. I braced myself for the attempt, glanced up at Michelson, only to find him smiling down, most curiously, at me.

  All unplanned, I smiled up at him.

  He seized the wheel around either side of me. “Now!”

  Together we brought her around, between heartbeats it seemed, but more importantly, in-between the monstrous waves.

  After that, although the sail still did not go easily, time passed all too quickly. We rode the Thistle into the sheltered harbor, triumphant.

  I slowly climbed onto the weathered pier. I did not want to leave this day behind. A part of my heart had sailed away, somewhere out there, on the thunderous, gray-black sea.

  Chapter Two

  Dinner

  Avery swung the dining hall door open and stepped back to allow the French lady to enter. She
was followed by another hotel guest, the smarmy Mark DeLaMore, and then some gentleman from down around Halifax.

  After the boat, and moments of—what? Terror, joy; I don’t even know, but after the extremes of it all, the awful fear and then finding myself sailing triumphant into the wonderful little harbor beside Mr. Michelson, after walking for ages in the drenching rain, after all of it, dinner seemed silly.

  I, the ‘Captain,’ had battled the sea with a madman, shouting and laughing into the gale. We had conquered.

  Now, I stood back, hands folded politely, and waited for my betters to be seated. The glittery light of the chandelier, the perfectly appointed dining table, the ladies in their finery, the white flowers a staff person must have brought back from Ingonish while I was out struggling with the wind and the waves all brought a sense of the surreal.

  On the other hand, I still felt my everyday irritation at the mere presence of Avery’s cohorts. The various gentlemen guests were sons of the wealthy, drinkers and gamblers for the most part.

  Mark made a point of holding out a chair for me.

  I swept over in my high-necked evening crinoline and allowed him to assist me as if I were one of them, one of the genteel ladies. What a farce.

  Avery settled his mother, Mrs. Brookeson, and the French lady at the table opposite. He looked a bit peaked. He wore a gray jacket, as there was no black-tie pretense these days, but he looked rougher than usual. He had probably spent the afternoon with a bottle.

  He glanced my way and arched an eyebrow. “Looking lovely this evening, Elizabeth.” Ah, the master seemed inclined to forgive my little mutiny.

  Genevieve Grayson and her sister Ariel floated in, divinely dressed as always, and the gentlemen fell over themselves to assist them to their chairs. The gents were less solicitous of the older ladies, but that was also commonplace at this point. We few had been together for weeks, since most of the guests had left.

  The kitchen girl, Beryl, balanced a soup tureen carefully as she came down the length of empty table. No actual wait-staff were left at Oceanside. Mr. Osten, our manager, frowned at poor Beryl, who all but dumped the soup in an effort to skirt way out around his chair.