Page 6 of Boy of Chaotic Making

Goodness, she felt like a sixteen-year-old. She couldn’t decide if that was a positive or negative.

“Well,” Merritt began, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips, “Sadie is right behind you.”

Mortification stripped all the thrilling feelings as she spun around, an apology on her tongue—

To the closed door.

Merritt laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s just ... you make it so easy.”

She turned back to him and smacked his shoulder. “You nearly gave me a stroke, Merritt Fernsby!”

He shrugged. “I have something to make it up to you.” He reached inside his coat. “Close your eyes.”

She glared at him with utmost suspicion.

A mischievous slant tilted his features. “I don’thaveto give it to you ...”

Giving in to the enticement of curiosity, Hulda closed her eyes and held out her hand, expecting a small parcel of lemon drops to fall onto her palm. Instead, Merritt reached for her other hand—her left—and slid something onto her ring finger.

She opened her eyes, heart jumping into her throat. On her finger was a silver band with an inlaid pearl, catching the orange and rose light of the sunset. Simple yet elegant. Perfectly suited to her ... and it matched her spectacles.

“Oh, Merritt,” she whispered, touching the pearl.

“Admittedly the real reason I needed to come into town.” He gently grasped her fingers in his own, tilting her hand so the light shifted and glimmered across the pearl’s surface. “Feels more official now, doesn’t it?”

Emotion constricting her throat, Hulda managed a nod. She was never taking it off.

“Wish I knew where my grandmother’s went,” he went on, releasing her hand. “I don’t even remember what it looked like, but in a way, Anita Nichols is who brought us together.” She had bequeathed Whimbrel House to Merritt after her death, and BIKER had sent Hulda to tame it for him. The rest had fallen into place, not so neatly, after that. “But from what I remember of her ... I bet it was gaudy. Big. Not suitable for hands like these.” He grasped both her hands this time and brought them to his lips, kissing the middle knuckle of each.

Heaven help her, she was going to cry. She squeezed his hands and took a deep breath, steeling herself. “It’s perfect.” Still holding his hands, she turned her grip so she could admire the ring. “Wherever did you get it?”

“Little jeweler in Portsmouth. Also sells ceramics, actually. We talked over what might be suitable and settled on this.”

He’d had itmadefor her. Good gracious, despite everything, she could not wait the seven weeks to be married to him.

And yet BIKER loomed behind her, full of files and work they were still behind on from Myra’s resignation and LIKER’s audit, plus LIKER’s reassignment of a few buildings’ care to Boston. The reason the wedding had been delayed until spring was to give Hulda enough time to get things in order and delegate whatever needed to be delegated. Perhaps shewasmarried to her work, as Merritt had joked earlier.

Repressing a sigh, Hulda stood on her toes and kissed Merritt’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon,” she promised.

He kissed her forehead. “Remember to breathe, love.”

She nodded, unable to school a very girlish smile. “Travel safely, Merritt.”

Chapter 3

February 23, 1847, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Despite the coolness of the day, Baptiste was working on his cow fence when Merritt returned home shortly before dinner. He had all the posts set into the ground just behind the house and was now nailing cross slats into place.

“You know,” Merritt said, one hand on his satchel and the other in his trouser pocket as he approached, “cows can’t swim. Don’t think they’ll get very far without a fence.”

“Funny man.” Baptiste drove a nail in with a single pounding of the hammer—impressive. Then again, much about the French cook was impressive. He was the largest man of Merritt’s acquaintance and made absolutely mind-melting pastries. This past Christmas had been one of the best in Merritt’s life, in part because he hadn’t spent it alone, and in part because Baptiste Babineaux was an absolute god in the kitchen.

Christmas made him think of Scarlet and Beatrice again. Just reminiscing about their meeting warmed him against the late-winter chill. Would he see either of them next Christmas? Would they come out to the island and sip hot cider beside the fireplace while Owein chased around his nieces and nephews? Would Merrittmeethis nieces and nephews, or ... had too much time passed? His sisters had moved on to families of their own without including him in their lives. Without theabilityto include him, yes, but it had happened just the same. Would they all be creatures too set in habit to rearrange for his sake?

He touched the old scarf he still wore, not liking the dreary direction in which his thoughts were heading, so he refocused on Baptiste, grabbed the box of nails, and moved it closer. “I’m just saying she’s not going to run off.” Merritt had promised Baptiste a milk cow if his next book did well, and Baptiste apparently had a great deal of faith that it would. Granted, with Hulda’s income added to the mix once they were married, a cow wouldn’t be too steep of a purchase, either way.

“I keep her close.” He grabbed another nail, this time taking two swings of the hammer to knock it in. “I take good care of her. I not walk ten miles for milk if she wander.” He paused.“Wanders.”

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