“Dora needs a bridal trousseau for her Emily. In a hurry.”
“Who’s robbing that cradle?” he asked, as the girl was barely fifteen.
“She’s marrying Thomas Pearce, that colonel’s son. The wedding’s set for Sunday next,” said Polly, who figured there’d likely be a christening well before Christmas. She pointed to the heaped basket at her feet. “There’s a mountain of sheets and tablecloths inside.”
Polly’s stomach pitched, and she realized that her
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dizziness might be a sign that she was in the same boat as Emily. Her own courses had been due last week, and it was only a matter of time before she and Oliver got caught. She was not afraid for her future. Even though Polly had no hope of a dowry, she counted he
rself luckier than Emily, who had all the linens a girl could want but did not love her baby’s father. The only question would be how to get her cousins to the wedding. They had been furious when she moved to Dogtown, ignoring their objections that she was too young, pretty, and well connected a widow to live among the degraded females of that neighborhood. As far as she could tell, they still knew nothing about Oliver.
She looked up to see tears in his eyes. “Oh no,” she said, and bit her lip to keep from smiling. “I’m not deserting you, dearheart. I’ll be home tomorrow, or the day after.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “I know,” he said and tried not to dwell on the prospect of waking up alone the next morning. Happiness had made him too tender for his own good.
“You’d best be going,” Polly said. “They don’t approve of my having visitors. Especially not dashing young men.”
Oliver kicked at the gravel and hung his head.
“Just think of our reunion,” she said.
He doffed his hat, brushing it across Polly’s lap, up her chest, and under her chin. She kissed the air in his direction, and he marched himself away.
In the street, Oliver felt newly orphaned. He started back up the road to Dogtown, dragging his feet at the thought of facing Tammy without the reward of Polly’s smile at the end of the day. After a few paces he turned back and started down toward the harbor, kicking at stones until one landed in the water. Oliver looked up to find
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himself beside a large pile of old planks and pilings at the harbor’s edge.
“What’s all this?” Oliver asked of a man dragging the wood into piles.
“A new wharf,” said the dark-haired fellow, grateful for the chance to stop and mop his brow. “Mr. Bates wants to salt his mackerel right here instead of taking it into Boston.
We’re going to make this dock big enough to set up the flakes to dry the fillets right here. See, Bates got burned by the Boston market last year when the price dropped and he had to dump a holdful. Nearly lost his boat. He figures on salting his own fish and shipping it out west in his own barrels.”
“Can he make money on that, do you think?”
“I’m counting on it. My name’s Grady. I’m the
foreman,” he said, eyeing the shape of Oliver’s forearms and the weary state of his boots. “I’m going to need a crew. The work ain’t too hard but you got to be able to stand the smell.”
“I might be interested,” said Oliver.
“Well, if you want to get off the farm, you come see me in a couple of months.”
Oliver tipped his hat and wandered back up to Front Street. One trip across the bay in rough seas had cured him of any seafaring dreams, but the smell of fish didn’t bother him. And he thought that Polly might just as soon live in town, closer to her customers and a steady supply of thread and ribbons, and female conversation.
Passing Peg Low’s tavern on Front Street, the smell of bacon snagged Oliver’s attention. In the past, he’d steered clear of public houses. A scant glass of Easter’s weak beer made his head ache, and besides that, Polly hated to see him