Sojourn With a Stranger

Sojourn With A Stranger

By

Keta Diablo

And if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land, ye shall not vex him.

Leviticus 19:33

Chapter One

Norfolk, Virginia

1870

Derek Stafford's impatient sigh fogged the windowpane in his study. "What in the hell could be keeping Masterson?"

A lawyer of high repute, the man had represented the Stafford family in legal matters for decades. Masterson's missive had arrived last evening; an urgent matter had arisen. Whatever was amiss, his barrister would handle posthaste.

Returning to his desk, he slumped into the chair and breathed a sigh of relief when a light rap at the door breached his sullen thoughts. "Come in."

"Good morning, sir." Masterson entered with a curt nod and closed the door behind him.

Derek nodded him into one of the wingbacks opposite his desk. Before the man settled in, he picked up the note and held it in the air. "Let us be about this urgent matter, Horace."

"I'm afraid I have dismal news, an accident at sea."

Derek leaned back in his chair. "Involving one of my ships?"

Masterson nodded.

"Do you have an estimate of damages?"

"The Valor wasn't damaged, but involved."

"If I recall, she was coming from Camden, Maine after delivering a cargo of tobacco."

"Correct, sir. She disposed of her goods, took on the usual passengers and delivered them to their destinations along the way."

The drawer groaned when Derek slid it open, retrieved a flask and two glasses, and then filled them with brandy. He passed one to Masterson. "Something tells me I'm going to need this, and I don't give a damn if it's nine in the morning."

Masterson exchanged the brandy with a piece of paper. "Here's the report, sir."

Derek scanned the document. "Signed by Uriah Kendall."

"Captain of the Valor, witnessed by Joseph Nettlecamp, the First Mate."

"Nettlecamp. Refresh my memory, why does the name ring familiar?"

"First Mate on the Pride at one time and the Conqueror before transferring to the Valor."

"Ah, yes, now I remember. A rough bloke who engaged in piracy before the war."

Horace cleared his throat. "Rumor, but yes, a stocky, raw-boned man. And an excellent swimmer. Perhaps you'd care to read the report."

Derek turned his attention to the document again. When he came to the last two paragraphs, his usual stoic reserve evaporated. "Good God, two people drowned at sea after Kendall allowed them to embark on a fishing expedition?"

Horace nodded. "One Devon Brinsley and his wife, Sadora. Nettlecamp saved their daughter. It's in the report."

"Jesus, why would Kendall allow them to leave the ship?" He glanced at the report again. "In a skiff?"

"By all accounts, the drowned man was a fisherman and capable of handling a boat. He also claimed to be an excellent swimmer."

Derek blew air through his lips.

"Moreover, he reminded Kendall of the red sky the prior evening."

"Red sky at morning, sailor take warning; red sky at night, sailor's delight." Derek rose and resumed his prior path to the window. "Has Kendall run amuck? There isn't a salt alive who abides by that ancient rhyme."

"Apparently Kendall does."

Suppressing his anger, Derek drew a deep breath and turned to Horace. "Did the man also attest to his wife and daughter's capabilities should a storm arise?"

Masterson shot him a pained look. "No mention of that in Kendall's statement."

"No, I didn't think so." Derek rubbed his temples, his thumb and middle finger working overtime. Slumping into the chair again, he eyed his empty glass. The moment his barrister left, he would top it off with brandy. After the news he received, he might empty the flask. "The report says four individuals left the Valor at dawn." He rolled his eyes. "And hadn't returned by dusk."

"That's what it says, yes."

"Enlighten me. Who was the fourth person?"

"Nettlecamp, sir. At least Kendall had the wherewithal to insist his First Mate accompany them."

"After they departed, the heavens opened up and turned the ocean into a whirling-dervish of death?"

Horace fiddled with his shirt cuff. "That sums up Kendall's assessment of the storm."

"Disastrous. I can think of no other word for it."

"Yes, sir, thus the reason I came posthaste after receiving Kendall's report last night."

"Why wasn't I notified last evening?"

"I received the news at midnight—thought it best to tell you myself this morning."

"There will be an inquest, of course?"

"Coroner Radcliff from Norfolk began one this morning. Let's hope he'll deem it a misadventure, an accidental death."

Derek leaned forward and held up two fingers. "Deaths."

"Yes, two. Thanks to Nettlecamp, we didn't lose three."

"Saved the girl, did he?"

"He did, sir, and once he reached a nearby island, he lit a fire and signaled the Valor."

"Damn, we're most fortunate Radcliff is conducting investigations now that Union troops have abandoned Norfolk."

Horace smiled for the first time since entering the room. "Precisely my sentiments."

Derek's thoughts drifted to the war. Damn Mayor Lamb for surrendering Norfolk to Federal troops in sixty-two. The Union army had left and Virginia had been reinstated to the Union now. He couldn't allow his thoughts to wander to the gruesome battles, or linger on the wound he'd acquired at Pickett's charge. His leg would stiffen if he dwelled on the horrific images.

Horace's voice broke his reverie. "About Miss Brinsley, Derek."

"The girl, oh, yes. Where is she now?"

"I wouldn't classify her as a girl." Another smile graced the barrister's face. "Ms. Brinsley is nineteen years old and very handsome I might add."

"You've met her?"

"I thought it best to avail myself to the young woman this morning before I came here." Horace glanced at his pocket watch. "She's alone now and needs to know someone will watch over her."

Derek felt a scowl crease his brow. "Must you be somewhere soon?"

"I do have another appointment, but I wanted to know how much time remained before she arrives."

A groan left Derek's lips. "Arrives? Miss Brinsley is coming here?"

"Yes, my assistant is retrieving her from the Cumberland Methodist Church on Fenchurch Street and delivering her here."

"Whatever for?"

"To mollify the Reverend and to stop the gossipmongers from engaging in surreptitious speculation over what will become of the orphan."

Derek swallowed hard. "Orphan? She's without family?"

"I believe she has a grandfather in Camden, a Lewis Brinsley."

"Very well, send her back to him."

"Impossible," Horace said, tight-lipped. "Radcliff forbids it. He needs to depose her and intensive searches are underway for the bodies of her parents. Should they be found, they must be given a proper burial."

"You know they'll never be recovered." Derek wagged a finger. "And what's more, why must we mollycoddle the Reverend?"

"A good show of faith, no pun intended. Reverend Hall cannot house the girl forever. His parish is modest—one bedchamber. We can't have the locals up in arms about Miss Brinsley's future."

Derek changed his mind about the drink and poured another, downing it in short order. "Let's not talk this to death. Tell me what you expect from me to end this messy business."

"Offer her shelter and employment. After the dust has settled, she will return to this grandfather she speaks of and the blue bloods of the city will be appeased."

"The blue bloods of the city be damned," Derek said.

"Sir, your father would frown on bad public relations. The incident made the local papers and I'm concerned the story might garner headlines in the nearby northern papers. Very bad for the Stafford name."

"I fail to see how the ill-fated plight of one woman whose parents drowned at sea―"

"―On a vessel owned and operated by one of the wealthiest families in Norfolk, whose captain failed to take necessary safety precautions when he allowed a family to embark on a fishing expedition in the middle of the ocean. Resulting, I might add, in the drowning of two people which now necessitates a muddled inquest."

Derek buried his face in his hands.

"Need I say more?"

"Very well." He lifted his head and looked into Horace's steel blue eyes. "I'll offer the girl my own bedchamber if that will harness the loose tongues. Ms. Brinsley will be a guest, not an employee."

"The employment is at the young lady's insistence."

Derek stumbled through the words. "She-she insists on working for her fare back to Maine?"

Horace nodded. "Adamantly."

"Rather cheeky of her."

Another nod. "I think you'll agree she's got pluck but in an unassuming way."

"What qualifications does she possess?"

"Never worked a day in her life from what I can surmise. However, she stated several times in the brief time we conversed, she will not accept charity. She doesn't want to impose, knows her options are few."

"Can she cook?"

Horace shook his head.

"Has she served a manor before?"

Another shake of his head.

"What do you suggest I do with the blasted girl, put a scrub bucket and a bar of lye soap in her hands, turn her loose on the hardwood floors?"

"Perhaps Crete will be kind enough to take the girl under her wing until the smoke clears." Horace rose from his chair and stuffed his long arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat. "She'll -have a roof over her head due to your kind benevolence. She won't feel indebted to you or anyone else until Radcliff decides she can leave Norfolk."

"Where are you going, Masterson?"

"I must be on my way. I have another appointment, and Miss Brinsley should arrive any minute."

Before Masterson ducked from the room, Derek stopped him. "So my father was informed this morning?"

"Yes, and he agrees. For diplomatic reasons, it's the only way to proceed."

The moment Horace closed the door to the study, Derek refilled his glass. He'd seek out Crete at the first opportunity. The trusted house servant would know what to do with the hapless young woman.

* * *

Reverend Hall's mellifluous voice drifted through the bedchamber door. "Mister Andrews has arrived. Are you ready, child?"

Raine opened the door, her satchel tucked under her arm. "All set."

"I've never met Derek Stafford, but have it on good authority you'll be in good hands." He gave her a fatherly hug. "Until you secure passage back to Maine."

"I appreciate your kindness, Reverend, shall never forget it."

"God be with you. If you have need of my services again, you know where to find me."

Raine drew a deep breath and walked from the church. Seth Andrews stood beside the Reverend's landau, his boyish good-looks captured by a stream of sunlight. With a timid smile, he extended a hand and assisted her into the buggy.

After settling into the elevated seat in front, Seth clucked to the team. They were off, no turning back. Raine gathered her scattered thoughts and reflected on her parents. They wouldn't be rescued; too much time had passed. Dread and remorse clawed at her insides. She had lost her loved ones and the mishap left her penniless.

Long minutes later the spirited bays came to a halt in front of a manor. "We're here now, Miss." Seth climbed from the transport with nimble grace and helped her to the ground. "I'll wait until you're safely inside."

Raine nodded and walked toward the red brick mansion. Bathed in the shade of a Virginia willow, four alabaster columns reached skyward near the front door. Flowering dogwoods and rose azaleas drowsed along the cobblestone walkway. Contrary to the hip-roofed houses near town, this estate bespoke of great wealth.

She'd never sought employment, never dreamed it would be necessary, but here she was nonetheless. A black bow with long, satin sashes rested on the red door. Flexing her trembling hands, she lifted the brass knocker and rapped twice. The click of heels against a stone floor on the other side reached her ears moments later.

The door opened. "Afternoon. You must be Miss Brinsley."

The servant's gray shift was neat and clean, the apron hugging her ample waist, stark white. Brown eyes, the color of the earth, studied her head-to-toe before the woman smiled.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. Yes, I'm Rainetta Brinsley."

She extended an arm toward the foyer. "Mister Stafford is expecting you."

Raine nodded and stepped into the vestibule. A corridor of doors lined the walls, their arched entries also draped in mournful black crepe.

Halfway down the hallway, the servant turned to her. "My name is Crete."

"A pretty name, ma'am."

Crete shook her head and chuckled. "My father had a vivid imagination."

"A mountainous island near the Aegean Sea, isn't it?"

With hands on hips, the women turned to her. "I'm impressed. Few know where Crete is."

"I've never been to the Greek Islands, but I've seen sketches. My grandfather is a strong proponent of education."

Crete ushered her to a spacious sitting room and pointed to a high wing back. "I'll inform Mister Stafford you've arrived." Before the woman left, she added, "I'm sorry to hear about your parents' deaths."

Deaths. Her heart ached. She knew they were gone, but to hear the words spoken aloud crumbled her. She dropped into the chair with a resigned thud and set the satchel at her feet. Then she scanned the room.

A Chickering and Sons piano, boasting an assortment of gold-framed daguerreotypes, rested below a nine-paned window. The piano reminded her of the Steinway at home and elicited a nostalgic wave of loneliness.

A tapestry sofa with matching velvet chairs hugged the cozy fireplace, and nearby, an oak table held the family Bible. Towering oak shelves, stuffed with history annals, atlases, and a varied collection of novels and poetry books flanked the gray, stone hearth.

Instinctively drawn to the fire, Raine rose and stopped to study the pictures on the piano. The first was of an elderly couple; a man in a chair and a woman standing beside him, her arm draped over his shoulder. The middle picture was of a man, his wife, and three young girls―mirror images of the woman. The man looked glum. His eyes were set deep into his skull; his nose long and pointed. Pox marks appeared on his cheeks and chin. Raine imagined the color of his hair was similar to the pulp inside a squash.

She picked up the third frame and studied it. A fine specimen of a man stood beside a pale birdlike woman seated in a chair. Smiles were absent in the image, but then few smiled when having their picture taken. Goosebumps prickled her arms. Something about the woman disturbed her. Gripping the arms of the chair her knuckles had turned white. Immense sadness and perhaps fear resided in the depths of her soulful eyes.

Raine jumped from her skin when a voice echoed in the room. "My wife several years ago."

Mortified the man had caught her holding the picture, she returned it to the top of the piano.

"To your left, my mother and father, Elne and Julian Stafford." His sultry southern drawl resonated in the quiet room. "In the middle, my brother Lyman, his wife Zilpha, and their three daughters, Olive, Ophelia, and Odessa."

She turned to him, the words catching in her throat. "I--I wasn't snooping. On my way to the hearth..."

He waved off her embarrassment. "Think nothing of it. Miss Brinsley, isn't it?"

"Raine Brinsley, yes."

He bowed at the waist. "Derek Stafford."

She responded with a demure curtsy. "My pleasure, sir."

With a flourish of his hand, he directed her toward the wingbacks near the fire. "Let us sit, shall we?"

Tall and lean with wide shoulders, Derek Stafford struck a commanding presence. A white cotton shirt hugged his chest, complimenting the snug, brown trousers clinging to his muscular legs. He looked every bit the virile man in the photo. A dark shadow etched his firm jaw, matching the raven hair curling around the collar of his open-necked shirt. He appeared casual and relaxed, and Raine wondered if she had interrupted his morning of leisure. If so, leisureliness suited the man.

Raine eased into a chair, studying him while he settled into one across from her. A slight wince crossed his features when he stretched his right leg out before him.

"Gettysburg," he said, answering her unspoken question. "I served with General Pickett, took a round in my hip."

Her cheeks felt hot. First, he had caught her snooping, and now staring. "I didn't mean to gawk."

"You're quite observant." His smile dazzled her. "Most don't notice or perhaps they hide it better."

"Too curious for my own good my grandfather says."

"Ah, leave it to family to point out our inadequacies." Sapphire eyes met hers, so clear and blue, they reminded her of the sea at sunrise. "I heard about the accident. Allow me to extend my deepest sympathy."

Fighting back a rush of tears, she nodded.

"Captain Kendall shouldn't have allowed the outing."

She would lose herself forever if she didn't turn away from those eyes. "My father is...was very persuasive but the turbulent weather caught us unaware."

A long breath left his lips before he distracted her with another question. "You met my barrister last night, Horace Masterson?"

She nodded.

"He informs me your father was a fisherman?"

Her knees trembled. How glad she was she had taken the chair he offered. "In Maine, yes, but he hoped to earn more selling his catch in Norfolk."

"We must deal with your welfare now, Miss Brinsley."

Concentration eluded her. The man's features were far too symmetrical. A married man, she reminded herself. His mouth was a tad too wide but only by a hair. Sculpted cheekbones and a straight nose enhanced the remarkable beauty of his face. Good heavens, had she missed one of his questions?

"Tell me about this grandfather in Camden."

An image of the stout, sturdy Scotsman rose, bringing her a sense of calm. "He's all I have left." She forced her eyes from his. "I'm an only child, no aunts, uncles or cousins in America."

"He must be contacted, of course. Has anyone offered to post a letter?"

Panic rose in her throat. "Reverend Hall, but I insisted he refrain from writing him."

"Why is that?"

"He's elderly, his health fragile. I want to tell him in person."

"But he'd want to know about the accident, know you survived."

She shook her head. "Do not inform him in a letter." She softened her voice. "Please, I'd like to tell him myself."

"All right. You desire to earn your passage home?"

"Mister Masterson told you?"

"Indeed, and I find the notion quite preposterous."

"Not to me, sir."

"I must ask, Miss Brinsley―"

"Might you call me Raine? I'm feeling quite detached, alone. If I'm to work, or at least reside at the manor for a time, I'd prefer you address me as Raine."

"Very well. I'd like to know, Raine, what happened to your father's coin? He didn't leave Maine without money?"

"A sorry state of affairs, I'm afraid."

His expression passive, he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"My mother stashed the coin in the hem of her skirt. All is lost at the bottom of the ocean."

Derek rose from the chair and paced. God, his leg was stiff. "I am a man of wealth. You need not work to earn passage back to Maine."

"Sir―"

"The Valor sails to eastern shores on a routine basis. After the coroner finishes his inquest, he will release you. I insist―"

"It isn't possible." She lifted her chin. "I won't take charity."

"Don't consider it charity. Think of it as recompense."

"No," she said with emphasis.

A sharp tone edged his voice. "It's foolish at this juncture to harbor pride."

She grabbed her satchel, rose from the chair, and headed for the door. "Thank you for your time, Mister Stafford."

"Here now, what are you about?"

"Reverend Hall said I should call on him if need be."

Stopping in mid-stride, he turned to her. "That won't be necessary. I'm certain we can come to an arrangement."

Relief washed over her.

His face took on a thoughtful pose, forehead creased, lips protruding. "What type of work suits you?"

Oh, dear. What should she say? "I could tutor your children. I'm quite adept at reading and writing, My French is good, my German passable."

A nameless emotion crossed his eyes. "You'll find no children living at Stafford House."

A long pause ensued while her mind scrambled for alternate ideas. "I could clean the manor, learn to cook, anything to earn my way."

He resumed his harried gait, stopped, and looked at her askance. "It's against my better judgment, but I'll speak to Crete. Perhaps you can assist her in the kitchen."

She smiled. "How much does the position pay?"

Hesitating, he replied, "Ten dollars a month, plus room and board. How does that sound?" A brow rose when she hesitated. "What is it, Raine?"

"The fare to Maine is quite steep." She knew she sounded desperate. "Long hours, hard work. I'm certain the position is worth more."

He arched his neck back, his deep, rich laughter filling the room.

"What? You find that amusing, outrageous, or out of the question?"

"No, not outrageous or inane. Horace said you had grit. I should have anticipated bartering."

She offered her best smile. "You won't be disappointed, Mister Stafford. I'm a hard worker and a fast learner."

"Agreed then." He extended his arm. "If I'm to call you Raine, I insist you call me Derek."

She shook his hand and released it when a hot current passed between them. "Very well, Derek it is." "Any other concerns before I leave you?"

She glanced at the picture of him and Lucinda.

"My wife passed on eight months ago." He ran his fingers through the hair at his forehead. "For what other reason would anyone live with this appalling black in every room?" His gaze traveled to the ebony sashes over the doorways. "Tomorrow, take them down. I'm weary of this maudlin scene, and certain the old dowagers of Norfolk will agree my official period of mourning has ended."

"First thing in the morning, sir."

He walked toward the door, stopped and turned to her. "Is your Christian name Raine?"

She shook her head. "Rainetta. My grandfather is responsible for the pet name."

"Raine it shall be." His expression unreadable, he grew still for a moment, the seconds passing while he looked at her. At last, he turned and left the room.

* * *

Crete found Raine in the foyer. If the woman disagreed with Derek's decision, she kept her thoughts to herself. "Come along now for a cup of tea before I show you to your quarters. Mister Stafford insists you rest for the day; begin your duties in the morning."

Grateful for the reprieve, Raine nodded. Ushered to a table in Crete's kitchen, she glanced around the room while waiting for the tea. Well organized, neat and clean would describe the cook's domain. Crete must take great pride in her duties at Stafford House.

Crete joined her at the table, poured two cups of ginger tea and set one before her. "Mister Stafford eats in the dining room, but we take our meals in here. One night a week, Julian Stafford, Derek's father, and Elne, his mother, arrive for dinner."

"The older couple in the picture. Yes, Mister Stafford mentioned them."

"They'll arrive tomorrow night."

"I haven't served a manor before, but you need only inform me of my duties."

"We'll go over everything in the morning." Crete smiled. "Breakfast is served at seven o'clock sharp."

Raine wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "Yes, ma'am. I'll be prompt."

Crete rose and walked to the stove to stir a pot. A mouth-watering aroma—pot roast and a variety of vegetables—wafted through the kitchen. Other than the meager fare the Reverend had offered, Raine had little to eat in days.

After gathering a place setting of fine china and sterling silverware from a nearby shelf, Crete returned to the table. "Wash your hands first and deliver these to the head of table in the dining room. Mister Derek will be famished after his ride."

Raine slid from the chair with a nod.

"A bowl of stew will be waiting for you."

An aged black man with a broad smile entered the kitchen through a side door.

"This is Henry," Crete said. "Mister Derek's manservant."

Still smiling, Henry grabbed a bowl from the shelf and filled it with roast beef, carrots, and potatoes.

"This is Raine Brinsley," Crete added. "She'll be helping in the manor."

"If'n ya needs somethin' from ol' Henry, jess ask." He nodded, sat down at the table and dove into the stew.

Raine liked him; his mannerisms reminded her of Grandfather. "Pleased to meet you, Henry."

Raine took the plate and silverware into the dining room, set it on the table and breathed a sigh of relief. Since the accident, she'd been sick with worry over her sorry state of affairs, but at least now she'd secured employment. When she earned enough money for passage, she would return to Camden. To Grandfather, the one person in the world who cared about her now. Returning to the kitchen, she settled into the same chair and waited for the promised bowl of stew, her heart lighter than it had been in days.