Chapter Eleven

The nice thing about owning nothing was that it took no time to pack. Mary sent Sally in search of the rest of Gargantua’s yarn balls to give herself time to think about Luke’s conversation in the public house.

Mr. Wain…Luke…was going to pay her a princely sum to draw a drydocks, but she only had a few days to do it. “According to Mr. Magleby, Biddle and Bancroft want it before Christmas,” he had told her. “I’ll take you to the South Yard first thing tomorrow morning. You can stay in my house. There’s a room right next to Sally’s.”

“And when she is done? What then?” Mrs. Gower had asked. When Luke didn’t reply immediately, she turned to Mary. “There is always and ever a place for you here.” It was nice to know, and a relief, in fact. There may not have been any room in that obviously mismanaged inn in Bethlehem, but then, Mrs. Gower wasn’t running that one. There was room in Liddiard.

Mary agreed. After Luke rounded up the post boy and his son, they returned to Plymouth, arriving after dark. She embarrassed herself by falling asleep, leaning against Luke. At some point his arm went around her. When she woke up in Plymouth, she saw that Sally slept with his other arm around her. Poor man. His arms were probably both numb.

What a lovely house. And here was a smiling housekeeper, and Gargantua twining around them until Mr. Wainwright put his hand on her waist and escorted her away from the cat’s determination to give all his affection away. She wondered for the first time how old Luke Wainwright was. She told herself it had never matter before. Why should it matter now?

The hurried, late supper was followed by a charming bedchamber that brought tears to her eyes. She had never seen a room so lovely, much less set foot in one. Sleep came fast and easy.

She must have left her door open. At some point during the night, Gargantua decided to plop down his big self next to her and start purring as he kneaded her hip. Groggily, she heard “Here kitty kitty” in a nice baritone, followed by someone picking up said cat, who hissed, then growled low in his throat. “Silence, you misbegotten feline,” she thought she heard, then the door closed.

Her dress looked no better in the morning than it had for years, but Luke had told her to leave her muddy shoes in the hall. Now they shone to a fare-thee-well, which warmed Mary’s heart. Breakfast began with oatmeal, continued with eggs and bacon, and ended with a sweet roll. Mary knew she ate too much, but when a girl doesn’t always know when or where the next meal is coming from, she considered it wise to indulge. A glance at the platter showed more bacon. She was too full, but it was so nice to see food no one needed.

When she saw Luke watching her, she blushed, because she knew what he must be thinking. Might as well not mince words. After all, he was going to pay her for a rendering and that was that. “I like to see food,” she said simply.

He amazed her then. “So do I, Mary Cooper. I’m a Wainwright, which means that some generations back – not too many – my people made wagons. And do you know, if times ever get tough in this shipbuilding business which is currently driving me to distraction, I could make a wagon again. I understand you.”

If her heart stopped beating then, Mary wouldn’t have minded. Someone she cared about understood her. “Then let us get about business,” she said.

Sally objected to being left behind, but her father was firm. “Mary’s right. This is business, my dear. We will see you later.”

They walked in near silence to Devonport, a town already awake and in motion. She heard hammering from another dock, and the creak of a mast being stepped, and stopped to watch. All around was the chaos of construction. “It’s almost a living thing,” she said.

“I never thought of it that way.”

“You don’t have an artist’s eye,” she said, willing to be generous. She wondered where she got the courage to say that much, considering that her life had been one of want and disappointment.

“I’m a builder,” he said. “You are, too, in your own way.”

M&W Ship Builders was a modest-enough structure. “These are the South Yards,” Luke told her. He stopped her with a hand on her arm this time. “Those monsters are the M&W dry docks. See that empty space? That will be the third dock, provided we get the loan.”

“You will,” she said. “I can draw this.” She couldn’t have told a jury of twelve men where that courage came from, but she felt it in her bones.

Luke’s desk was a jumble of paper and blueprints, for which he offered no apology. He held up a blueprint. “Here it is. I gave Biddle and Bancroft our specs and requirements, but Mr. Magleby said our competitor included an actual drawing. We need one, too.”

She looked at the blueprint, understanding it, and also understanding competition. Nothing came free in the world. She returned her attention to the rough drawing, willing herself to see the finished product. “Do you have pencil and sketchbook? Oh, and crayons.”

“Not yet. I told Mr. Magleby I would wait until I had you in hand to tell me what you need.”

Y ou have me in hand , she thought, liking that turn of phrase. It was one she had heard before, but now it seemed personal, almost intimate: To be had in hand by someone concerned about her welfare to the exclusion of all others. Mary spent a tiny moment imagining how nice it would be, to not worry about every meal or a bed. To be had in hand felt like so much more. She decided that somehow, some way, she wanted more.

A tiny moment to contemplate such wealth was all she allowed herself. She had not a single illusion left. “I will need a sketchbook and good drawing paper, six sheets. Make them fairly large. And crayons and pencils. I’ll probably outline in pencil first. Oh, a sharp penknife.”

It was too much to someone used to scrounging for the barest necessities. “Am I asking out of turn?” She couldn’t help herself.

Apparently not. Luke scribbled it down without a blink. “I’ll have this here at once,” he said, “once my clerk rubs sleep from his eyes.”

She smiled at that. “I have another big demand.”

“Say on, missy,” he said cheerfully, which warmed her deep inside.

“I…I’d like to see the front of the drydocks from the water. Is there a little boat around here?”

He laughed at that, and took her arm, steering her toward the door. “Miss Cooper, boats are our specialty.” To her surprise, he touched his head to hers. “And didn’t you send me a bathtub drawing of a boat? We have all shapes and sizes.”

In no time she found herself being handed into a small craft with one sail. Luke stepped in as carefully as she did, and nodded to the man at the tiller.

She clutched Luke’s arm as the sailboat heeled into the wind and began its silent approach to the South Yards. Without a word, he put his arm around her, which she thought quite kind of him.

“Here, right here,” Mary said, after a quick tour of the harbor. She took a sheet of paper from her reticule and unfolded it, well aware that this was her last sheet. Out came her stubby pencil. The sailboat bobbed about, taking her stomach with it. Was that last piece of breakfast toast a mistake? Never mind. She had an idea. “Can we sort of stay here for a few minutes?” she asked.

“I think we can.” Luke gave that order to the man at the tiller, and he grinned.

She sketched quickly, superimposing that third unbuilt drydock next to the two docks, and showed it to Luke, who seemed to be fixated on that empty space. For all she knew, he was seeing that drydock, too. “Is this what it will look like?”

“Very like. Mary, you’re good at this.” He scrutinized her drawing. “There will be a larger crane, in fact, two, here and here. Can you do it?”

Mary raised her eyes to his. They were seated close because it was a small craft. “You will have it, Luke Wainwright.”