The Hostage by Susan Wiggs

Author:Susan Wiggs [Wiggs, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-09-22T07:35:53+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Deborah resigned herself to waiting out the rest of the season on Isle Royale. It was only a few weeks, she told herself, trying to stave off desperation. Just a few weeks, and then she would evacuate the island with the rest of the people. Once on the mainland, she would find a way back to Chicago. She refused to speculate on what might happen after that.

Judging by Tom Silver’s contempt, it should not be too difficult to persuade him to send her on her way.

She would not let herself think too long or too hard about her father. She would not let herself believe she meant nothing to him. His judgment had been addled by the fire, that had to be the answer. Surely he valued her for more than her worth on the marriage market He loved her...didn’t he?

She remembered the way he used to sit at her bedside when she was small, tending the lamp himself because she was afraid of the dark. When Nanny MacGregor had warned him against spoiling her, he’d laughed and said, “She’s only a child.” And Deborah would secretly smile and snuggle down under the covers and fall asleep with bis scent of aged leather and ink in her nostrils.

To keep from going mad, she decided to move beyond the confines of the cabin and explore the unique community of fisherfolk and loggers. Ilsa Ibbotsen and Celia Wilson had accepted her. They taught her the craft of quilting, and she showed them how to make absurd, elaborate hats. The news that her father had abandoned her actually worked to Deborah’s advantage. Now she had people’s sympathy, for she had been forsaken by the man who was their common enemy.

Except Arthur Sinclair was not her enemy; he was her father.

Desperate to stop herself from thinking about his refusal to come for her, she observed the people of the settlement, wondering with increasing interest about their way of life. In a shake house across the way lived the Lindvig sisters, who corked nets by day and in the evenings sat by their stove, knitting big colorful sweaters. They spoke in Norwegian, but always managed a smile and a charmingly formal bob of the head when Deborah passed.

Mabel Smith and Jenny Nagel were two young mothers, both widowed by the explosion. As their children raced around the settlement, the mothers looked on with a quiet desperation that tore at Deborah’s heart. She adored children, though she had never actually known any personally—another lack she had barely noticed in her busy Chicago world. She had always assumed that children were none of her affair, even though she expected to become a mother one day. Among her set, youngsters occupied the private, shadowy realm of nursery and boarding school, appearing only when commanded by their parents, spit-shined and as well-behaved as trained spaniels. The small boy and girl standing in the clearing at the end of the roadway were most definitely not spit-shined.

Neither am I, thought Deborah, and she was perfectly comfortable being that way.

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