Papa sighed. "There are midshipmen in the harbor with more experience than you."
"I have plenty of experience, and that's not true. If it wasn't for..."
James stopped. He'd almost revealed his bitterness toward Mama for locking him away for so long and keeping him from doing what he'd dreamed about. He would have been a fabulous midshipman in the Continental Navy, but they'd tucked him away during the war. It was his responsibility to carry on the family name, and the weight of it was too much for him to bear.
"I'm sorry, but you haven't proven yourself anymore capable of managing a ship than you are this office. Settle down," Papa advised with a sage dip of his chin, "and give yourself time."
James felt his shoulders slump as he sank in his chair. Why had he allowed himself to think anything had changed? "What good is it to chain me to some miserable, sharp-tongued spinster if it's not going to advance my own wishes?"
"Come to the dinner party," Papa encouraged him, "and entertain Miss Applewaite. Perhaps, after getting to know her better, you'll feel differently."
James felt his nose wrinkle. "She doesn't like me, Papa. She doesn't like anyone. It's a waste of time."
With a good-natured tone returning to his voice, Papa replied, "If you will court her or anyone else in Charleston of good family, it would please your Mama. And if your mama is pleased, so am I."
"Would you think more on it then?" James implored, unable to stop himself from making one last attempt to get a position at sea. "Consider giving me command of one of the ships, or just get me aboard, and I'll find someone to be attentive to or at least be friendly to Miss Applewaite."
Papa stared in surprise at the blackmail-like offer, but James told himself it was only bartering. He just had to find someone to carry on a mild flirtation with until he got what he wanted.
After a long hesitation, Papa said in a tender tone, "If you can convince that intelligent, industrious, and rather pretty girl to pay you any mind, I'd consider recommending it. Perchance, she will be a good influence."
James could hardly believe his ears. He jumped to his feet and found his legs weak like jelly. A ship. His very own. He would do anything—even pander to the serious and rather mean Applewaite spinster. "Papa, I will see you on Saturday."
DINNER AT THE MCCLELLAN house was a rather formal affair for a chilly and wet January afternoon. There was no cold fish or ham but a delicious cut of venison with chicken and pheasant. Phoebe tossed honey-coated carrots around on her plate avoiding eye contact with the younger Mr. Hathaway. He had, for some reason, been seated right beside her, glistening in a royal blue brocade that made his green eyes brighter.
It was exasperating, considering before the meal he whirled around the drawing room smiling and bowing to his parents' friends before taking a stance beside her at the window. He then proceeded to flood her with inconsequential questions about weather and the previous Twelfth Night ball until she thought she would flop to the floor. She couldn't believe this was the young man she'd pined for so many seasons ago until she came to her senses. It didn't escape her notice that they were among the youngest guests there, either.
Mortified, Phoebe took miniature bites and chewed at length to keep her mouth full. The man beside her kept everyone entertained. He was as full of wit as he was air. Every time she glanced at Mama, she found her looking delighted at Mr. Hathaway's exaggerated humors.
"And then," he cried, putting an elbow on the table and leaning forward, "Mr. Quinton reached up to slap a branch overhead to celebrate his victory, but his sleeve became tangled up on a knot or something, so his mount when on without him to finish the race!" He cackled along with the other guests. "So, I won after all."
"Upon my word," chuckled Mrs. McClellan, her powdered hair trembling on her crown, "he's lucky he did not break an arm or a leg."
"It'll be his neck someday," murmured one of the other gentlemen.
Mrs. Hathaway bobbed her chin in agreement. "Mr. Quinton is a little too adventurous for his own good. It is lucky he did not maim himself." She gave her son a serious frown. "You are fortunate you did not come to harm yourself, darling boy."
"Yes, how would we all have managed?" murmured his father.
Amused, Phoebe caught the elder Mr. Hathaway studying her. His eyes brightened when Phoebe met them, and the corners of his mouth turned up. Phoebe shifted her gaze and grimaced inside.
"Miss Applewaite?"
She turned her attention to Mr. McClellan at the head of the table. His musical words carried the sounds of his Scottish legacy along like a pleasant song, and he sported the most fascinating thick mustache curled neatly at the ends.
"I understand you have a talent for predicting fashions?"
She gave him a questioning look. Certainly her gown tonight, far too leisurely for a dinner party and several years old, did not hint she was a woman of great income.
"I only mean I was at the tailor's this week past, and he mentioned you offered your confident opinion about a silk he'd chosen for new banyans."
Phoebe did not dare look at Mama as their host continued. "You informed him it would be much better suited for gowns and waistcoats, and he found in the end that you were right."
"My daughter enjoys fabrics and trimmings," blurted Mama. Her cheeks flushed, probably at Phoebe's audacity in telling a tailor his business or perhaps because she'd visited the tailor to sell their embroidered handkerchiefs and fichus.
"I do appreciate the textiles in Mr. Payne's shop although I'm fonder of the mantua-maker's windows," Phoebe explained.
"And we only have one of any worth in this port," insisted Mrs. Hathaway. "She is always scheduled weeks ahead and makes no time for my urgent requests." She gave a pert frown at the inconvenience.
"But you always look so lovely," Mama assured her.
While everyone gazed at Mrs. Hathaway with agreeable smiles, her son gave Phoebe a closer examination she did not like. True, he smelled rather pleasant and had good manners, and of course, he was as pleasing as ever to look at, but she did not want to be studied by the likes of him.
"Do you enjoy your needlepoint then? I'd wager you're quite good."
Why is that? she wished to ask but did not. She looked back at her carrots. "My needlepoint is passable, Mr. Hathaway," she replied.
"Oh come now," he prodded, "you are fond of textiles, so you must make the finest pillows in Charleston."
"My mother does," said Phoebe, annoyed at his false compliment. It shifted the attention to Mama, who beamed. "It's true," Phoebe insisted.
"Like mother-like daughter," declared Mr. McClellan, and he winked at her.
Phoebe smiled back. If they only knew that it was more, "like father-like daughter." Her mother had been a delightful, social young woman, happy with her near-love match and a marriage strongly encouraged by her grandparents. Unfortunately, Mama still embraced old traditions like romantic arrangements and found it unseemly for a woman to conduct her own business affairs.
A few glances shifted Phoebe's way, but no one asked her about "lowering" herself to an occupation such as mantua-maker. She stopped herself from snorting aloud. Someday, she'd open a shop and carry the finest silks and brocades abroad. She'd create patterns and designs, and all of Charleston would flock to her store to peruse her fichus and finely dressed hats among other things. Where was the shame in that? And why did she need a husband to do it?
She felt a soft nudge at her elbow and turned to Mr. Hathaway. His lips widened into a handsome smile, and Phoebe resisted the urge to pinch his cheek.
"May I say how comely you look tonight. Is that a new gown?"
"No," she returned in a flat tone, "it was my mother's many years ago, and I had it redone."
His embarrassed silence quieted him, and she looked back at her plate with relief. James Hathaway was so blatantly false with his attentions. How did others bear it?
After slices of warm sweet potato pie, the ladies excused themselves, and Phoebe nearly ran to the dra
wing room to claim her spot by the tall window that overlooked the street. The evening had settled into a pleasant shade of indigo after a final bout of misty rain.
Mrs. McClellan had fresh coffee beans from the Indies and insisted on serving everyone her best, so Phoebe accepted a cup willingly. Something warm in her hands on this damp night after all of the awkward pretenses felt rather comforting. She gripped the teacup, admiring the idyllic landscape painted in puce with a blue baroque border.
Mr. McClellan, who'd arrived from Scotland many years ago was doing well indeed. Many newcomers became merchants. The older families turned to plantations or shipbuilding. She glanced at Mrs. Hathaway dominating the conversation in Mrs. McClellan's drawing room.
As if feeling Phoebe's examination, Mrs. Hathaway settled her skirts toward the window. "Miss Applewaite, how sensible you are to wear that colorful, quilted overskirt. I do admire how well you know your brocade and silk."
"Linens and cottons, too," piped up Mama.
Mrs. Hathaway continued her study of Phoebe. "What a fine cut gown, too, although I must say a brighter blue would suit you better than flowery bouquets."
Phoebe grimaced. It was clear the fabric was old and refurbished.
"She's so inventive," Mama rushed on, "and does quick work with a needle. I have gowns that no longer suit me at all, and she has them redone in the most accommodating fashions."
"And frugal," approved Mrs. Hathaway. Her eyes seemed to calculate how serious and able of a woman Phoebe might be.
They were very rich, the Hathaways. Phoebe looked back at her coffee. At least the woman was gracious enough not to mention how her finances flourished while the Applewaites' had declined. Perhaps it was the war, she surmised. It had changed everyone, no matter their situation.
"Did you see my son's waistcoat? Now that's a fine cut of cloth," Mrs. Hathaway boasted. "He's a handsome lad, I must say." The women on either side of her tittered. Phoebe swallowed so that she did not groan.
"Every girl in town has her cap set for him," agreed Mrs. McClellan.
Yes, thought Phoebe, ten years ago. She let her gaze travel around the walls and appreciate the oil portraits.
Mama spoke for her again since Phoebe would not heap any compliments upon silly Mr. Hathaway's head. "Phoebe concerns herself so much with my comfort and her sister and new brother-in-law's happiness that she hardly does anything for herself."
"How devoted," murmured Mrs. McClellan, and Mrs. Hathaway looked pleased. Instead of replying, Phoebe took a sip of her cooling beverage.
"And modest," added Mrs. Hathaway. "Come now, tell us, did you enjoy the Twelfth Night ball? I thought perhaps you were unwell."
"Yes," choked Phoebe with surprise. She prayed the woman would not interrogate her for refusing her son a dance. "I should have not gone. I felt so fatigued."
"But I dragged you out," apologized Mama.
"Oh," Phoebe soothed her, "you must not feel bad. I did enjoy the music. It cheered me to be sure. It was just a long night."
"I understand," crooned Mrs. Hathaway. Her unspoken question appeared to be answered. No one mentioned Phoebe's clumsy coming out so long ago, or that she'd rarely danced since.
"Well, there will be more balls, and the weather will improve." Mrs. Hathaway smiled. "My son will be sure to attend them, for he does love a party as we all know." She chuckled like he was the most adorable man in America. "I would not have been entertained half my life if it weren't for my dear Jamie."
Mama and Mrs. McClellan beamed, too, like he was so full of life and fun that society could not do without him. Phoebe would not agree. She might have been fooled in her youth, but she knew he was the biggest flirt in all of Charleston and positively exhausting.
Approaching voices caught their attention and like a golden leprechaun, Mr. Hathaway appeared in the room after gliding the door back effortlessly on its hinges.
"My dear!" said Mrs. Hathaway with delight, and the gentlemen filed in. The conversation turned to the upcoming season and the latest engagements, and within only a few minutes, the younger Hathaway made his way over to Phoebe's chair and tried to converse with her again.
He was so persistent. It was like someone had told him Mama had advised her to encourage his attention, or perhaps it was his revenge on her because she'd refused to dance with him at the ball. She should not have done it. It was poor mannered and abominably rude. Now, he seemed determined to win her over no matter how much it discomfited her.
After a few minutes of silence, she began to regret she felt she needed to be impolite to put him off. Phoebe raised her eyes to meet his scrutiny. "How is the shipping business, Mr. Hathaway? My brother-in-law tells me you work with your papa."
Surprised at her inquiry, he leaned forward. "I do assist him," he answered, "in a manner of ways, but I am not too often in the office."
"You like to be in the shipyard then."
"Yes, that or the Exchange," he agreed, and something curious lit his eye. "In truth, I prefer to be in the open air watching the beams come together or overseeing our vessels in the harbor."
"You manage the ships?"
Mr. Hathaway's cheeks turned a little pink. "Well, not exactly, but I do pass information from the company to our good captains—two, you know—the Magnolia and the Regina, and on occasion, I join them on short trips down to Savannah or up to Boston."
"Yes," mused Phoebe, "I know you sail. Daniel has spoken of it on occasion."
"Well, not enough," explained Mr. Hathaway as if not bored with the conversation. "Usually I find myself on a fishing boat or in a pirogue, but we have nearly finished the Lily, our new vessel, and will christen her shortly."
"How fortunate," said Phoebe then she looked away so she did not stare too long at his charming face. There was a swirl of classical English with a touch of Carolina countryside around his eyes and straight nose. He did not wear a wig like so many of the older gentlemen still inclined to do so, and she appreciated that. Powder made her sneeze.
"Have you ever sailed?"
She took a breath before answering. "Twice that I recall and only as far as Savannah. I'm afraid I prefer home, although I confess I've been up the Ashley on occasion to see our land there."
"And there's a house?"
"Yes, a modest home, where my sister and brother-in-law live. Although," she admitted, "it's a wild and untamed place so they often come to stay with us in town to be more comfortable."
"That I can see with the winter chill and the summer heat," mused Mr. Hathaway.
"Oh yes," Phoebe agreed. "I cannot bear it in the summer, you know. I see no reason to be hot and miserable and eaten alive by mosquitoes for no reason at all. And the alligators..." She shuddered. Few things struck more fear in Phoebe's heart than those sinister reptiles.
Her companion chuckled. "Then you are a woman about town."
"I am most happy to take a walk along the harbor wall or traipse along the seashore on a fine day."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I like the color of the sea where it meets the horizon." Phoebe stopped herself. What was she doing going on and on like an eager young miss? She didn't care what Mr. Hathaway thought about her habits. He would not understand how the tawny color of the sand reminded her of soft buckskin breeches or that the scarlet shades of sunset's final breath over the water made her think of rich brocades.
"And what's your opinion of the lush green palmettos and lovely oaks around town?" He leaned closer, emerald eyes beaming, and she glanced heavenward. "Really, Mr. Hathaway," she said, now in full control of her emotions, "if you're trying to imply your eyes are as colorful as the trees, they're well enough I suppose, but I've never been one for green, to be honest."
He laughed at her censure, and the others in the room looked their way. A moment's silence was too much to bear for his fun-loving nature. "Miss Applewaite does not like green eyes," he revealed, pretending to look downcast, and Phoebe saw Mama's cheek twitch.
"You have the mos
t beautiful eyes in the world. Everyone thinks so," insisted Mrs. Hathaway. She looked around the room for the other women to agree as the men laughed.
"Tell me then," said jovial Mr. McClellan with his flashing blue eyes, "what color does tempt ye?"
Phoebe flushed, mortified for Mama who looked like she might faint. Mr. Hathaway's mother did not look amused, either. With all gazes pinned on her, Phoebe struggled to think. "My father had brown eyes," she mumbled, and knowing that she did, too, she flushed. What a vain creature they must think her.
"I like brown," said Mr. Hathaway agreeably, and the weighted moment passed. With a raised brow, Mrs. Hathaway returned to her quiet conversation with her friends, but Mr. McClellan caught Phoebe's eye and smiled so wide it stretched his mustache across his cheeks. Phoebe shifted her gaze back to the window.
"Mrs. Leonard has fine russet eyes like you. Have you noticed?"
"Mmm?" Phoebe kept her gaze averted. She did not want to talk about Alice Quinton—who was Mrs. Alice Leonard these days, and she did not want to engage in anymore flirtatious talk. "Yes," she grumbled at last when it became clear he waited for a response. "And I'm sure she admired yours until you ceased your attentions."
"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Hathaway as he repositioned his stance on the waxed boards beneath his feet. She threw him a sideways glance to measure his affront but found him staring at her with a wide grin on his face. "Touché," he whispered and gave her a wink.
Phoebe realized he was in earnest of playing their mothers' game. Did he seriously mean to consider her as a bride?
CHAPTER THREE
James left his top hat and gig at the house and strolled north toward the company shipyard to enjoy the city sights. Charleston flourished thanks in part to the many artisans there; from cabinet makers to blacksmiths, jewelers to clockmakers, and of course, the many bricklayers who took advantage of the bricks dried and baked on the plantations along the low country's riverbanks. The streets were cobbled with old ship's ballast and crisscrossed town in a near-perfect grid between homes reminiscent of the architecture in London after the Great Fire. Many of these fine houses lined lower Church Street, including Mr. Heyward's town house where President Washington stayed during his visit only a few years ago. What an event that had been.
A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2) Page 3
