"No." She held out a cold hand. "Please. I don't mean to interrupt your solitude. I just wanted to wish you a good morning."
"It looks like we had the same idea."
"It's so busy during the day I wanted to see what it was like at dawn," admitted Phoebe, "and to see if I could hear the marsh the way I hear the sea."
"It's much easier to listen out here," agreed Mr. Hathaway, and he removed his coat. He spread it on the ground and patted it. "Sit next to me."
Phoebe touched her lips together, thinking. His green eyes creased in the corners, and she decided his invitation was sincere. She pulled down the hood of her cloak. "If you're sure."
"I am," he insisted, offering his hand to help her to the ground. It felt soft and mushy beneath her as she folded her legs and sat down. "I'm going to ruin your coat," she worried.
He waved off her concern. "It's an old thing I wear to the fields and the brickyard, what I throw over a shirt if I want to paddle upstream."
Convinced, Phoebe relaxed and loosened the ribbon around her throat. "And how does Rathall Creek look this morning?"
"Satisfactory," declared the man beside her. "The barges from Boone will come down soon. We do not have a load going out today, so it's peaceful for now." His mussed hair ruffled in the breeze. He looked like a young farm boy without a hat or cravat.
"I like it here," Phoebe assured him. "You were right. The birds far outnumber what we have in town and sound prettier, too."
"Yes, chatty things."
She quieted, but he turned to her without warning. Almost arm to arm, his face was so close it had a startling effect on her. She blinked, inspecting his eyes as he studied hers.
"You have handsome eyes, Miss Applewaite," he said. "Some people would say doe-like, but they are rather oval and slanted with golden flecks that remind me of a dog I had when I was a boy."
A laugh gurgled up in Phoebe's throat. "So, I remind you of your favorite dog," she said, both amused and somewhere in her heart, aghast.
He chuckled at her censure. "She was a most loyal and trustworthy friend. Queenie lived a good long life until she turned twelve years old. How I cried when she passed on."
"I'm sorry," faltered Phoebe, feeling sad for him. "I'm afraid we never had animals in our house, they irritate Mama's congestion, so I settle for the mourning doves in the windows, the cranes on the shore, the nag in the carriage house, and the occasional kitten in the alleyway if it isn't too wild."
"Ah, yes, some of them are," he agreed. "Cats are screechy-scratchy things. I much prefer a terrier for a mouser like they keep aboard some ships."
"You know a great many things about sailing, Mr. Hathaway, and running a plantation. Who would think that you carted around so much knowledge and experience in your mind? I underestimated you."
He returned to her examination, and rays of morning sunlight stroked his crown making him look princely. "I have learned a great many things, too," he admitted, "just this week alone."
She thought he might mean her by the way he regarded her with such a warm expression. It looked like the affection she felt for him and made her tremble. She clasped her hands together, sorry she'd forgotten her gloves.
"Miss Applewaite?"
Phoebe swallowed. "Yes?"
"I like to think we've become very good friends."
She raised her head in a half-nod while studying a ripple in the flowing creek below.
Mr. Hathaway fell silent again, and she peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He stared at her in a way that made her stomach lurch like she'd fallen from a tree. She knew him now to be more than handsome. He was a good man with charming, sincere airs when he chose to be himself.
As if sensing her thoughts, he murmured, "You know I wish to sail, and I know I'm fortunate to have this lovely home. But I do not wish to live out the rest of my days here, especially on the backs of others."
He was quite the abolitionist, she thought.
"I hope to inherit my parents' house in town, and if this land passes to me as I expect it will, I'll probably sell it if I do not keep it as a small farm. Does that shock you?"
"It is a great tract of land and well developed. Safe, I suspect from storms and intruders."
"Far safer than Charleston but not immune from attack. We're fortunate it survived the war, and Papa has added onto it in my lifetime, but..."
"You hear the siren of the sea," guessed Phoebe, "just as I have dreams that make no sense either."
"Come now," Mr. Hathaway chided, scooting closer, "your dreams make perfect sense. I've made a few inquiries out of curiosity and found there is always a shortage of seamstresses and supplies when it comes to garment-making and such. I quite admire you for aiming to have a shop like your papa."
"Even though I'm a woman?"
He glanced past her as if embarrassed to meet her eye. "It's not like it's a tobacco shop or a tavern, either. And you did say you would only manage it."
"Yes," agreed Phoebe. "And not that I believe it a low occupation, but I'm tired to death of stitching, Mr. Hathaway. It seems I have had a needle in my hand since my papa died, trying in some way I suspect, to replace his absence, to comfort my family, or to be industrious and prove myself worthy of him."
"Yes, and I admire that." He pushed his fingers through his hair then slanted his head and smiled at her. "I suppose your family assumed you'd marry as soon as you came out—being so handsome and all."
She bit her lip pensively. Had he just called her handsome? Her? Little Phoebe Applewaite who could not dance the minuet without falling on her face. "I did not come out so well, you know."
He raised his brows. "Just because of a fall? Pfft. We've all done it."
Phoebe felt inclined to be honest, even if it sounded like she disagreed. "I did not have any close friends, and there were others who weren't very kind to me. It caused so much distraction that I couldn't think straight or dance well at all, and with one disaster after another, I just avoided the ballrooms and kept to myself."
Mr. Hathaway cupped a hand over his mouth as if thinking. White sunlight shimmered off of the creek's streaming current. "Do you mean Alice Quinton? Mrs. Leonard, I should say. You were never friends?"
"No," Phoebe cringed. She'd never complained to anyone about Alice Quinton Leonard except Mama, but since they were speaking intimately, perhaps she could make Mr. Hathaway understand how she felt about his best friend's sister.
"Mrs. Leonard has long liked to criticize me. My attempts to dance and perform at dinner parties were her favorite amusements. How she liked to point out my flaws." Phoebe sat back. "She has always disliked me, and I know of no reason why."
Mr. Hathaway chuckled. "But of course you do. She and all the girls of that set are not as sweet. They were always laughing and flirting—quite false. Why, they all married quickly, didn't they? I'm sure it was jealousy. She doesn't like to be around anyone with more money; I imagine she disliked you because she felt second to your looks and charm."
"Mine? Oh, no," denied Phoebe, although a wave of pleasure washed over her. Did he really think so? "I'm sure I had neither of those. I was practically orange-headed, you remember, and too shy to be found charming."
"I always thought you were charming," Mr. Hathaway insisted. "You answered kindly and intelligently although you kept to the corners of the rooms. That is until you became older and cross with me and the others."
"Hmph," muttered Phoebe, "you would have too if you were me."
To her surprise, Mr. Hathaway reached out and pulled a lock of hair from behind her ear then wound it around his finger. "In case you haven't noticed, Miss Applewaite, you no longer have fiery orange locks which were adorable anyway. Your hair is russet now with streaks of scarlet and gold that well-near take a man's breath away."
Phoebe almost choked on laughter but managed to say, "How kind you are Mr. Hathaway. All I see is tangerine."
He made a noise of dissent in his throat. "For someone so sharp-witted and observa
nt, my darling, you overlook yourself completely."
Phoebe's breath caught in her throat. She liked being addressed as his darling. Bold but... She wanted to believe him, to believe that when people looked at her they did not think of widows and orphans and orange-haired homely children. Or spinsters.
She faced him and found their chins only inches apart. It gave her the wild desire to bend her forehead over his lips and rest it there. She shifted her gaze to his eyes and found him staring deeply into hers.
"Do you really think so?" she wondered at last to break the spell.
He gave a curt nod. "You have worried far too long about what others think of you. Really, people are so busy thinking of themselves, they hardly spare a thought for anyone else."
She could not tear her gaze away. Her breath danced in her chest.
"Miss Applewaite," the man whispered, and Phoebe's heart made an arching, graceful dive like a bird into the sea. Everything around them blurred. She could not move. The world around them felt paralyzed as if waiting for something.
How could this be? How could Phoebe Applewaite have such violent feelings of affection alongside her strong attraction to this man? How had they come so far and so fast since he'd first teased her in the drawing room at the McClellans? He was not at all what she'd always thought him to be. Perhaps she was just as wrong about herself.
As if he understood her feelings, Mr. Hathaway leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers. Heat washed over her in a delightful shower. She thought she would faint if she did not fly up to the sky. She felt his hand rub over her cheek and dared to watch him examine her skin, her sparse scattering of freckles, and she suspected, her scarlet cheeks.
To her relief and mixed disappointment, he leaned back, but his fingers trailed down her arm and took her hand. Together their hands felt warm.
Watching her intently, he whispered, "I'm afraid I have grown more than fond of you, Miss Applewaite, in ways I can't explain. Do you really think it's such a bad idea, this prompting and prying from our mothers? You must know that I think I—" he hesitated, and his cheeks flooded with a dark shade of red. The boyish look and what he'd almost said made Phoebe's eyes brim with tears.
"I think it would be a handsome idea," he suggested, clearing his throat and squeezing her hand, "to consider an arrangement between you and me." His mouth clamped shut like he needed to hold his breath.
Phoebe's mind spun as she tried to make sense of his words. She suspected she loved him, did he know? He reached up to swipe under his eye as if trying to distract himself from some inner agony.
"Do you mean?" she began, trying to sound non-plussed and not like her heart was floating somewhere up above them in the scattered clouds.
"A union," he whispered. "I know you wish to have your own opportunities, and I fully support that."
His accommodating words on top of the unexpected proposal made Phoebe want to throw her arms around him. How could he know this scene was an answer to her young womanly dreams—hopes she had given up on long ago with no papa, wealth, or popularity. Not trusting her tongue, she forced herself to give a small nod.
James continued like he thought she needed more convincing. "I know it's odd I have no desire to manage a plantation and that I prefer town."
"But so do I," she blurted, a possible future falling into place before her like colored bricks.
"I mean to sail somehow, even if I have to buy a commission in the Navy or find another shipping company if our own won't have me."
Wanting to reassure him, Phoebe offered, "I daresay a merchantman captain and a shopkeeper about town would make a very handsome couple."
"Indeed," he agreed, "and a pair that gets on so well. You could organize my books, and I'd..." He hesitated as if not sure what he could offer.
"You could take me to parties and balls, and then I wouldn't feel so inclined to hide in the corners. Why," she breathed, "I wouldn't hide at all, because I enjoy your companionship and conversation."
He looked amazed. "You do? I thought you were of the opinion I was the most ridiculous thing to ride a gig about town."
"Well..." A smile tugged at the corners of Phoebe's mouth. "As I said, you were a bit misunderstood."
"As were you, Miss Applewaite."
Phoebe let herself grin. Affection for this charming, friendly soul flowed through her. She adored him.
He leaned over again, so close their noses touched, and she held her breath. "Would you marry me then, Miss Applewaite? It would make us both happy, I am sure, and please the entire city of Charleston including Sandy Bank."
It felt like a dream, and though it made her dizzy and trembly, Phoebe made herself whisper, "Yes," paying no mind to the argument in her head that this could not be true.
A lilting, sing-song call echoed over the water, and she looked up at the interruption feeling shy. A barge came floating down the creek, low in the water with a half-dozen white and dark-skinned men chanting a melody to themselves.
"Here come your neighbors," she murmured, feeling the dream slip away. They were holding hands now, warm as a summer day, and James—might she call him James now—didn't let go as he climbed to his feet.
He helped her up. "What poor timing," he said in a playful tone. "Should we tell them the silly fool of a boy from Sandy Bank has convinced an Applewaite to marry him?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Hathaway's study at Sandy Bank was situated in the corner of the large library on the first floor. It was there he conducted his business and private conversations, one of which James initiated that evening.
After meeting Miss Applewaite along the creek and her warm acceptance of his proposal, James's enthusiasm for their attachment blossomed throughout the day like the early roses in the garden. They walked along the fence that corralled the horses and shared their opinions on future market demands.
In agreement that limited trade with Britain was a lucrative opportunity to resell goods to the French-held islands and Spanish Florida, they found themselves at odds over one principle: James was a believer in life's necessities; Phoebe felt certain it was the luxuries of life people would buy.
Together, they came to a scenario of a shop filled with American and British goods acquired through Daniel's merchandising efforts with the unsold inventory shipped to the Caribbean. Aboard their southbound ships could be brick from Sandy Bank and bolts of cotton now that Whitney's cotton gin made production faster.
Mr. Hathaway listened carefully, his eyes sparkling with amusement at times and at others, staring steadily at his son as if he was impressed.
"See now," finished James, "in the end, it benefits us both. I have a plan for the future and a partner I admire—"
"She's very handsome," agreed Papa, although he'd pointed it out more than once.
"Yes, and everyone else will be satisfied. Mama sees me settled, I get a post aboard a ship, and the Applewaites no longer have to worry about their unmarried daughter."
Papa's attention dropped to the desk and his ivory-colored clay pipe. He stuck it between his teeth. "It sounds promising for the most part," he agreed, "but that leaves little time for you to take over things here."
James's heart skipped a beat. "You are as healthy as can be, Papa. You don't need me here. I know the business at hand—I grew up on this land."
"Then why hurry back to Charleston? You can't leave a wife alone to fend for herself while you wander the seas, and Miss Applewaite seems to like Sandy Bank."
James clasped his hands together in a show of patience and set them on the desk. "I have never wandered, Papa, not far. There's always a destination. It's not like it's India." James heard himself pleading. He tried to change his tone to confident. "Miss Applewaite completely supports me in the idea as she has her own ambitions."
Something like disappointment flashed in Papa's eyes and caused a heavy feeling to drop over the back of James's shoulders.
"What if she falls ill or needs aid? Who would be there for her if
her husband is not?"
James's mind galloped ahead. "Her mama is in town, her sister and brother-in-law are only a few hours upriver, and of course, you and Mama are here at Sandy Bank."
Papa didn't look convinced.
"And there's Benjamin," added James in a rush. "He's always in town."
"Yes," said his father in a wry tone, "more often than not." He breathed loudly through his nose as if sighing in surrender.
James found himself balancing on the edge of his seat. "What do you think of it? I can speak to Mrs. Applewaite in the morning or perhaps in the drawing room tonight if she hasn't excused herself."
Papa's gaze drifted out the tall window beside them where twilight twinkled from the light of a thousand glow-worms. The house seemed quiet all of a sudden, and James could hear his pulse in his ears. His hands felt damp, so much so that he wiped them on his breeches.
"Well, then," said Papa at last. "I admit I hoped you'd fall in love, wildly and madly and give up these aspirations of sailing, but we did have an agreement."
James's heart leaped with excitement. He could hardly believe his ears. Papa's soft gray eyes looked reflective as he stared outside. Around them, the pine floorboards, waxed mahogany desk, paper, ink, and the faint tendrils of tobacco made James's head swim, both at once familiar and overwhelming.
Papa finally looked over at him, his face awash in subdued amusement. "Mr. Albermarle has lost the first mate hired for Lily since we changed captains. I will send a missive at dawn, and you will be aboard for the maiden voyage."
"First mate? Oh, thank you, Papa!" James didn't know whether to laugh or cry or to jump with joy, so he sat there in a mild stupor.
"Don't thank me yet," Papa warned. "It's a new captain and a new crew on a new vessel. It won't be easy, even with your persuasive charms."
"I understand."
Mr. Hathaway turned the pipe upside down and tapped it on the edge of the desk. "That leaves me with nothing more to do than to congratulate you." He nodded in approval. "You know I like Miss Applewaite, a great deal. She is mature and level-headed, except for this shop-keeping nonsense, but I presume after a few months' time she will see the difficulty in running a business and a household and turn it over to a manager. You should have someone in mind."
A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2) Page 12
