A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2)

by Danielle Thorne

  "There is nothing wrong with a little work," muttered Phoebe.

  "There is nothing wrong with marrying a gentleman to secure a home and your mama!" Mama's eyes filled with tears. "I'm exhausted, Phoebe. I'm tired, and I want to rest now—to see you and Winnifred taken care of so I can sleep at night. Put me in the attic story if you wish, but I will not continue fretting over your future for the rest of mine."

  "Then don't."

  Mama let out a small gasp. "You thankless child!" The room felt like someone had lit an invisible fire.

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes as she jumped to her feet. "I am not the ungrateful one, Mama! Have you ever thought that everything I do is to take care of you? I've done everything in my power to make you happy, and Winnifred, too. Have I complained that my younger sister came out right behind me before I wed? Did I avoid her wedding? Am I unfriendly to her husband?" Phoebe raised her voice to a shout. "Why don't you send me upriver and have them live here instead. It's what you and Winnifred want."

  Mama stared in shock at Phoebe's outburst. It hung in the air like a noose between them, swaying between reason and regret. She wrung her hands still protected in her faded riding gloves. "That's not a terrible idea..."

  Her reply made Phoebe's heart roar. The sizzling sensation traveled up her neck and into her head so fast and hot she couldn't think straight. "Then do it, Mama. Send your shameful spinster daughter to the low country and let her oversee the indigo. At least then I will be out of sight and out of mind!"

  "Go," bade Mama in a hushed tone. "You do not like dinners or balls. You would rather sit inside all day and sew until your fingers bleed than make calls."

  "Good gracious!" snapped Phoebe. She threw the ball of stitching in her hands to the floor. "I'll pack my things, and you can find a way to supplement the household income on your own." She thundered from the room, raced down the hall, and scrambled up the stairs.

  "Go then," she heard Mama repeat as she turned on the first landing. "I won't need to worry about anything with Daniel here."

  Phoebe's eyes watered as a moan rose in her chest. It pressed against her heart, but she forced it back down. To the low country then, with its swamps and flies and alligators. Even all of that sounded preferable to this.

  She hurried to her chambers and slammed the door as hard as she could. She'd rather enjoyed her time at Sandy Bank, and this could be much like it if her brother-in-law had made improvements to the property. Only at Duck Point, there would be no market, no shops, and no harbor view. No dancing. No dinners. And unlike Sandy Bank, she would be quite alone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The heaving barge mirrored Phoebe's feelings as she gripped the rail. Charity and she were escorted by a manservant the McClellans sent to help move them upriver. Mama was not well, which was to be expected with the dark cloud that settled over the house as plans were put into motion this late April.

  It was all Phoebe could do not to wrap her arms around poor, sniffling Charity, who did not want to move out to this wild marshland. The water tossed and sighed as the river pilot sloshed them along with the ingoing tide. She was grateful she didn't eat, especially when Charity dashed to the rail and made a spectacle of losing whatever she'd put into her stomach that morning.

  Stoic, Phoebe stared into the tree line along the distant shore. She had never known any home but the stone dwelling on Beaufain Street. It was a monumental change in her life, much like the closing of a book and the opening of another.

  To her relief, the journey felt shorter than the excursion to Sandy Bank so many weeks ago. Or was it months? Spring had wallowed slowly into the first waves of sub-tropical heat that would swell until summer when it became unbearable in the afternoon. She wondered what it would be like in the countryside.

  Finally, the maneuverings of the crew hinted they were near. She saw a long stretch of land ahead as they entered a channel. Duck Point. It was a narrow strip of island. Tall wheat-like grasses rippled on its shores. Across the water along a muddy bank, she watched towering pines go by on the mainland. Soon, they would reach a dock where her family crest was carved into a post, and she would be home.

  There was no welcome party when they arrived. Trembling, Phoebe forced herself to stay calm when her escort helped her out onto the rickety landing. After a rather informal yet polite goodbye, the men left them there like wide-eyed lost sheep. Astonished, they paced the boards for a few minutes while Charity made nervous noises.

  "Mr. Cadwell knows we are coming?" she hinted.

  Phoebe refrained from exhaling in frustration. "Yes, I told you he expects us. I'm sure he'll be here soon." They moved into the shadows of lofty tree branches to hide from the sun. Phoebe's legs throbbed, her back hurt, and her heart felt shriveled and dry.

  "I do prefer the city," said Charity in a high-pitched tone.

  "Yes, as do I," agreed Phoebe. If only they could sit. A sudden buzzing in her ear made her jump, and she swatted at something invisible. Down the embankment, a few yards away from the dock, she saw a sturdy-looking log. It was not in the shade, but it would do until the sun grew too hot.

  "Let us sit at least." Popping open her sturdy oil-cloth umbrella, Phoebe motioned for Charity to follow her. She'd just put one boot a few inches into the dark sand when the girl behind her let out a piercing scream, and the log turned and looked at them.

  Phoebe did not look back at Charity, for she knew in an instant what had made her scream. The alligator, three meters long at least, stilled again, but she could see its round eye watching them. It did not move, not even a ripple, but the air felt charged as if lightning could strike at any moment.

  Frozen in terror and hypnotized by the ogling eye beneath its brow, Phoebe couldn't move, either. A sudden jerk on her arm made her gasp as Charity pulled her back onto the bank. She didn't wait to be coaxed; both women grabbed hands and ran shrieking back to the dock where they cowered against a piling watching the giant dragon muse over what action to take next. It was no longer lying on the earth but standing on four stubby legs alerted to their presence, or perhaps, shuddered Phoebe, considering its next meal.

  Beside her, Charity began to wheeze, and Phoebe squeezed her hand. "Don't," she urged between her own heavy breaths. Charity did not respond. In not so many words, she told Phoebe that this was her fault, for Phoebe had refused Mr. Hathaway, defied Mama, and insisted she leave town to escape society's censure. Now they would both die in the untamed countryside—a horrible death.

  The creature shuffled in the sand, and Charity shrieked again. Phoebe's heart hammered in her chest as perspiration ran down her sides. She closed her eyes and prayed, while another part of her mind wondered how safe it would be to follow the obvious signs of a wagon trail inland. Then, as if it was a comforting sign from God, she heard bells jingling and the most beautiful sound of wagon wheels crunching along their direction.

  Daniel, with a thin white man seated beside him, appeared through the trees as Charity dropped to her knees and praised heaven. Relief flooded over Phoebe making the world spin, but she raised her hand in a composed salutation. The alligator did not move as the wagon bounced by its sunning spot, but it watched.

  With a grim nod its direction, Phoebe pointed toward the danger, hoping her knees would not give way. Both men looked at it then glanced at each other before throwing their heads back and howling with laughter. Charity stopped her sniffling and climbed to her feet. Phoebe stared.

  "Oh, I see you've met Arnold!" her brother-in-law called. He motioned toward the animal. "Benedict Arnold," he said with a guffaw as the wagon came to a halt.

  "It almost got us!" cried Charity, and both men laughed again.

  Phoebe felt her face crumple with displeasure at their amusement but motioned toward the trunks waiting to be loaded. "I am happy you came along at last," she said in a steady voice that made her proud.

  There was no reason for anyone to know she thought she might curl up and die if someone did not take her back to Charleston stra
ight away.

  HEAT RADIATED OFF THE kiln in waves.

  Papa had situated the brickyard on the southeast end of the property, out of view of the main house, but close to the docks along the creek so it wasn't far to transport them once they were dried and fired. James wiped his forehead with his sleeve and looked down at his filthy breeches. The former overseer had moved to the fields, and James took his place to supervise the brick-making.

  He hated the heat. He would not, however, sit astride a horse and bark orders. If he was going to make bricks, he was going to make them, so he moved from the mixing room to where they were cut, and then over to the rows to see them lined like tin soldiers and turned to dry in the sun. In the evenings, he helped cut wood for the kiln if he could still move.

  The midday sun glowered down on Sandy Bank. It tempted James to make everyone stop for water and vittles, although such a thing like that was not often done. It didn't seem fair for him to take cover while the work carried on around him. Mammy's son and his childhood friend, Theodore was there, and he could not pretend to enjoy their circumstances. There was no respect for James now, no friendship. He felt lonely and insecure in this new role.

  The echo of hooves drew his attention to the rutted road that connected the brickyard to the drive of the house. It was not Papa, but a familiar figure and horse. Benjamin brought the thoroughbred to a stop with a sharp jerk. His man—a shadow he called Michael—drew up behind him on his own mount.

  "They said I could find you here." Benjamin took off his broad hat and ran his fingers through his dark curly hair. "You look like you've rolled around in the mud."

  Indifferent to him now and uninterested in any games that might be afoot, James shrugged. When he didn't reply, Benjamin swung off the saddle and strode across the yard. "You did not answer my messages, and I sent one off a fortnight ago."

  James kept his face impassive but polite. He wiped his caked gloves on his stained breeches. "I never received one. We came out straight away."

  "After your inquiry," guessed Benjamin.

  "Yes." James knew his tone sounded flat.

  "So," said Benjamin, "I see you are busy, but I have not heard the story. Not from a reliable source. "

  "What is there to hear?"

  His partner in boyhood scandals widened his eyes. "You had a ship. You sank it."

  "It burned," James corrected him. "We could not put it out and had to abandon ship."

  "And that's the end of it? Boring," teased Benjamin. "I suppose it's a more exciting tragedy to tell if one was more invested."

  "We were heavily invested," James reminded him.

  Benjamin stared at him, hat dangling from his hands. Something in his eyes hinted at remorse. "I could use a drink. I did not want to bother your papa."

  "Yes, well," said James, not bothering to look sorry, "I'm afraid I am otherwise engaged. You should hurry up to the house."

  "I won't stay long," promised Benjamin, "just a few days if I am in your way. I wanted to see if you were content to be back."

  He looked almost ashamed of himself, and James wondered if he was ready to confess that he had played a part in Phoebe's hurt and indignation. Things would never be the same now.

  "Can we walk?" Benjamin asked with a furrowed brow.

  James looked toward the dock. "I suppose I could check on the last load. I like them stacked just so."

  "Yes," said Benjamin, "you can be particular."

  They left the yard and walked across the crushed oyster shells and pebbles that lined the footpath to the creek. James looked across the water in the distance and watched an assertive ibis dash after its meal.

  "You have abandoned us all together in town."

  "My parents insist that I live at Sandy Bank for a time."

  "And learn the family business, I suppose."

  "Much as you had to once upon a time."

  "Yes," agreed Benjamin, "but as you know, I am not so hands-on." He gave a dry chuckle.

  "We do not have much faith in an army of overseers—especially cruel and lazy ones."

  "No, your father is a particular man himself."

  Finally, James could stand it no longer. He did not want intruders here. He had mind-numbing responsibilities, not to mention his own loneliness. "Why have you come? Do I owe you a game? A debt?"

  "No," said Benjamin, "I owe you one."

  James thought back. "I'm sure we were even the last time I left Shepheard's."

  "We were." They came to the dock where the barges floated empty and high on the water. It sloshed against the pilings and made a pleasant sound. "I owe you an apology."

  James inhaled. So, it was true. When Benjamin did not elaborate, he pressed him. "I assume you mean Miss Applewaite."

  Benjamin looked as if he did not want to meet James's eye. "You know then. I'm sorry."

  "I'm sure it is all over town by now. Mama is furious with me as if I jilted Phoebe rather than the other way around." He gave Benjamin a hard stare. "That you would tell a virtuous young woman she was only proposed to in order for me to get my way. It was shameful for me to even think it, yes, but you did not have to humiliate her or hurt her feelings, if she ever had any for me at all."

  "Oh, she has feelings," Benjamin assured him. "I saw her face. She looked like my sister slapped her when—"

  "Your sister?" James's hands clenched.

  "Alice, of course. Her ancient and dull husband begged me to take her to town, and we had just walked into Pilcher's when I spied Miss Applewaite there."

  "And your sister told her? She knew?"

  Benjamin looked guilty. "I suppose I told her, yes, at some inopportune moment when I was in my cups. Your engagement was a shock to me. To think that Miss Applewaite would even acknowledge two rogues like us."

  James closed his eyes. "Now, that I can believe. We have always joked we would never allow the other to settle, but I never thought you'd hinder me if I changed my mind."

  "I'm sorry," stammered Benjamin. "There was nothing I could do. She looked horrified and humiliated."

  "I suppose everyone heard."

  "In the shop, yes."

  "And then I lost a new ship and came home to be rejected twice."

  Benjamin winced. "I'm so sorry, my friend. I know you came to care for her in a way."

  James looked up at him in surprise. "Actually, Benji, I loved her, and there's nothing I can do about it now because she won't see me. What she said in her letter was right. I am a disgrace."

  "You're no disgrace," snorted Benjamin. "If there was anything I could do, I would, but as you probably know, she's..." He looked at James.

  "What?" James braced himself. Had she fallen ill? Chosen someone else?

  "She's been sent to live on the family land upriver. It's not too far south of my place, remember?" Benjamin raised his eyebrows in a show of disbelief. "Her mama shipped her out to the low country and pretends like she never existed at all."

  "She what?" James could not believe his ears. "They sent her away? Because of me? She hates the low country! Especially there. What about her shop?"

  "Oh, there's no shop," Benjamin assured him. "The only sowing she's doing is with seeds."

  BENJAMIN MADE AN EFFORT to be helpful in the brickyard two days in a row before he found other reasons to ride around the property or visit the house. He confided in James in-between distractions that he had a word with Mr. Leonard and spoke to Alice himself, informing them that if another unkind word passed to Miss Applewaite or anyone of her relation, it would be the end of his escorting her about Charleston in place of her elderly and often sickly husband. Amused, James could forgive his boredom after that.

  As the week neared its end, Benjamin admitted to James he planned to return to the city for a concert with the young and widowed Mrs. Roberts, who had no wish to remarry but enjoyed handsome company. He was sure the early crop at home was coming along fine without his help.

  After entertaining a subdued Mama in her drawing room, they settled
in the rather masculine meeting room upstairs. It smelled faintly of tobacco and leather, and the chairs were as comfortable as they had been in early spring.

  "You clean up well," Benjamin flattered him. "Why not come with me to town?"

  James shook his head. "I have an order to finish. Perhaps next month I will float down with it on the barges."

  His friend was not interested in drink. There had been enough port and coffee. He leaned back and crossed his boots, putting his hands behind his head. "If you are certain you are in love with Miss Applewaite, why waste about here?"

  A painful sting needled James in the heart. "I regret that I confided in as much to you. She is gone now anyway, is she not? And if she were still at home, she would slam the door in my face."

  "Yes, well," mused Benjamin, "she did refuse you a dance, but she came around the next time, didn't she?"

  James looked past him out the window. The view allowed him to see the treetops and coppery sunlight that meant the sun would soon slip away. He'd never been so tired in all his life. His boots felt like lead during the day, but when he collapsed at night he could not sleep. Over and over, his mind considered every decision he'd made since Twelfth Night.

  "You do look poorly, my friend," admitted Benjamin. "You're melancholy and dull and even I wouldn't dance with you."

  James felt his lips crease into a faint smile. "I'm sorry I have not been good company. I do not want to disappoint Papa in the brickyard."

  "Blast the bricks," Benjamin shot back. "You never wanted to run this place. You know what you want to do."

  James studied the wine-colored spines of the row of agricultural journals stacked neatly on a second shelf. What he wanted didn't seem to matter.

  "If you want a boat that bad, brother, come manage my barges for me." Benjamin flicked a small bit of paper across the table. "We've let the last captain go, he made such a muddle of things. The man stopped to visit his friends and folk along the way while the rice sat on the river for a week." He shook his head in disgust.