As ludicrous as it was, Benjamin's suggestion sparked something like life in James's chest. He studied Benjamin's face. "You need a river captain?"
"I have four barges. Two quite large. It's already time to move early produce into town, not to mention, I have some livestock that needs transporting." He broke into laughter. "If you really want to abandon the family business and lower yourself..."
James sat back in his chair. Just considering it made him want to laugh, too, but the possibility of being on the water was a soothing thought. He would love to do such a thing—run supplies up and downriver studying the current and watching the sand bars dotted with birds and the occasional alligator go by.
"Are you seriously considering it?" Benjamin sounded like he might explode with laughter. He loved a good joke.
Treading with care, James asked, "Where would I stay?"
"At the house, of course."
"I couldn't do that."
"Why? Because you'd be a hireling? Not any good then? Well, Mama and the girls might agree, but we could arrange some proper living quarters for you until you find another boat to manage."
"Ship," James whispered. He'd had a wonderful time aboard Lily, and yet he'd only been first mate. This could be a new beginning. It was far beneath him and his family name, but if it was the only way...
Why, if Phoebe Applewaite could refuse an advantageous marriage to a plantation heir to pursue her own ambitions, he could certainly refuse a living at Sandy Bank to earn a ship. He'd just have to start at the bottom like any other man.
"A river captain it is," he said, looking at Benjamin with a thumping heart. It was madness, but someday they'd admire him for it. More importantly, he'd admire himself. That was something. He'd never have Phoebe back, but he could be on the water again.
Benjamin's wide-eyed surprise stretched into a broad grin.
TO HER CREDIT, WINNIFRED was helpful in the little garden behind the house planted to provide vegetables for the pantry. She spoke of little other than returning to Charleston. Over and over, she spoke of when she could leave the musty house to Phoebe and Charity with the hired Mr. Suter to watch over the crops.
Besides Daniel and his overseer, there were only three workers to tend to the modest field that had been replanted with cotton. It would be late if it produced at all; the indigo had washed away.
"Perhaps," suggested Winnifred, as she plucked a few leaves off her cabbages, "you can come to town at the harvest when Daniel comes back out."
Phoebe shrugged from her crouched position with her hands in soil up to her wrists. "I suppose it is up to Mama. She recommended I live here, and I agreed."
"That doesn't mean you have to stay out here forever like an old swamp witch."
Despite her humor hardening until there was little left to make her smile, Phoebe almost giggled. "Though," she admitted, "that's pretty much what lies ahead of me now." She glanced over her shoulder at Charity hacking at peas like she despised them.
"Maybe Charity should go back with you."
"I'd like that, but Mama wrote she must stay with you." Raven-haired Winnifred with her beautiful expressive eyes pressed the leaves flat in her hands. "I so miss the market and the shops." She stopped. "Oh, I'm sorry," she stammered, "that you didn't — don't have one."
Phoebe looked away. "It doesn't matter now I suppose. And I didn't want to sew gowns, you remember. I wanted the whole whale: hats and trimmings and yards of silks even Mr. Payne would admire."
"Well," her sister prattled on, "I am glad you are over that now and do seem to like it out here as long as old Arnold isn't around."
"I cannot believe you named that beast," grumbled Phoebe. She stood and stretched while doing a slow turn to survey the property. "If I see that monster anywhere near this place, I'll shoot him myself."
Her sister laughed. "Not if Mr. Suter has his way. I think he is fond of him."
Phoebe shuddered. As Winnifred beckoned Charity to follow her inside for something to eat, Phoebe stayed in the garden, pressing together her unraveling bergère as she estimated the time left before the sun drooped over the trees. Her dyed cotton gown, now soft and thinning from several washes, was hardly blue anymore. She hitched it up to cool her hot legs but not for long with the burrowing, biting bugs about.
It seemed a little cool this morning, less muggy than town but not that much less. Phoebe ached for the cobbled streets of Charleston. She'd tried to accept her circumstances—harsh, lonely, and demanding—but she could not make her peace. She did love the flowing creek that ran along the property and even the dark and suspicious waters of the channel. The view across the water to Duck Point was divine, but there was little else in this undeveloped low country, just dirt and labor. And then of course, the ever-present dangers of alligators and wild cats creeping up the banks, and snakes, spiders, and the infuriating mosquitoes that tormented her if she forgot to apply her rosemary oil.
She wasn't cut out for it, no more than Winnifred, but at least her sister had Daniel. They would go back to town soon, and maybe someday, somehow, Phoebe would learn to love the strange quiet and impenetrable darkness here.
For someone who preferred the corner as opposed to the center of a room, she missed people—their stories, their voices, their laughter, and all of the different things that could happen from day to day. She felt restless with her pretty complaining sister who could not love it here either, but soon she'd be gone, and Daniel, too, the only calm in the midst of their storm. Not that Phoebe minded Mr. Suter, but he kept his distance or to his old wooden hut with its dirt floors. He was aloof but polite. Perhaps he'd heard gossip about her, too.
She wet her lower chapped lip with her tongue and winced. It was difficult to stay clean and in good looks out here. She wondered what James would think if he could see her now. The heavy ache in her heart returned, and she let it brew, too fatigued to push it away.
Why did she think of him still? Why did she hurt herself so? He'd never loved her, and she had moved on. Left. Walked away. Or sailed away, upriver. She'd forced herself to leave. Him. Everything.
Phoebe's throat tightened as she tried to keep the gnawing pain at bay. It would take a while, she told herself. People recovered from heartaches all the time, and James was so far downriver she didn't have to see or hear of him. Except she couldn't help thinking about him. She wondered if he'd been given another ship or if he was back at the Exchange by day and haunting the taverns at night.
Such a silly man, she told herself, but he wasn't, and she knew it. She thought fondly of Sandy Bank then stopped herself. It was even further from town. She'd only enjoyed it so because of the beautiful house and gardens. Then there was her handsome master, but no, it was too late and pointless to pine for him.
She let a sobbing noise escape from her throat then sat back on her heels to get herself under control. Tears were for the nighttime when no one was listening. Soon, she'd be alone here, and she could cry all she wanted. No one would know.
It would take a long, long time to forget about James Hathaway—if she ever forgot about him at all.
JAMES FELT LIKE A COWARD packing to leave for the Quinton's plantation before telling his parents. Mama was unusually quiet at dinner, so he suspected the servants had talked, and she knew he was up to something.
Papa questioned him about the progress in the brickyard. "The order is complete," James assured him, and they discussed further plans to get the bricks floated downriver to the port.
He waited until the three of them were in the drawing room, Mama with her coffee, and Papa calm and relaxed after a glass of port at the cleared table. Mama stared into the empty hearth. There was no need for a fire tonight. Spring was in her last days. It'd grown hot quickly.
James cleared his throat. "Now that this order is finished," he began then hesitated to see if he had Papa's attention.
"Smithfield is next," Papa mumbled without lifting his gaze from a book.
"I know," James continued, "ther
e is always another order to begin when one ends."
"That's how we keep mouths fed," said Papa. He glanced up at James.
"Yes, Papa, I know. It's just that, well, you can move Mr. Tingey back over from the fields because I am going away."
"Back to Charleston?" queried Mama.
"We've closed up the town house until July," Papa reminded him.
"Yes, I know," said James, somewhat irritated that his father seemed to be doing whatever he could to keep his son trapped here. James caught Mama's worried look. Worry lines around her eyes seemed to have increased as the months went by. He hoped it was age and not his conduct. "I'm going to stay at Benjamin's home—Quinton Plantation."
Mama's brows rose in surprise and disappointment flashed in her eyes. "Mr. Quinton? Why waste a good season there when Sandy Bank is just as nice?"
"You mean to quit working for me then?" Papa's voice was a blend of disbelief, irritation, and surrender.
"You know I don't want to run a brickyard," muttered James. "I don't mind the work, but I miss the sea and since I don't intend to keep up this end of the business in the future, I don't see the point in managing it."
"In the future?" A glint of humor lit up Papa's face. "You mean when I'm gone?" He tilted his head and studied James. "Pray tell, what will you do to keep Sandy Bank running then?"
James took a breath before he spoke. "I've thought it through, Papa, and I still want to pursue a captain's command."
Momma made a sniffing noise of disbelief.
"You gave that route a go, and it didn't work out." Papa sounded somber.
"It worked out fine. The fire was not my fault," James insisted. "It was a terrible accident, and I did the best I could under the circumstances."
His father's critical stare made James's hands hot. Papa was not a man of great temper, but his parents' disapproval that once easily guilted him into obedience now exasperated him.
"I confess I have not been the most responsible son," he admitted, and the heat in his hands raced to his cheeks. "I did set my own mindless pursuits before any assignments from the shipping company. I did not use my allowance responsibly."
Papa's face softened, and embarrassed, James looked down at the scarlet fringes of a rug. "In the future, I intend to run Sandy Bank as nothing more than a family farm that sustains itself. With a ship under my command, I should bring in more than enough to maintain basic expenses."
"And where will you get a ship?," wondered Papa. "You most certainly won't find a position here."
James was ready. "I've agreed to fulfill a period of employment for the Quintons."
"They don't have a ship."
James squeezed his fists. "Actually, they have several barges that bring their exports downriver."
"Well, those aren't ships," interjected Mama. She sounded breathless with suspicion.
"They are boats. So I am moving to Quinton Plantation to work as a river captain until I can find something a step up."
"A river captain? A dirty, wet boatman?" Mama's voice went up three octaves at least. Papa's face clouded with fascination.
"It's no dirtier than helping in the brickyard," James declared, "and it won't be for long."
Papa chimed in. "You have a plantation here with the choice to manage the fields or the yard, or there are calls to make at the shipyard and Exchange."
"You have excused me from town and from taking another post on one of our ships." James tried not to sound blameful. It was the investors' doing, too. "This is something I have done for myself, and it's decided. I'm leaving in the morning."
"A Hathaway does not work for a Quinton," Mama argued as she came to her feet. Her silk layers swished as she crossed the room, and James thought for a moment she might snatch him up by the shoulders and shake him, but she began to pace instead.
"A riverboat is a common career, not that I don't admire your intentions to make your own way," began Papa, "but what about the Navy?"
Mama gasped.
The idea sounded titillating to James, but he shook his head. "I've already considered that. Of course, it could be an option, but should I join, I would start at the bottom there just as I must now."
"But a riverboat!" repeated Mama in horror. "Your grandparents did not come to this country so their descendants could paddle vegetables and cows up and down the Ashley!"
"Why not?" demanded James, his voice rising to match her own. "They came in homespun shirts and dresses, didn't they? Your great-grandfather was an indentured man." Mama's face colored.
"James," warned Papa in a low tone, but he left off.
James took another breath. He shifted his gaze from one parent to the other, pleading for them to understand. "I only mean they turned the earth of this land we live on with their own hands. Why should I be any different and not soil mine?"
"You can soil your hands in a pair of good gloves all day long in our fields or stables," snapped Mama, "but you do not have to go work like a filthy dockhand for the Quinton family."
"Well..." said James, rising to his feet prepared to leave, "that is my intention, and I hope someday you'll understand and be proud of me."
"Ugh!" Mama gasped and stomped across the rug. She pointed at Papa. "You talk to him. He is your son!" She exited with a slam of the door.
"Sit down," ordered Papa as the echo of her fury faded away.
James folded himself back onto the long velvet settee. He stared at his hands.
"You have always been her son," said Papa in the quiet, "but of late you have become mine."
James felt his cheek twitch and tried not to smile. "I am trying to do what's right and be responsible, Papa, and this is the path I choose."
His father cleared his throat, and with a rush of courage James looked up to meet his eyes. "You understand I am disappointed."
James bobbed his head, his twisted stomach sinking deeper into his gut.
"However, I chose bricks," admitted Papa. "I much prefer it over the fuss and risk of rice and indigo. Everyone is building in this country, from the north to the south. It's made me a very rich man, even more than you know, but I understand if working the land or standing over a kiln does not satisfy you."
Papa sounded sad, and it made a lump form in James's throat.
"Your boyhood was strictly regulated. That's why I let you out with Theodore as soon as the doctors suspected it would do more good than harm. Mammy always had you cleaned up before your Mama could see you all wet and muddy, and she was right. You've grown up strong and healthy."
"You always allowed me on the river; even gave me my first pirogue."
Papa smiled. "You are much like great-grandfather Hathaway. Long before he invested in ships, he loved to sail them, too."
"He was in the Navy."
"The Royal Navy, yes. Stationed in the West Indies, remember? Which is how the family found its way to the Carolina coast. I guess it's in your blood."
Papa smiled, and James's eyes threatened to glisten as the knot in his throat tightened. "Then you understand?"
"I'm trying to. For your mother, it will be difficult. She hoped to have grandchildren by now, and she was very fond of Miss Applewaite this time around."
Phoebe's name struck James's heart like a musket ball. How many hearts had he toyed with and broken? And now he was the wrecked one. It shattered the comforting thoughts his father had shared with him. To James's horror, his eyes began to mist, and he looked away to concentrate on his grandmother's portrait over the mantel.
"Did you really like her?" wondered Papa.
James swallowed the painful lump down and nodded.
"A good woman. I'm sorry to hear it."
James cleared his throat. "She's more than that. Phoebe is thoughtful and a good listener. She's quite well-humored although she hides it from many. Anyone would be lucky to have her."
"My," uttered Papa. He leaned back in his chair and patted his pocket as if searching for his pipe. "You did seem to get on well."
"Yes." James wondered if the sickness he felt showed on his face. "We got on beautifully, but I'm afraid she didn't take kindly to being second to my desire for a captain's post. The word of my 'bargain' with you got out."
"So, that's what happened. Well, you lost the Lily," Papa pointed out, "do you still want her?"
The question startled James. He had come to understand that his wants could be petty and selfish, and so he hadn't asked himself that. "I love her." His cheeks flamed.
"Well, my goodness," mused Papa. He fell quiet for a few minutes while James studied the old portrait with a searing face.
"Have you apologized? Have you told her you love her even without a command?"
James shook his head.
"Why not?"
"I humiliated her, and besides, she's never been one to succumb to my charms. I've certainly never been convincing."
"I don't know about that. She agreed to marry you once."
James pressed his lips together and considered it.
Papa rambled on. "While it's good you are looking to begin a new career you are so passionate about, and all on your own, it would be foolish to lose another thing that moves you in the same way. Especially if she is why you have been so uncharacteristically solemn and wretched these past few weeks."
James looked over, curious. What did his father mean?
Finding his empty pipe, Papa stuck it between his teeth and gnawed. "You have always been one to find a way to get what you wanted. We could never keep you in bed when you were ill or from the water if we let you outside. I don't see why Miss Applewaite doesn't deserve the same determination."
He was right. James knew it. As much as his cheeks burned that Papa should know his most intimate feelings and regrets, James realized that his father only wanted what was best for him, not just in life, but in love.
"I still love her," he choked out, "and I haven't had the courage to explain myself and tell her that things haven't changed. After losing the Lily, I thought perhaps she was better off with someone else."
A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2) Page 18
