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

by Danielle Thorne

  Papa nibbled on his pipe stem then said in the quiet, "Go on to the Quinton's then. I suppose you can't explain yourself to her if you're wandering around here in the brickyard."

  "Thank you, Papa. I leave for the Ashley tomorrow. Though I doubt my paths will cross with hers, at least we'll be along the same river." James's eyes teared with appreciation.

  "Make it so, Mr. Hathaway," Papa urged with a soft smile.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As the days of May passed away, Mr. Suter drove Phoebe to the Jacksons' home for another dinner. It was the second time she'd dined with her neighbors at Duck Point, and she suspected it would become a regular occurrence since they'd offered the same hospitality to her sister and brother-in-law.

  The Jacksons were older than her by several years, had two children, and a house and yard full of servants and enslaved persons. Considering the hypocrisy of their fundamental Christian values and the threat of slave uprisings in the thick, camouflaged low country, Phoebe found it hard to be comfortable there with her burgeoning interest in the anti-slavery pamphlets trickling down from Philadelphia.

  After politely withdrawing from their small drawing room afterward, Mr. Suter and Charity met her with the wagon at the stoop, and she clambered up. Charity had insisted she accompany Mr. Suter on the ride, and they'd both enjoyed a small meal in the kitchen house.

  Phoebe swatted at mosquitoes clinging to her hat's netting as they bobbled along. "I'm glad you enjoyed your dinner," she remarked. "I'm sorry mine ran on for so long. Mrs. Jackson is lonesome, I think. She did a great deal of talking and for quite a length of time once her husband grew bored with us."

  Mr. Suter made a noise of amusement. "He was quite friendly with Mr. Cadwell and may miss dispensing advice."

  "Now that it's grown hot, he wouldn't have seen them often anyway. Winnifred cannot bear the heat after late morning and would have never come out of her room."

  Charity sniffed. "I'm sure she is happy to be back in town at home, Miss."

  "Yes, I'm sure she is," begrudged Phoebe. How she missed town, but she would not complain. Comme on faict son lict, on le treuve—she had made her bed and must lie in it now. "She will miss being close to the river," Phoebe guessed, "and the ducks and her garden. How much better everything grows out this way."

  "More room," Mr. Suter offered.

  She raised her chin in agreement.

  Along the way home, a sentry of pines and towering cottonwoods lined either side of the make-shift road then thinned into the edges of a cypress swamp. The road inclined past salt flats and stunted grasses while Phoebe watched for alligators and the channel's bank began to widen and reveal the dark strip of beach near the dock.

  "Poor Mr. Arnold must be lonesome," she jested, and Charity made a noise of dissent. "I think Daniel may come back for him if he comes back for any of us at all." Phoebe kept a stingy thought to herself—that she would do anything to return home where she could walk to the market, see the wide-open ocean, and perhaps, dip a polite curtsey to Mr. Hathaway if he happened to pass by in his jaunty gig. As bruised and broken as she felt, she missed him and what had been.

  With his weathered hands on the reigns, Mr. Suter motioned with his chin toward the channel. "That won't be Mr. Cadwell, I'd wager, as they're coming from upriver."

  Phoebe peered ahead. A large boat, almost too wide to navigate the shallows of the channel, slid carefully down on the current toward her dock. She squinted. "Why would they come around this side of the river and risk getting stranded?"

  Suter kept silent, saying he did not know. He slowed the wagon when they passed the dock, and Phoebe put a glove on his arm. "Stop," she said in a low tone. Although it was faster, it made little sense for anyone to come through the channel in a wide barge unless they were looking to stop along the mainland's shore to hunt ducks or fish. She certainly did not want strangers on her land.

  Glancing around for Arnold and not seeing the sinister alligator lurking about, she scuttled down from the wagon and strode over to the pilings. The mark of her family crest was still there, deeply engraved into the hearty pine. She pressed the mosquito netting to her face so she could see better and pinched it at her neck to protect herself from the dreadful insects.

  The boat drew nearer. It was loaded with grain sacks and casks of different sizes, as well as a few dark-colored men, most likely enslaved. Three white men were also aboard: two at the front, and one aft, stroking a long, thick oar with an enormous paddle. Two of them noticed the wagon, or perhaps her, at the edge of the dock.

  It was all Phoebe could do not to put her hands on her hips, but she waited quietly, her heart thrumming with anxious curiosity. How could Mama suggest she live out here practically alone? The lonely low country was not always safe, not with runaways, smugglers, and God forbid, pirates.

  One of them, sturdy and square-shouldered, pushed up a cocked hat to see better, and she knew him instantly even though her mind flapped back in surprise like a startled bird. He signaled to the man in the back and called at the others, and then remarkably, the craft changed direction and slinked toward the bank almost brushing the pilings as they managed to heave to and stop.

  James Hathaway leaped up beside her as nimble as a young buck. A faint smile glowed on his face where his once-fair complexion had darkened to an interesting shade of pecan. Phoebe took a step away fighting jumbled desires to either embrace him or push him back into the water.

  His basil-green stare swirled with some kind of reticence despite his overly-familiar demeanor. He caught himself and bowed. "Miss Applewaite?" His glance flitted toward the wagon and stopped on Mr. Suter. After a painful pause, he said, "It is still Miss Applewaite, isn't it?"

  Of course, you idiot. Instead of speaking her first thought, Phoebe forced something different to come out of her dry mouth. "It is. This is Applewaite land. I'm afraid we are not accustomed to such large boats coming through the channel from upriver."

  "Ah," he responded in a polite tone although his eyes drank her in. She could feel his probing stare trying to find its way through the netting that protected her expression and spinning emotions.

  "I, uh," he stammered then motioned toward the other men, "it's a barge. From the Quinton's land. We are moving some exports downriver to Charleston."

  Phoebe tore her eyes away from his penetrating gaze and scanned his plain attire which appeared only suitable for paddling down waterways. If she hadn't known he was a Hathaway, she would have never guessed it. His bare hands looked red and rough.

  "You are working on the river now?" She tried to keep the surprise out of her tone.

  "Yes, as a river captain," he conceded. "I tried the brickyard, but I missed the water, so I am..." He glanced over his shoulder then turned back to her with a sheepish grin. "I am learning to pilot the Ashley which is why we took the channel."

  "Oh," replied Phoebe as her mind tried to comprehend what this meant. Unable to restrain herself, she queried in a discreet tone, "Have your parents cut you off?"

  James chuckled. "No, but they are not willing to help me secure a career at sea so I am on my own."

  "A river captain," Phoebe murmured. For someone who showed little interest in getting his hands dirty for so many years, he'd certainly changed his colors.

  "It doesn't bring in a great deal of income," James admitted, "but I see Mr. Quinton on occasion, and the job keeps a roof over my head."

  "That's very nice," Phoebe answered, not knowing what else to say. Gracious! Where did a river captain even sleep? It made no sense that a gentleman of James's reputation would leave his home, especially one as fine as Sandy Point, and work as a common laborer on a river barge.

  "You looked confused," he observed.

  "I am, but you look... happy."

  His smile stiffened. "Not completely. I am satisfied to have my mind made up even if I have to start on a barge, but—" He looked at her, his stare piercing the netting and sinking deep into her eyes as he'd done on the banks of Rat
hall Creek. "I'm not completely happy."

  She could not allow herself to believe he meant her. Those hopes were long burned to ashes. Phoebe cleared her throat and looked away. "I'm sorry it did not work out for you on the Lily." James did not answer, and the moment became so strained she turned back to his examination.

  "Miss Applewaite," he blurted. "Please allow me to apologize. I—"

  Phoebe held up a gloved hand. Her plastered smile felt so tight it hurt. She could not speak of it. It was long past and people lingered nearby listening. "Please, don't," she mouthed.

  "But I—"

  "It's not necessary." She squared her shoulders. "It's lovely here, isn't it? I'm quite content. We have a good house up the way, and there's a freshwater spring off a little creek which is cool and tastes wonderful." She forced a good-humored smile. "We have a lovely garden, too," and she motioned toward Charity and Mr. Suter.

  With his mouth falling into a straight line, James looked past her and gave the others in the wagon a small gesture of acknowledgment. "Then you are satisfied."

  "Enough," fibbed Phoebe, "and I am out of Mama's way. Daniel and Winnifred will return in August when harvest time is near." Try as she might, she could not ignore his handsome face, tanned neck, and fine, broad shoulders.

  Her resolve to withstand this first meeting wilted with her heart. Phoebe gulped. It was unbearable the next thing she must do, but she had to be polite. "Would you like to come with us for some refreshment, though you must have a schedule to keep?" she hinted.

  James turned his hat over in his hands then swiped at an enormous mosquito flitting around his ear. "Thank you, no," he mumbled.

  "Well then," she managed, "it was – it was good to see you."

  "And you," came the swift reply. She saw remorse flash in his eyes and knew he was sorry for what he did; or sorry for something. She stared bravely, wishing he would leap back into his boat and leave before she started to cry.

  With one last look, James turned to the piling but before he climbed back into the barge, he said, "I did not get my captain's post, Phoebe, and I did not get you, but you must know, please believe me, that it was you I wanted most of all." Then he leaped into the vessel without another word.

  His words struck her like she was a bell, and she stood immobilized as they rang in her ears. Her heart pulsed with a strange relief as she watched the barge continue down the channel, but she quieted it. The quivering in her legs that began when she first saw him became violent trembling. What had he said? Did he mean it? Her mind swam.

  Just as the barge went around the bend, James raised an arm in the air in a sweet, poignant signal of goodbye. Phoebe flicked her hand up in return. When he was out of sight, she tried to clear the gnarled emotions trapped in her throat, but it set loose a hornet's nest of agonizing anxieties that allowed a sob to escape. She covered her mouth and trapped them in her hand.

  The wagon soon returned to the house, and without a word to Mr. Suter or Charity, Phoebe walked to her room and shut the door before collapsing onto the musty bed. She let the hurt she'd so carefully controlled stream out in rivulets. Now they could both go on. He had formally told her goodbye.

  JAMES'S STOMACH BEGAN to roll once the barge broke free of the swift-moving channel and rejoined the heaving river that made them toss back and forth like a lazy, lumbering cow. At one point, he found himself leaning over the side to mist his face to help him keep from being sick. He was an object of ridicule to the others.

  After they reached Charleston, James watched the men unload the barrels and sacks as he waited for the dockmaster. It was his third trip downriver, and he knew the charts by heart. Already, he felt like the Ashley had grown from a good acquaintance to a trusted friend. Soon, with a little more experience with the weather and tides, she would be as familiar as a lover. Until then, he was just a Hathaway, an entitled newcomer.

  James leaned back on a post, his mind returning to the sight of Phoebe keeping watch from her family dock like a castle guard. His reaction upon seeing her had been stupefied although he'd known the Applewaite's land was somewhere along the river bank. Papa had pointed it out on a channel map, but James had not paid as close attention as he should have. When he saw her there, he did not know her at first from the netting dripping from her hat, but the sight of her striking en garde stance and the slim figure beneath the printed cotton gown arrested his gaze. His heart had prickled, and he just knew.

  James wet his lips, drowning out the noise of men and squawking gulls around him. His attraction to her had not waned and neither had his admiration. He was still in love, dash it all. It hadn't gone away like a cold. He couldn't forget about her the way he had forgotten others.

  Phoebe did not want him anymore. James felt his shoulders drop. It was clear—and unfair. She believed he'd only proposed to get aboard the Lily and that simply wasn't wholly true. Yes, it had motivated him in the beginning, but when he kissed her and asked for her hand, he'd meant it more honestly, more solidly, and more genuinely than he'd ever meant anything in his life.

  His stomach rolled over again, and James grunted. He needed to put something in it before he was sick. Since he would take a room over the Blue Porpoise, he decided to head up the street and catch a late supper. The barge had arrived at the tail end of dusk, and soon the quay would be loud and boisterous. He knew he didn't want any of that and wondered if he'd suddenly somehow turned a hundred years old.

  At last, James finished up business with a handshake, ignoring the surprise of the officials loitering around with raised brows. Why? It was old news now. Hathaway had left the Exchange and was getting his feet wet.

  James resettled his hat. His hands felt stiff and cold as he found himself stumbling fatigued toward the inn. When he spied Mr. Albermarle at the end of the quay under a blazing torch, he almost groaned aloud.

  Albermarle dropped his chin in a slow, deep nod, but James stiffened his shoulders and decided he had no desire to converse. The man greeted him again as he walked by, so he replied, "G' evening," in a taut tone. Before he could escape, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and he spun around on the defense.

  "Mr. Hathaway," repeated Albermarle, eyes glinting with amusement.

  "I said hello," James countered. "Do you have a message from my father, or do you just want to insult me again?"

  "No," replied the man, his face guarded. "I would like to speak to you," he explained. "Are you heading to the Blue Porpoise with the other men? I'd like to buy you a drink if you would allow it."

  James stared in surprise. "I am a bit dirty and damp, Mr. Albermarle, but that is where I plan to stay for the night."

  "Until you return upriver?"

  "That's right."

  Albermarle studied him. Now curious, James added somewhat reluctantly, "I am thirsty enough and planned to get something to eat if you want to come along."

  The man made a noise of agreement, and they walked side by side the remaining distance to a dark blue tavern with a porpoise-shaped sign swinging over the door. Settling at a vacant table crammed with rickety chairs, they sat across from one another, and Albermarle ordered fish and oysters along with corn fritters and two pint-sized tankards.

  James's stomach growled in anticipation, and he nearly fainted with relief when the drink came right away. He took a long swallow and then a deep breath, waiting for Albermarle to unload his thoughts on him. He'd done so freely in the past, but the man looked hesitant, almost tired.

  "So you don't have a message from Papa?" James clarified.

  Albermarle cupped both hands around his drink. "I'm here about Zachariah."

  James had just found this job working for Benjamin. Did the man want him to get his boy on with the Quintons, too?

  Albermarle glanced around then lowered his eyes and voice. "I understand there is more to the story of the Lily's fire."

  Startled, James remained silent. Albermarle gave a swift, jerking nod. "He has told me, finally, the whole truth, at least I like to th
ink so." His bushy brows sank into a straight line.

  "What did he say exactly?" James couldn't imagine the boy would lie and lay all of the blame on his shoulders.

  "My son likes to smoke. I don't approve, of course, and neither does his mother. He's finally decided to find another pastime since nearly burning to death at sea, but his spirits haven't much improved until we had a conversation last week."

  "I see." James waited.

  In a near-whisper, Albermarle said, "I understand you were aware my son was smoking in the hold before the fire started."

  "I was."

  "And you didn't report it?"

  "There was no time when it came to my attention." James pitied Zachariah. It was honorable of him to confess, but that didn't mean James would be a party to his punishment. "Besides," he added, "after all was said and done, no one perished, and I didn't see the point in dragging down an absentminded boy. I've been in his position."

  Albermarle didn't reply, and James watched his faded gray eyes become less cold as if touched with gratitude. Clearing his throat, the man mumbled, "So you took the blame and keelhauled your own reputation rather than speak out."

  "I could have reacted faster; given orders sooner. I deserve some rebuke."

  "Yet you have been banned from the shipyard."

  James hiked his shoulders in a swift shrug.

  "I owe you the deepest and most regretful apology," Albermarle admitted, "and I thank you."

  He did not have to say that the brunt of the financial losses could have been demanded from him; that his family and his livelihood could have been ruined forever. And the boy. Zachariah could have been severely punished to the point of losing his life.

  To dismiss the uncomfortable accolades, James took a long drink from his foaming ale and found it filled places inside of him that had felt parched for a long time. An invisible weight lifted from his shoulders. He was acquitted, at least in Albermarle's mind, and Papa would probably learn of it, too. This pleased James. It was enough.