by Cate Masters
Biting her tongue, Livvie poured two glasses. She carried one back to the parlor.
Mrs. Crowell’s tight smile held no graciousness. “If Florie had brought it inside, I would have had her bring me some.”
Forcing a smile, Livvie resolved not to remind the woman of her status: a paying guest, not a servant. “I’ll be upstairs.”
She climbed the staircase. The second door from the end stood closed. Perhaps Martha still slept, though it must be nigh on nine o’clock. She rapped gently on the door. Within, the bed creaked.
Huffing an exaggerated sigh, Mrs. Locke answered, “Yes?”
“It’s Olivia. I have some lemonade for you.” She half-hoped Martha would send her away.
“Come in, dear,” came her strained reply.
No escape just yet. Livvie opened the door.
Mrs. Locke lifted herself higher on her pillows. The sheer curtain surrounding her bed was still closed, like the window curtains.
The hot air stifled Livvie. She left the door ajar. “A nice breeze is blowing. Shall I open your windows further?”
“Oh, no. I can’t abide the mosquitoes. They’re awful, the largest monsters I’ve ever seen.”
Suppressing a laugh, Livvie set the glass on the night table. If mosquitoes were the worst monsters Martha had ever encountered, she should count herself among the lucky. “Are you well this morning?”
Martha gave a long sigh. “I suppose I’m improving.”
An unease grew within her. Though not as dark, the close air reminded Livvie of the ship’s hold. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
Mrs. Locke fanned herself. “A little something to eat, perhaps. Is there any fruit?”
She started for the door. “I will ask Florie.”
The woman’s energy multiplied. “No, wait. Please sit. Talk a bit first.”
Livvie sat in the cane chair, folding her hands in her lap. And waited.
Sighing loudly, Martha stared at the wall.
Livvie would not sit in silence. “I ran into Mr. Langhorne this morning.”
The woman’s gaze drifted to Livvie’s. “Who?”
“The man who brought me up from the depths. I told you about him.” She wouldn’t mind talking about him more. To make him seem more real. Less like a dream.
Exhaling, Martha leaned against her pillows. “Where on earth did you see him?”
“At the market. I went for fruit.”
“You had an escort, I hope.” Mrs. Locke’s voice sounded flat, her eyes accusing.
“No. Florie was busy. Mrs. Crowell hadn’t yet come downstairs.” Silly details, not relating to what she’d begun to say.
“Surely you didn’t speak to him. Not while alone.”
Her disapproving tone riled Livvie.
“Of course I spoke to him. Mr. Langhorne asked about you.”
Martha’s eyes widened in alarm. “Me? I’ve never met the man.”
Livvie kept her voice even. “No, although he knew I was looking for you. He was relieved to hear you were well.”
Her voice weakened. “As well as can be.”
She brightened her tone. “He asked if he could visit later.”
Martha closed her eyes. “You declined, I’m sure.”
Tired of sitting, Livvie stood, pacing toward the window. “Not at all. Mr. Langhorne was very kind to ask.”
Mrs. Locke’s eyes flew wide. Her voice shook, increasing in pitch. “Those ruffians are not to be trusted, Olivia. You must realize that.”
Ruffians. Living free and wild, as Livvie yearned to do. “They saved our lives, Martha.”
The widow’s clipped words shot from the netted bed like musket balls. “Yes, so they could get to their true aim of our cargo.”
She stared out the window. “That’s not true. Even Mrs. Crowell says the wreckers value life above all else.” The lady of the house gave compliments sparingly, Livvie had already learned.
“I don’t mean to upset you, dear. Mrs. Crowell’s opinion of the wreckers is much lower. They are nothing more than looters, preying on others’ misfortunes when ships are ruined.”
Livvie turned. “Who do you suppose would have saved us, if not them, Mrs. Locke? The crew’s loyalties lie with the ship, not its passengers. We would surely have drowned without the help of the wreckers.” Her tone grew as clipped as Mrs. Locke’s.
“Oh, dear, now I’ve upset you.” The woman’s timidity riled Livvie more than her tainted opinions. Martha’s look of suffering came too easily upon finding herself in a bad position.
She smoothed her skirt. “Don’t be silly.”
Martha’s strained voice soured the atmosphere. “So you’ll let Mr. Langhorne know we cannot entertain any visitors tonight?”
Livvie would not be dictated to. Not yet, at least. Certainly not by someone she barely knew. “If you are unable to rise to the occasion, I shall meet him myself.”
Martha’s weakness disappeared. “Olivia, it isn’t proper. Mr. Langhorne can have no other intention than to dishonor you.”
She whirled to face the bed, and the woman hiding within. “Mrs. Locke, I am well able to maintain my honor. Mr. Langhorne may be handsome, but he’s lacking inner depth. He is no temptation to me. However, while we are in Key West, it’s our duty to be gracious guests. I owe him at least that much, in return for my life. Even if he was only doing his job.” She suspected he carried out the rescue much like any of his other duties–lacking much care.
Men such as Samuel Langhorne were plentiful in any location. The ape of a man gawked at her as though she were no more than market wares, available to the highest bidder.
The same look Elijah Foster, her father’s partner, gave her when he’d come to dinner, or she’d visited Father’s office. The comments Mr. Foster uttered so breathlessly once her father left the room had disgusted Livvie. She made no pretense about making allowances for him. He may have been her father’s partner; he would never be Livvie’s. After her father’s death, he’d proposed swiftly, displaying no great dignity. Perhaps he assumed her destitute, lacking any other option. Had he known of Father’s encouragement to use her intelligence for better pursuits than a loveless marriage, Mr. Foster may have reconsidered his proposal.
Samuel Langhorne might be younger and more appealing; still, Livvie wanted more from life than to spend her days in a summer kitchen house while her husband sailed out on the open sea with his mates. She would never be anyone’s servant save her own.
Martha’s lips trembled into a weak smile. “Would you ask Florie for some fruit? Then perhaps you might read the newspaper to me?”
“All right, Martha. You might try coming downstairs to sit awhile. Or outside on the porch. The fresh air would do us both good.” Certainly Livvie preferred the outdoors to the confines of a darkened room.
“Maybe tomorrow, dear. I don’t believe I’m up to it yet.”
Livvie held in her thoughts. The woman was never up to anything she didn’t want to do.
“I’ll return soon.” Frustration filled her at the notion of spending the afternoon in Martha’s room. She’d have to find excuses for constant errands. Martha’s presence on the ship had proven more confining than the vessel itself. Livvie couldn’t allow herself to be trapped in the small room until their next voyage.
Descending the stairs, she vowed never to let herself become so weak she’d depend on others, or so needling, that her constant whining manipulated their actions.
* * * *
Morning wore on into afternoon. Livvie read the Key West Enquirer aloud by Martha’s bedside. The woman lay listlessly, appearing unmoved by any news account other than to remark occasionally what a peculiar place Key West was.
Its peculiarity held particular appeal for Livvie. Its lack of daily structure lent an air of lawlessness, except regarding wrecking procedures. Held to strict accountability for his own crew as well as those he hired, the captain deigned Wrecking Master followed a myriad of rules, during and after the salvage op
eration. All wreckers abided by the decisions of Judge William Marvin, presiding over the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of Florida, stationed in the town for the sole purpose of deciding wrecking cases.
As afternoon gave over to evening, Livvie found herself looking forward to Mr. Langhorne’s visit. His presence would provide a different face, a handsome one at that.
Something in the way he looked at her, as though she were the only one who could fulfill his longings, stirred her. A practiced look, to be sure–one he’d no doubt affected for use on other women. She had no intention of allowing him to bolster his ego using her affections. Besides, soon she would receive word on the arrival of the next ship. The one that would deliver her into her brother’s obligation.
Chapter Five
After jumping onto the beach from the rowboat, Sam helped haul it up. “Look lively. Come, Barnaby.” The dog leaped onto the frothy sand.
“What’s the hurry?” Liam stood.
“I am a busy man, Liam.” The lowering sun would sink past the horizon in a few hours. This evening should provide an excellent view of the Gulf Stream’s cloud bank. A view he intended to share with Livvie.
His mate chuckled. “Busy leading yourself astray. Keep me company at the grogery instead.”
“Not tonight. I have promises to keep.”
“And to break, eh?” Liam lifted the front of the boat over his head. “Take care not to break yer own heart in the process.”
Sam shouldered the end of the boat. “My heart is not part of the bargain.”
Trudging inland, Liam shouted a laugh. “I’ve seen yer face when ye look at her, Samuel. Yer puppy dog eyes, beggin’ for attention.”
He’d have to guard his emotions more carefully. “The only puppy dog eyes here belong to Barnaby. Eh, boy?”
At the sound of his name, the hound woofed, bounding to Sam’s side.
The men set the boat near a cluster of palm trees. The unwritten wrecker’s code ensured its safe haven until morning because it bore the mark of the Elizabeth Rose name. Should a ship go down, they’d return sooner. An unlikely event, given the calm of both sea and skies, unless an inexperienced crew manned the helm.
Liam set his hands at his waist. “Give yerself a fightin’ chance. Take a bath.”
Sam winked. “As good as done. And clean clothes to boot.”
Liam clucked his tongue. “I hope the girl knows how lucky she is.”
“I’ll be sure to remind her.”
Liam’s steady, inscrutable gaze gave Sam pause. The two joked about the similarities of storms and lovemaking–getting caught up in the height of the moment, not knowing what the aftermath might bring. The girl had preoccupied Sam’s thoughts: how her wet clothes clung to her alluring form, her hair cascading in waves. Like a siren song, he heard her whispers in the night, imagined her soft touch against his skin. Other women had distracted him before, briefly, and perhaps not with the same intensity, but Sam knew the cure. A good dousing of her would quench his thirst. And then he could forget her, like all the rest.
The fact she acted less than obliging toward him only made it a more interesting challenge. He would tame the tempest she wrought upon him. The sooner the better, so he could purge her from his system.
Liam held a hand to his stomach. “I’m starvin’. Let’s go eat.”
They walked to Groll’s Grogery. Wreckers filled nearly all the tables, a common enough occurrence between shipwrecks, with little else to do.
The cook set three steaming plates on a table where some of The Brilliant’s crew sat.
Sniffing, Liam leaned toward their meals. “Green turtle?”
Lipp Reichert hoisted a spoonful to his mouth. “Caught it yesterday, we did. Cook should have plenty left. It weighed a good three hundred pounds.” Lipp looked at his crew mate, Adam Stroh.
Stroh nodded. “Three fifty, I’d venture.”
Liam’s eyes lit up when he turned to Sam. “Hurry and tell cook we want four servings.” He grasped Sam’s shoulders, pushing him toward the bar.
“There’s only two of us.” Sam studied his friend, but had no clue what he might be up to.
Liam’s response came quickly. “I’ll eat three, if ye can’t handle two.”
“I have no wish to eat so much tonight. I must leave soon, remember?”
“Fine. Order three. I have plenty of time to linger.” Liam halted at the high-pitched laughter coming from the other side of the room. “Then I’ll have enough to share.”
Ah, now Sam understood. Millie. He’d warned Liam she’d be his downfall. Liam always responded that he hoped so.
Sam called to the cook for three orders of turtle and two ales. He leaned on the counter while Liam watched her.
Millie sat on the lap of a burly wrecker from another schooner, her low-cut dress providing a clear view to all of her ample cleavage. Her gaze meeting Liam’s, she whispered in the wrecker’s ear. He guffawed. Pushing herself up, she swished through the tables toward them.
If only she’d marry. Leave Liam alone. Not likely, given she enticed so many men to shower their attentions upon her, along with anything else she wanted. She did give more of her time to Liam than anyone else–but not before casting inviting looks at Sam.
Perhaps his own conceit made him suspect she tried to make him jealous through Liam. Sam had no use for her, or any other woman who would allow herself to be used by so many men. She made no pretense about it, at least. Still, he preferred females who had an air of innocence–such as Miss Collins. Wooing her would be worth the untarnished prize.
He handed the mug of ale to Liam, tugging him toward two open seats at a table occupied by other wreckers, including Jahner Lang from The Florida. Giggling, Millie bent over Liam’s shoulder, nearly spilling her breasts from the bustier. Dragging her lips across Liam’s ear, her gaze bore into Sam’s.
He turned to Jahner to remark about the fair weather.
Stepping between the chairs, Millie bumped her rear into his arm. “Pardon, sweetie.” She nestled onto Liam’s lap.
Flashing a tight grin, Sam scooted his chair away.
The cook carried three plates to the table. Liam held up two fingers. Millie squealed after he said one was for her.
Sam downed spoonfuls of turtle with ale. After he’d emptied his mug, he whistled. When Barnaby trotted in, Sam set the plate on the floor.
Liam groaned. “Oh, the tragedy! Giving such excellent food to a dog.”
Sam chuckled. “Barnaby worked hard. He deserves a good meal.”
The dog licked the plate clean. Standing, Sam lifted it from the floor. “I’ll say goodnight.”
“Aren’t you well?” Millie pouted.
Liam guffawed. “He will be soon. Eh, Sam?”
Jahner winked. “See you tomorrow.”
“Unless he’s still busy.” Adam lifted his mug to his lips.
Sam set his plate and mug on the bar. Digging money from his pocket, he set it beneath the plate. “Good night.” Giving a wave, he walked out the open door. Barnaby followed.
They walked down Duvall Street toward Conchtown, where Sam’s home stood near the outskirts. Nothing more than a shack, really. Good enough for now. A space to store his clothes and gear, a bed to come home to, when The Florida had no need for its crew. He’d prefer a place farther away. He’d make the move later, after he amassed enough money to buy a patch of land. Liam’s ways must be rubbing off on him.
He poured water into his washing basin, and then stripped to clean the sweat from him. His pants were worn, yet clean. He buttoned his white shirt, rolled up the sleeves midway, and smoothed back his hair.
“Not bad, eh, Barnaby? Let’s go.” When he opened the door, the dog trotted through.
Walking down the street, he heard a low whistle. A man leaned from a second floor window. “Who’s the lucky girl, Sam?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Unmarried females rarely stayed single for long in Key West. Competition was f
ierce. No doubt, others would soon call on Miss Collins, if they hadn’t already.
He stayed to the wooden sidewalk to keep the dust from his clothes. He wanted to give Mrs. Crowell no cause to complain about him tracking dirt onto her carpets. After jogging up the steps to the home, he knocked. Too late, he remembered: he’d meant to buy flowers.
Panting, Barnaby flopped onto the porch.
The door opened a few inches. Florie’s wide eyes peered from within.
He smiled. “Evening, Mrs. O’Hanlan. Is Miss Collins about?”
She eased the door open. “Mr. Langhorne. Please come in. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
He stepped into the foyer. No lamp had been lit in the parlor. A light shone in the dining room down the hall. Upstairs, floorboards creaked.
“Have a seat, please.” Florie sashayed down the hallway, rather than upstairs, as he’d expected. Maybe she’d warned them of his impending visit. No doubt the woman would soon return to tell him she’d fallen unexpectedly ill. No point in sitting. He studied the portrait on the interior wall, as best he could in the gathering shadows of evening. A stern-looking man sat beside a woman, an expressionless girl standing between. Most likely the Crowells and their daughter, Anne, now grown, possessing a daughter of her own.
Footsteps clicked down the hallway. He turned, expecting to see Florie’s apologetic face asking him to leave.
The half-light illuminated the girl’s features. The vision of loveliness made Sam’s pulse surge.
“Mr. Langhorne. What are you doing in the dark?” She held a hand against the archway.
The inviting pose tantalized him. He imagined himself sliding his arm in the open space between her raised arm and her slim waist, his other winding behind her knees to carry her upstairs to bed.
“Waiting for you.” His soft, throaty tone–his own siren song–appeared to hold her in check in the shadows.
Ducking her head, she crossed the room to the table. “I’m very sorry. I’ll light the lamp. This parlor grows dim too early.” She struck a wooden match, holding it to the oil light. “Please, have a seat.”
He perched on the end of the sofa, leaving plenty of room for her to sit next to him.
