by Cate Masters
No marriage of any kind was worth that sort of torture.
Chapter Six
The sliced fruit and fresh bread made the breakfast table festive. Livvie sat opposite Mrs. Locke, whom she had cajoled into joining the group. The widow’s sallow complexion appeared the only dim spot around the table. The other Elizabeth Rose passengers made it easy to ignore Martha’s sighs and whining complaints.
John and Pearl Henry, a couple in their early twenties, spoke gently to one another, touching frequently, possibly to remind themselves they had indeed survived. Tom and Elizabeth Clift preoccupied themselves tending to their sons Wilson and Curtis, whose wide, dark eyes reminded Livvie of poor Peter.
Mrs. Crowell, as ever, kept watch over her housekeeper. “Please begin clearing, Florie.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman removed the Clift boys’ cleaned plates.
“And after you’re through, I need you to run some errands for me.” Mrs. Crowell dabbed a napkin to her mouth.
Livvie handed her empty plate to Florie. “What sort of errands?”
Mrs. Crowell rested her hands on the table. “I’m in need of thread and mending tape.”
“From the dry goods store? I would be happy to go.” She couldn’t bear the thought of spending another morning cooped in Martha’s room reading to her while the woman lazed about.
Mrs. Crowell looked from Livvie to Florie, who aimed her wide eyes at Livvie.
Livvie placed her napkin on the table. “I would appreciate the exercise. I’m eager to post a letter to my brother too. The sooner I contact him, the sooner he can send payment for my stay here.”
“Well….” Mrs. Crowell pressed her lips together. “I suppose it would be all right.”
Mrs. Locke chirped like an injured bird. “Surely you can’t wander the streets alone.”
“Why not?” Livvie’s attempt to keep her tone light failed. The widow tried to anchor Livvie, when she wanted most to wander.
“Unescorted?” Martha Locke apparently was not one to back down in the face of trespasses against society.
“Key West is quite safe, I assure you.” Mrs. Crowell pushed her chair from the table. “I used to walk to town myself, before my arthritis reduced my freedoms.”
Freedom, yes. Although the tall windows stood open, Livvie couldn’t spend her days confined within this house, or any other. The walls closed in on her, the view beyond the window frame beckoned. To hear Mrs. Crowell express the same sentiment surprised Livvie.
Livvie rose from the table. “I’ll get my letter.”
Climbing the stairs, the implications of the letter became more clear. Wendell would not refuse her the money for her stay here, but posting the letter would reveal her situation. Her whereabouts. Silly to want to keep her status a mystery, yet there was a certain freedom in that as well. She felt reluctant to give it up.
She descended the stairs and followed the voices of Mrs. Crowell and Florie into the kitchen.
Bent over the counter composing a list, Mrs. Crowell glanced up and halted her writing. “Oh, and I suppose we’ll need more paper. I always keep a supply on hand for guests, and we’ve been running low. You’ll be wanting a stamp, so that’s another three cents.” She made a half-sigh, half-hum and continued writing. Finishing, she stood straight and held the paper to Livvie. “I’ve signed it, so the cashier will know it’s all right to add the total to our tab. We’ve been customers for years.”
Livvie scanned the list: thread, mending tape, paper, stamps. “Any particular color thread?” She stalled, gauging whether to ask for yet more paper. The atmosphere in Key West inspired her to write, and she’d already used the supply of paper in her room.
“No, white is fine. Be certain to remember the amount so I can update my ledger.” Mrs. Crowell’s sideways glance contained more than a concern for her accounting. “Did you need something else?”
Not one to blush easily, Livvie felt the tinge of heat in her cheeks. “Would it be possible to obtain an additional supply of paper for me? I promise to reimburse you in full–or, my brother will, rather. And for the postage, of course.”
Mrs. Crowell studied her. “You write a great deal.”
Again, Livvie’s face flushed warm. “It’s my calling. I hope to publish my novel someday.”
The women stilled, and Livvie grew more uncomfortable when they focused their attentions solely on her.
Mrs. Crowell’s mouth turned downward. Her refusal was certain to follow. “I suppose it would be all right.”
Joy swelled within her. “Thank you. I’ll be going.” Taking the basket from the counter, she nearly sprang through the back door onto the porch and bounded down the steps.
Finally, open space. The expansive sky held only a few thin white clouds, too high to cause a care. Every part of the horizon stretched beyond her sight, making it easy to forget the island was so tiny.
Homes dotted the tree-lined street until it opened to the business district. Inside the tall windows of Whelan’s Dry Goods Store hung sail cloth and rope. Anchors and other nautical necessities unfamiliar to Livvie occupied one side of the store. After wandering several aisles, she found the sewing items. One spool of white thread appeared thick enough to sew stitches in horse hide. While she examined it, a movement caught her eye, and the back of her neck prickled.
She glanced up to see Sam Langhorne stroll in. Walking toward her, his smile widened, and his gaze wandered freely across her, sending heated pinpricks across her skin.
He sauntered closer, his movements panther-like in their grace. “Good morning.”
The prickles traveled from her neck down her spine, deepening along their inward path. She held the mending tape across her chest to hide her quickening breath. “Hello, Mr. Langhorne. What brings you here?”
He stepped closer, his eyes bright. “Our schooner suffered a battering during the storm. I’m charged with mending the sails and am in need of some strong thread.” His fingers closed around hers. “I see you have what I need.”
Her voice failed her. “Pardon?” she whispered.
“The thread.” He slipped the spool from her hand. “Are you mending sails today also?”
Disappointment surprised her. “Mrs. Crowell sent me here for sewing thread.”
From the display, he selected a smaller one and held it up. “I suspect she meant this type.”
Warmth crawled up her neck. “I’m not much of a seamstress, Mr. Langhorne.”
“You aren’t joining Mrs. Crowell’s sewing circle?” He clucked his tongue. “I thought women enjoyed passing the time that way.” His brown eyes sparkled. Stubble shadowed his jaw and chin, framing his mouth.
She forced her gaze away when she found herself staring too long, wondering how his rough face would feel against hers. She pretended renewed interest in the threads. “I’ve little experience in that area.”
He leaned an elbow against the display and looked up at her. “Ah. Your passels of servants took care of your sewing for you, eh? And here I was hoping you might come lend a hand.” Grinning in a teasing way, he searched her face intensely, as though trying to divine the truth.
She lifted her chin. “After my mother’s death, my father hired a housekeeper. I’m afraid I wasn’t an ideal charge. I spent more time with Sir Galahad than at home.” Never had she wanted to be one of the primping girls who practiced domestic skills in hopes of enticing a husband, or took more interest in their appearance than anything else. Now she felt deficient in womanly skills. Sam Langhorne made her feel more deficient. Since their last encounter, she’d dreamed of practicing womanly skills on him.
He pressed his lips tight. “Your own knight in shining armor?”
So he knew of King Arthur. How, she wondered?
“My horse, Mr. Langhorne.” Something tightened in her chest while he held her gaze, so she scanned the mending tapes and selected one, hoping he wouldn’t correct her.
He straightened and stood closer than propriety allowed. “I see. Yo
u’re full of surprises.”
His nearness warmed her skin. She stepped away and forced a light tone. “And you, as well. You’re a man of many talents, apparently–sewing, salvaging, sailing. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I’m sure there is. Nothing comes to mind.” His low voice rumbled like an approaching storm, one of searing lightning and drenching rains.
Livvie had always been fascinated by such storms, and the thought of Sam tearing at her clothes like a gale made her shiver.
“A typical male affliction.” The newspaper tucked beneath his arm caught her eye. She tilted her head to read the banner. “Is that a Philadelphia newspaper?”
He held it out for her to see. “Yes, my brother sends it to me now and again, thinking he’ll taunt me into coming home. His letter said this edition had an interesting article on the wrecking industry.”
“You’re from Philadelphia?” She’d imagined him a farm boy, perhaps, from some obscure place providing no outlet for his energy. What else would propel a man to travel far from home to become a wrecker?
His tone fell flat. “Born and raised there.” He inserted the newspaper in its resting place beneath his arm.
“What made you come here?” Surely Philadelphia had entertainments similar to those in New York. Perhaps his occupation–maybe a blacksmith–didn’t allow time for social events. Judging by the abundant muscles on his lean frame, he’d worked hard all his life.
He leaned in dangerously close. “Why don’t you let me walk you home so we can continue our conversation?”
No ready excuse came to mind to refuse him. Nor did she want to.
Barking erupted outside.
Straightening, he muttered, “Can’t stay out of trouble for one minute. Excuse me.” He strode to the entrance, yelling, “Barnaby!”
The ruckus ceased. She waited for him to walk in again, aim his warm smile at her, but waited in vain. Feeling conspicuous, she pretended to examine other goods, moving toward the window. A few passersby walked the streets. Sam was not among them.
Frustration coiled within her. Men were so easily led astray. Sam Langhorne was no exception. Perhaps she’d best not spend any more time with him. Seeing him only inspired more thoughts of him. Such unbidden thoughts confused her. He would only bring trouble, of that she felt certain.
At the counter, she asked for paper. After the man tallied the items, he waited. After a moment, she realized she’d forgotten to inform him of the charge to the Crowell account, so produced the signed list. He gave a curt nod, then bent to write in a ledger book. Noting the amount, she thanked him, putting the items into her basket.
A hot breeze wafted through the open door. Reluctantly, she walked toward it. Another boring day at the Crowell home lay ahead. She stepped outside to take in the breeze.
Sam leaned against the wall, his brow knit, reading the newspaper. Glancing up, the lines of care on his face erased. The glint of the sun gave his dark hair a sheen. At his feet, Barnaby lifted his head.
“You’re here.” Something effervesced deep inside her, bubbling up to entwine in her breath.
Jumping up, Barnaby nuzzled against her. She crouched to scratch his face.
“I said I’d walk you home. Did you forget so soon?” The breeze ruffled his white shirt, pressing it against his well-defined chest.
“No, I….” Words escaped her, though his warm smile indicated they were unnecessary.
Ducking his head, he pushed away from the wall to stand in front of her. “Shall we?”
She rose. “Yes.” Uttering the sole word opened up a wild array of possibilities. She would have to use it more carefully in the future. He held her gaze in such a way, not looking away could imply yes without speaking the word. Yet she did not wish to look away.
“I must post a letter.”
Sam scrutinized the envelope she held.
Hastily, she added, “To my brother.” Revealing the addressee to be her brother would have no effect on Mr. Langhorne, even if part of her wanted it to. Why else would she have said it?
The midmorning sun blazed harshly. Perhaps the heat affected her brain, addling it so she behaved so differently from her usual self. Since leaving New York, she’d acted in a manner inconsistent with her girlish self. Perhaps that Livvie no longer existed. She may very well have been lost at sea, long before the Elizabeth Rose wrecked.
A flicker of something akin to relief crossed Sam’s face. “This way, then.” He touched her elbow and led her farther into town.
The detour would extend her errand, along with their walk. She followed none too quickly. He pointed out the Custom’s House.
The letter deposited, she lifted her hand, shielding her eyes from the sun. “How do you stand this heat every day?”
“Come. There’s a quicker route. More shaded too.” He nodded toward a street leading away.
The street appeared to lead to the opposite side of the island. She wouldn’t argue its direction.
“Not by much. Why do trees grow so sparsely? And so oddly shaped?” She kept her pace slow, not wanting to arrive at the Crowell’s too soon.
His pace grew even more leisurely. “You’re right; we should plant more trees in town. There are an abundance of trees on neighboring islands.”
“Do you travel to other islands often?” Florie complained of the wreckers’ drinking binges between salvage operations. Livvie wondered how Sam might occupy his time.
“Yes, to hunt turtles or whatever else we can find.” Sweat caused his shirt to cling to him.
To divert her attention from his shapely form, she asked, “Such as?”
“Depends on our needs. Deer for venison. Pelicans, if we’re in need of new pouches. Shells to sell to collectors.”
His hobbies sounded innocent as a boy’s, yet his knowing smile led her to believe hunting and fishing were not his only pursuits. Acutely aware of his presence beside her, she suspected he had the same effect on other females. “It sounds like your days are very full, Mr. Langhorne.”
He halted, his gaze intense. “Will you never call me Sam? I may be older than you, but not so old to warrant such formality.”
His sudden seriousness took her by surprise. Using his name implied an informality—a familiarity–she wasn’t quite ready to allow. But then again, he’d brought her up from the depths, his strong arms leaving an indelible impression on her skin, one she felt even now. How much more familiar could one get? “Sam.”
He continued walking. “Thank you, Livvie.”
He said it naturally, as though he’d called her that all her life.
She glanced behind them, and then ahead. These streets were new to her. The houses appeared larger, maintained better than those on Duval Street, at least at the end where the Crowell’s boarding house stood.
“This is not a quicker route. In fact, I believe it will lengthen our walk.”
He pressed his lips together. “Hmm. Is that a fact?”
The stern look she tried to affect gave way to a smile. “So. Tell me about Philadelphia.”
“It’s a bustling metropolis where small-minded people live.” His tone had a sharper edge, and he avoided her gaze.
“City life doesn’t suit you?” Livvie’s curiosity got the better of her, one of her father’s chief complaints.
“Not when I could be here instead. The choice between spending my days there, devising means to outwit others, or here, in the glorious sunshine, my life mine to live as I see fit–well, it was the easiest choice I’ve ever made.”
“What do you mean, outwitting others? Were you a thief?”
He laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”
So willing to share certain parts of himself, so reticent to share others. What secrets, she wondered, did Samuel Langhorne hide?
She scrutinized him. “You are a puzzle.” More like a Pandora’s box, and the temptation to open it grew.
He lowered his head, his smile sly. “Puzzles can provide many hours of enjoyment.
” His arm brushed hers as they walked. Beside them, Barnaby woofed, perhaps catching the excitement in the air.
To hide her grin, she turned away. Did his ego know no bounds? “What did the article say? What you were reading earlier?”
The teasing left his voice. “Yes, another diatribe against us. Full of lies, or worse, romanticizing the wrecking business.”
“What sort of lies?” She could imagine the romanticized version. Man saves girl, they fall in love…. The stories of the ship of brides he’d described in portent.
He spoke quickly, decidedly. “Rumors have circulated to the north of unscrupulous wreckers who place lights along the beach to lure boats toward shore, causing them to wreck on the reef. The obvious argument is any captain worth his salt would know such a small light could not possibly be a lighthouse. Key West has enough wrecks to keep us all busy. We have no need to cause any.”
“Why did you leave Philadelphia?” Had he been threatened with jail?
He shrugged. “I hated feeling trapped in my life. Isn’t that why you left New York?”
“My father died. I had nowhere to go except my brother’s home in New Orleans.” The memory of her father’s death still stung, almost equally to the prospect of what awaited her.
“I suspect you could have married to stay there.” His intense gaze bore into her.
“Marry for convenience?” She hadn’t meant to snap so. “I would have felt trapped in my life too.”
At this answer, his lips parted, his gaze flicking to hers. They walked a short while in silence. “What will you do in New Orleans?”
The question she dreaded to learn the answer to herself. “I hope to make enough of a living from my writing.”
His mouth agape in a half smile, he regarded her. “What do you write?”
A blush of heat crept up her neck. “Novels.” He could not possibly understand the drive to write.
“I see. Women’s stories.”
“You make it sound so petty. Such novels are highly valued for their authentic portrayal of life in these times.”