by Gini Rifkin
She glanced at the books jumbled upon the bed—her precious windows to the world. In an effort to rescue the remainder from confiscation, she shoved the books beneath the coverlet, and changed the topic of conversation.
“I do hope Captain Garrison accompanies Mother and Father on their return trip from America.” They could be homeward bound right now, safe and sound.
“It would be a fascination if the good Captain did grace us with a visit,” her aunt agreed. “He seems a curious mixture of contradictions. Determined enough to insist your parents travel all the way to Massachusetts to sign the official papers, yet sentimental enough to insist upon naming the partnership’s first vessel after his mother.”
“He’s an American, Auntie. From what I’ve heard, they view the world through a different scope. Even his name is a bit odd,” she pointed out. “Captain Walker Garrison. Who would give their son two last names? ”
“I suppose someone with great pride in their heritage.”
That gave her pause for consideration. The colonists had no titles to bequeath, so perhaps this was the best they could do. If ever she had a son, she would carefully consider the name he must carry for the rest of his life.
She heaved a sigh. Why didn’t she have dreams about the good captain, this rugged man from a wild and savage land? A rush of desire streaked through her body, and lusty contemplations tripped through her mind. The errant tingling settled between her thighs, making her squirm, making her warm despite the ambient temperature.
“Over the years, I’ve crossed paths with several Americans,” Aunt Abigail mused. “They are an unusual breed. Rough around the edges, but bold as brass. It’s no secret they cherish their independence, and like children, they seem ever eager for escapades. They’re an intrepid lot, to be sure.”
“You sound as if you admire those traits,” she said, shifting around in the bed.
“I do. Always have had a penchant for a man with adventure in his heart. According to your father, Captain Garrison once lived with the Red Indians and fought in the territorial wars. Can you imagine that?” Aunt Abigail waived the book she held. “Men are always off having all the fun while we women are expected to sit at home reading and awaiting their return. But we’ll not be sitting around tomorrow. So close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts.” She glanced out the window. “Dawn is nigh, but after your upset you should rest a few more hours. We can’t have you losing weight. Being pale-cheeked is desirable, but a boney symmetry is detrimental in attracting eligible young men.”
“I’m afraid to go back to sleep.”
She knew the nightmare still lurked in a dark corner of her mind. Precariously held at bay, it was there, hiding in the shadows, less visible, less threatening, yet waiting to rear its ugly head.
Aunt Abigail smoothed Trelayne’s tangle of hair back from her brow. “Don’t be afraid, darling. I shall sit sentinel at your side, and forbid Morpheus to allow any troubling elements to enter your sphere again tonight. And,” she added brightly, “tomorrow after the lecture and shopping, we shall stop by Professor Fowler’s. Perhaps he has returned from traveling abroad. An in-depth phrenology session could shed some light on these dreams of yours.”
Her aunt took to a nearby chair, and began reading Thackeray’s dark portrayal of human nature. Trelayne mentally tiptoed toward sleep, lamenting she did not have nice dreams, or erotic fantasies. Either she suffered some twisted wretched imagining, or no dreams at all.
Eyes closed, but far from sleepy, she conjured naughty images of Captain Garrison—a most welcome and enjoyable distraction. Would she ever feel the touch of a lover’s hand? With all her heart she wished to be swept away by raw, overpowering, unstoppable passion—emotions like she read about in her purloined novels.
Lusty fantasies soon flooded her mind, blocking out everything else. Snuggling deeper into the downy mattress, a smile upon her lips, she wondered who danced through Captain Garrison’s dreams.
Chapter Two
So far, it proved to be a glorious morning, the kind that made a man feel good to be alive.
Striding dockside, Walker drank in the heady smell of autumn mingled with the brisk sea air. Then misgivings from the night before struck home, worrying his soul and cutting short his innocent interlude.
Ignoring the disquiet, he moved on, tugging at the stiff collar of his linen dress shirt. He reached to unbutton the restrictive waistcoat then recalled the reason he had chosen such elaborate attire. Hand clenched, he lowered his arm to his side. Homespun fashion was more to his liking, but today he’d foregone comfort and practicality for style. His business partner, Philip, always looked so damnably dapper—it made him feel like a backwoodsman. Not something to be ashamed of, just an observation.
He slowed to a halt, and the warmth of the morning sun muscled aside his nagging pessimism and penchant for letting the past rule his future. Today, the Alicia Elaine seemed in high enough spirits. Her brilliant white sails snapped smartly in the mild breeze, and her brass gleamed and sparkled like jewels at the neck of a princess.
Calm reflection eased his concerns until the creaking of wood and hemp caught his attention. Like a bad omen, a shadow passed overhead. He glanced up and sidestepped out of the way. A cargo crate, suspended by one fragile rope, swayed alarmingly above the dock. Where the hell had that come from?
“Seaman,” he barked to a man onboard ship. “Report dockside and secure that crate. And find out who was fool enough to put it there in the first place.”
“Aye, Captain,” the man saluted. “I’m on it, sir.”
That damnable sense of foreboding gripped him again. Jaw tight with dismay he studied the skyline. In typical New England fashion, the weather was taking a turn. A squall was mounting a determined attack, heralded by a northerly wind blowing to portside. They were in for another blow.
Out maneuvered, the morning sun retreated behind a wall of fuming black clouds, and without its warmth, the air turned damp and discontented. Soon, an ethereal mist coated the lines and every strip of gleaming brass upon the ship. The crew and their families, gathering for the promised celebration, seemed unaware of the climatic change. They laughed and slapped one another on the back, but the Alicia Elaine took note and began to gently heave against the waves.
Too late to change course now… Mustering a cheerfulness born of necessity, he turned to greet Phillip and Ophelia.
“Good morning. I feared our weather might deter you, Mrs. St.Christopher.” Concerned for her safety, he wished it had. His heart rate picked up speed as he listened to her reply.
“On such a grand day as this,” she declared, slipping one hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow, “’twould take more than a bit of blustering breeze to keep me from my Phillip’s side.”
As if to challenge her courage, a gust of wind battled Ophelia for possession of her bonnet. It took liberties with her cloak and skirts as well, but with a smile and good grace, she managed a victory in each instance. She appeared determined to tough it out with the men, and after meeting her last evening, he hadn’t expected less. Heads down, they huddled together.
“I suggest we expedite the christening with all haste,” Walker shouted, to make himself heard above the crowd and the inclement weather. “We can dispense with the ceremonial documents until another time.”
“Splendid idea,” Phillip agreed.
Allowing the St.Christophers the honor, he handed them the magnum of champagne. As they traversed the dock toward the prow of the ship, Walker was waylaid by a young child.
“Captain, Captain,” the lad sang out, grabbing his coat sleeve and impeding his progress. “You be needin’ any more cabin boys on this voyage? I got experience.”
The boy didn’t look old enough to have experienced his eighth birthday. “Not this time, son. But I’ll keep you in mind for the future. I can see you’ll make a fine sailor one day.”
The child beamed with pride. Walker tousled the boy’s hair then followed the St.Christo
phers. They were already in place. The bottle broke over the hull, and a great cheer rose from those gathered around. Caught up in the moment, Walker halted mid-stride, adding his whoop and holler to that of the crowd. Head back in jubilation, his expression froze, and the sound of joy choked off in his throat. His order hadn’t been obeyed.
As if in slow motion, the crate tumbled downward. Bystanders screamed in horror. He lunged forward to push his friends from the path of the deadly freight. They were too far away. Aware of their plight, fear contorted their faces. They clutched at one another, and in a heroic effort, Phillip shielded Ophelia from the huge object as it crashed to the ground.
The cargo container smashed onto the dock, burst open, and spewed its contents in all directions. Thank providence it wasn’t a direct hit, yet the couple was trapped beneath slabs and heaps of splintered wood.
“Send for a doctor,” Walker shouted.
He pushed past panic-stricken people, ignoring the blur of comments about it being too late to save anyone caught beneath the mountain of rubble. With his bare hands he ripped and tore at the debris. Soon, others came to their senses and rushed forward. Employing a board and a barrel, they levered the accumulated weight off the pair. Their twisted bodies lay side by side, their hands still clasped together. Life barely flickered in either one of them. The unsigned ceremonial documents blew forlornly across the dock and into the sea.
In bizarre contrast to the grisly scene, flowers lay gaily strewn about. The murderous crate, bound for Queen Victoria’s private garden, had contained a quarter ton of Vermont rose plants, all in full bloom, their pearly white petals spattered with blood. As if they were to blame, he crushed a pile underfoot and kicked them aside. How the hell could this have happened? Kneeling beside the couple’s unmoving forms, he blocked the wind blowing with cruel disregard for circumstance.
“Give me your coats,” he snarled, at the bystanders, rage replacing shock. “And find Seaman Barkley,” he added, catching the eye of one of his men.
He covered Ophelia’s trembling body with the cloaks and jackets tossed in his direction. A dark-suited man carrying a reticule made his way through the crowd and crouched down at his side.
“They might live,” he declared, with rather feeble enthusiasm as he finished his initial examination. “Bad luck them being struck down like that,” he observed, binding their most grievous wounds in preparation for transport to hospital.
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Walker growled.
Why had Seaman Barkley ignored his order to remove and secure the crate? He damn well better have a good excuse for not following orders. As his anger flared anew, a saber of guilt slashed through him as well. He should have taken it upon himself to make sure the crate was properly off-loaded.
The doctor gained his feet and motioned for the stretcher-bearers now on the scene. “I’ll know more regarding their condition once I’ve check them over thoroughly.”
“Thank you for coming,” Walker acknowledged. “However, I wish my friends to go to the New Hope clinic, not New Bedford General. I would be grateful if you would accompany them in transit. When you arrive, ask for a Dr. Nathan Robinson. Tell him Walker Garrison sent you. He’ll take over from there.”
Discharged so quickly, the doctor appeared miffed, frowning he held his ground. Walker pressed two silver dollars into the man’s hand.
“If this doesn’t compensate for your expenses,” he reassured, “prepare a statement, and I’ll see you are paid in full.”
With a nod, and a more cooperative expression, the physician left with his patients.
****
The police inspector glanced around the dock. “Well, Captain Garrison, I must agree it appears to have been an intentional act. Most likely this missing seaman of yours was involved. Been having troubles with him? Seems odd him suddenly disappearing.”
Walker shook his head. “I can’t believe he would be party to anything of this magnitude. He’s been with me for nearly two years. A fine dependable man, married with four children. It just doesn’t figure.”
“And you’ve no reason to think anyone would want to hurt you, or stymie your business.”
“No,” he answered, without consideration. Then he recalled the boy who had interrupted him during the ceremony. If not for the lad, he would have been standing directly beneath the falling cargo crate. Perhaps he was the intended target, the St.Christophers only unfortunate bystanders.
While the inspector busied himself elsewhere, Walker studied the neatly severed rope attached to the overhead beam. Unnoticed, some sonofabitch had stood right here and sliced it through, nice as you please. And that tiny action had changed several lives forever—including his own.
A discoloration on the rough hemp caught his attention. It resembled tar or resin. He touched the pliable matter, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, then gingerly sniffed it. He even went so far as to taste it. Chocolate, by heaven, how curious.
He searched the ground, his gaze following the direction of the wind. Several shiny objects had blown into a crevice in the planking. He retrieved the small misshapen foil balls and uncurled one. The inside was coated with the same brown candy smeared on the rope. The outside read; Chocolates and Confections by Fry and Son, Bristol, England, Established 1847. His missing crewman didn’t have the money or the nature to be eating imported bon-bons. Someone with connections to England had staged this murderous act.
“Inspector,” he called, secreting away the chocolate wrappers. “I think we should encourage the notion the St.Christophers are dead. After all, if someone wanted them out of the way, it seems safest to let that someone think he has succeeded.” He watched the wily little man mull over the idea.
“You might have something there, Captain,” he agreed. “But I don’t think the department can take the responsibility of feeding lies to the general public. We can’t encourage theatrics when it comes to police business.”
“Could you at least see your way clear to being noncommittal for a few days?” he bargained. “Perhaps if I were to release you from involvement and declare the occurrence an accident, you could turn a blind eye. It might make a difference as to the safety of my friends. Surely you can see that.”
Generally speaking, lies and subterfuge went against the grain, but it would buy needed time, and give them breathing room before he left for England.
“May I remind you,” he added, at the inspector’s hesitation, “the St.Christophers are foreigners. An international incident would be most unhelpful in your bid for becoming Mayor.”
Speculation shadowed the man’s expression, and he fidgeted with the buttons on his frock coat. “I’ll go along with your scheme,” he conceded, “but the resolution of this matter rests with you now. Good day to you then. And good luck.” Quick as a ferret, he scurried away.
Hands in his pockets, Walker glanced around uneasily. He was on his own—with hardly a clue as to where to start.
Chapter Three
At six a.m. on the second morning following the incident, Walker made his way to the clinic. This was his last chance before he took his leave to rouse Phillip from his coma. Loaded to the gills, the Alicia Elaine would cast off in two hours. As captain, he had no choice but to be onboard.
The diagnosis for both patients was a spontaneous return to consciousness with periodic relapses. And although this had yet to happen, he trusted Dr. Robinson completely. Nathanial was highly intelligent, had a good sense of humor, and never cheated at chess. In fact, Walker trusted Nate so completely, he’d dared to inform him of the details surrounding the situation.
Nodding to one of the guards hired to watch over the St.Christophers, Walker entered Phillip’s room, strode to the bedside, and stared down at his partner.
“Can you hear me?” he asked, for what seemed the hundredth time. Breaking through the silent barrier separating him from his friend was paramount. “Damn it, man, wake up. Your very life may depend on it.”
Downhearte
d, he paced the room, raking his fingers through his hair. Come on, Phillip, he silently prayed, at least grant me some sign you’re on the mend before I leave. About to give up, he turned toward the door.
“Ophelia,” Phillip croaked, his parched lips barely moving. “How is my Ophelia?”
Surprised and relieved, Walker hurried to the bedside. “She’s unconscious, but will recover. You were both nearly killed,” he bluntly added. “Your injuries were not caused by accident, Phillip.”
Having found Seaman Barkley’s body stuffed in a trunk, the man was no longer a suspect, and murderous intentions were no longer in question.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Phillip? Have you any idea who would want to harm you, or destroy our partnership?”
For a moment, it seemed Phillip had slipped back into unconsciousness. Walker snatched up a damp towel, and wiped the man’s face.
“Don’t know who or why,” his partner gritted, between raspy breaths. “You must go to Trelayne. Whatever it takes, you must keep my daughter safe. Trelayne is all that matters. Promise me.” With a burst of strength apparently fueled by profound concern, Phillip grabbed the front of Walker’s shirt. “No matter what it takes.”
“I promise I’ll protect her,” Walker vowed, “if need be, with my life.”
Phillip’s grip went slack. He was unresponsive again, and no amount of encouragement brought him back to the conscious world. As Walker hurriedly took his leave, he nearly crashed into Dr. Robinson.
“Nate, Mr. St.Christopher was momentarily awake. That’s a good sign, right?”
