If I Wait For You

by Jane Goodger

  Before they reached the door, Sara pulled back.

  “Zachary, let me fix myself. Perhaps Mr. Mitchell would be more willing to help if I were more presentable.”

  Zachary smiled at his younger sister. “No, Sara. Mr. Mitchell has a soft heart, though he tries to hide it. He will take but a single look at you and want to save you. It can only go in your favor to look so…” and he took in her rumpled state, “…very unpresentable.”

  Sara threw him a skeptical glance, but was too numbed by grief to argue, and she let Zachary lead her like a child. Bright sunshine streamed through the dining room’s skylights, forcing Sara to squint. Zachary paused before an ornately carved door, giving his sister a fortifying smile before knocking.

  “Enter.”

  Sara’s breath caught at the sound of the captain’s deep voice beckoning them. Sara entered just behind Zachary, purposefully huddling behind her tall, lanky sibling. She suddenly felt ashamed, small, and oddly meek, a lowly surf presented before a king.

  “Sir, I’ve come to ask a favor of you,” Zachary said, and Sara cringed at the humble tone of her brother’s voice. No longer was he the forceful hero he’d been in his own cabin.

  The captain’s eyes flickered from his new third mate to Sara standing half-hidden behind him, and he seemed to brace himself against whatever it was Zachary was about to ask. Sara looked at him through the curling tangle of her hair. He sat behind a gleaming walnut table, its top scattered with papers, looking impatient, almost surly, and Sara’s stomach clenched. For all his handsome looks, West Mitchell was not someone she wanted to be beholden to. As much as she admired him, a part of her feared him, too. He seemed too stern, too tall, too dark, too…everything. Wearing a white shirt under a plain gray waistcoat, he leaned back in his chair, looking at his mate through half closed eyes.

  “I believe the answer is going to be ‘no’,” the captain said without a hint of a smile.

  West watched curiously as the girl put a hand gently upon the mate’s shoulder as if giving him courage, when clearly the girl needed the comforting hand, not his mate.

  “My sister is in terrible trouble,” Zachary said. “She must leave New Bedford immediately and I am requesting, sir, that she be given permission to sail with us Tuesday when we depart.”

  “Your sister is in trouble,” West said.

  “Sir,” Zachary said, “She has falsely been accused of murdering three people.”

  West raised one eyebrow, an expression of disbelief. “Three?”

  “Yes, sir. A young man and my mother and father.”

  West narrowed his eyes at the real grief he saw in his mate’s eyes. “Your parents are dead?”

  Mr. Dawes swallowed. “Yes sir. Last night in a fire. There is a bounty on my sister’s head and the people in town are rabid to find her, sir. They are convinced she is guilty, and I must say the evidence is damning. Sara was not in the house at the time of the fire, even though it was quite late. And the body of a young man was found in our very alley.”

  It seemed like some fantastical story, but his mate was sincere. He’d never known the solid young man to lie and thought him a level-headed lad, which was one reason he’d made him his third mate. His eyes went from his sincere mate to the disheveled young woman standing just behind him, her head down.

  “Did you kill your parents and this young man?”

  Her head snapped up. “No, sir, I did not.”

  West looked at the two of them, more amused than concerned by their earnest plea. It was impossible for him to bring a woman on board who was not his wife. Surely at least his mate understood this.

  “You know this is not possible, Mr. Dawes. While I sympathize with your predicament, I am quite certain your situation is not as bad as it seems at the moment. Surely you can turn yourself into the police and give them your story.”

  His mate took a step forward. “You do not understand the mood of the people, sir, else you would never send her out alone to face her fate.”

  “Regardless of what I believe, Mr. Dawes, you know it is impossible for me to have a female on board this ship,” he said, exasperation entering his tone.

  “Not if that female were your wife.”

  West’s gaze took in Sara’s shocked expression as she looked at her brother and his bemusement grew.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  Zachary shrugged. “’Tis the only way, Sara.”

  “And is impossible,” West said flatly. “I’ll not have a wife aboard the Julia, and certainly not one who has walked off the street and is unknown to me. And I do not think my fiancée would approve.” The girl’s cheeks flamed red and her eyes flashed.

  “She’s a good girl, sir,” Zachary persisted.

  “Zachary,” she said, a plea and a command. “No more.”

  “Mr. Dawes. Good day.” It was a clear dismissal, one that neither ignored.

  “How could you propose such a thing? Without even consulting me?” Sara said when they’d returned to Zachary’s cabin. She would have paced about the room angrily had there been enough room. Instead, Sara glared blindly out the only porthole in the tiny cabin.

  “I knew you would have objected,” Zachary said on a sigh. “I knew it was the only way to keep you aboard the Julia. Honestly, Sara, I didn’t think you’d find the idea that objectionable.”

  Sara whirled to face her brother. “How could you not?” With brutal clarity she pictured the scene that had just transpired seeing it through Mr. Mitchell’s eyes, and a burning rush of humiliation filled her. What must he have thought of her, bedraggled, dirty, and with a brother begging that he marry her. For all her wild imaginings, she’d always known deep in her heart that someone like West Mitchell was as unattainable to her as the moon. To actually have her brother think the captain would seriously consider marrying her was mortifying. Of course he would not. She only was grateful that he had not laughed outright.

  “I thought you would jump at such a chance,” Zachary said, clearly perplexed by his sister’s behavior. She let out a small sound of anguish before again turning to the porthole.

  “If you had only told me your plan. I knew he was engaged. Zachary, it was humiliating enough to be presented before Mr. Mitchell in my disheveled state, but to have you suggest marriage!”

  Her brother looked at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are correct. We should have cleaned you up a bit. But I thought if you looked truly in need, the captain would be more apt to agree to the proposal. Of course, I didn’t know about the engagement, but you can hardly argue that marriage to the captain is undesirable. After all, you told me yourself you love him.”

  Sara shot him a look of disbelief. “I was fourteen years old, a girl with a silly crush. I am a woman now, and I can assure you I am not in love with West Mitchell.”

  “I am sorry,” he said with true regret. “But I could think of no other way to make you safe.”

  Sara stared at her dirty bare feet. “I fear even if presented to Mr. Mitchell in my finest dress, his answer would have been the same. A man like West Mitchell does not marry a girl like me,” she said, not hearing the wistfulness in her voice.

  “What is wrong with you? You are as good a girl as anyone. Certainly as good as whoever he plans to marry.”

  Sara laughed. “Oh, Zachary. Mr. Mitchell lives in a mansion on the Hill. He is handsome and could have any girl he wants. A rich girl, a pretty girl. A girl just like the girl he plans to marry. Elizabeth Smithers.”

  Zachary let out a small whistle, acknowledging Miss Smithers’ attributes, then loyally said, “You’re pretty.”

  Sara’s eyes filled with tears, for no one had ever called her pretty before and it moved her, even if it was a lie. Suddenly overcome with weariness, she sat down heavily on the bed and wiped away the wetness with her fingertips.

  “I fear if I were the prettiest girl in New Bedford Mr. Mitchell’s answer would still be no,” Sara said, forcing a light tone. “And as I only have three days
to make him fall in love with me and jilt the most popular girl in New Bedford before you sail, I fear all is lost.”

  Zachary nodded his reluctant agreement and slumped down beside his sister, the picture of dejection. “I know him for a kind man, and I thought perhaps he would agree to such a marriage. I am sorry if I caused you pain, Sara.”

  “I would not have wanted to have anyone marry me for pity’s sake.” She looked at her brother fondly, any anger she’d felt for his ill-conceived plan long gone.

  “I don’t know what we should do, Sara. The danger to you if you remain in New Bedford alone is very real. I shall not leave you. I cannot sail knowing you are in danger or knowing you face a trial alone.”

  Sara shifted on the bed so she fully faced her brother, grasping his wrist hard. “Zachary, you must sail Tuesday. You must. You are third mate. He’s made an officer of you after only a single voyage.”

  “Only because one mate and half the crew abandoned ship to search for gold when we hit San Francisco,” Zachary said, but it was obvious he was pleased by Sara’s praise.

  Sara appeared deep in thought, one finger twirling a curl endlessly. “I know,” she said, brightening. “I can go to Great Aunt Gertie’s in Boston. No one here knows of her and I can stay there until things settle down here. Or even until you return.”

  “Aunt Gertie’s still alive?” Zachary said, his eyebrows lifting.

  Sara laughed. “You know mother was always complaining that Aunt Gertie would outlive us all cheating us out of her inheritance.” Zachary joined in her laughter, for Aunt Gertie was even poorer than the Dawes family.

  “Aunt Gertie,” he said fondly. “My God, the old bird must be ninety years old.”

  “Ninety-one,” Sara said. “See? You can go knowing I’ll be safe.” Her voice caught, and Sara swallowed resolutely. For Aunt Gertie was not alive, there was no safe place in Boston, no one to help her once Zachary was gone. “I’ll only need some money, as much as you can spare.”

  Zachary flushed. He could barely spare enough for a night’s lodging in an inn and coach fare to Boston, he explained. As a ship’s officer, he deemed it necessary to buy a new suit of clothes. That and his time home in New Bedford ate up nearly all of the tiny earnings made during his four-year whaling journey. Swallowing her disappointment, Sara took the coin with a brave smile, wrapping her fist about the money in near desperation. It was not enough, not nearly enough, for she had only the clothes on her back. But she could not ask Zachary for more, not without him becoming suspicious of just how needy she was. The only place he could go for more money was back to Captain Mitchell to request an advance, and she would not allow Zachary to go begging on her account. Not again.

  When night touched the sky, Zachary led Sara off the ship, giving her a fierce hug.

  “I hate leaving you like this,” he said. “You’re certain Aunt Gertie will take you in?”

  Sara forced a smile. “Of course. God speed, Zachary.” She wrapped her arms about his neck one last time closing her eyes against the tears that threatened, believing in her heart she might never see her brother again.

  Chapter TWO

  Sara, feeling as if she were living out a horrible dream, made her way to a mean little inn not far from the waterfront. She picked the inn mainly for its cheap lodging prices and its proximity to the Julia. Though she might never see her brother again, she took comfort in his nearness.

  As dirty as the hostel was, the owner, a painfully thin man wearing a sweat-stained shirt and ragged waistcoat, looked at her as if she were some wharf rat come to ask for a room. He took her coin readily enough, leading her to a room that overlooked an alley. The open window did little to ease the oppressive heat of the third-floor room, and only served to let in the stench of low tide, as well as hungry mosquitoes that were immediately attracted to the lamplight.

  Sara turned to thank the man, but he was gone before she could, leaving her with a single lamp to light the sorry space. The bed was nothing more than a mattress laid upon a wooden platform, and the blankets were mussed, as if someone had just lain there. She shuddered, unwillingly thinking of her own pristine bed, the crisp white sheets that she herself had washed and ironed, her soft down pillow. Other than the bed, the room held a small table for her lamp and a series of hooks for her to hang her clothes. Since she had only what she wore on her back, there was no need to make use of those hooks.

  Suddenly, it was all too much to bear. She crumpled to the floor, her body wracked with sobs. “Mama, Mama, Mama,” she cried. Even as she called out for her mother, a part of Sara recognized that the mother she knew would not have comforted her, would not have held her as she so needed to be held. But she cried for her anyway, cried until a loud banging cut off her strangled sobs.

  “Shut the hell up in there,” a man’s gruff voice called. A woman’s giggle followed. The voices were so clear, it seemed as if the pair shared the room with her, and Sara held her breath so as not to make the tiniest of sounds. Slowly she relaxed, her fear-filled eyes pinned to the wall. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to herself.

  After that, she became painfully aware of each sound she heard, including the odd grunting and rhythmic banging coming from the room next door. It took a few moments before Sara realized what she was listening so intently to, and her cheeks burned in embarrassment each time the woman cried out or the man moaned. With a final frenzy of banging and one loud grunt, it was over, and Sara was inordinately relieved.

  Exhausted, she eyed the sorry little bed with distaste. Gingerly she smoothed the rough wool blanket, fearing that at any moment some creature would skitter from beneath it. Lifting the lamp’s globe, she hesitated before blowing out that comforting light. Then she lay down flat on her back, her eyes open, her body tense. She tried not to think about tomorrow, or the hundreds of tomorrows that would follow. Instead, she forced herself to imagine a beautiful ball gown, a large orchestra, twinkling chandeliers, and a man, a beautiful man who looked very much like West Mitchell. And she danced and danced. She fell asleep with a smile upon her lips.

  Before Sara left the inn the next morning, she had the vaguest of plans. More than anything, she needed shoes, stockings and underthings, a needle and thread, soap, a comb, and food. She could wash and repair her skirt and bodice, but felt naked with only her nightdress beneath the clothes she had so hastily donned the night of the fire so that she might follow Nathan Wright. How ironic it seemed now; she thought she was helping to solve a murder only to have her actions lead to her being accused of that very crime. Eyeing her small pile of money, she determined she could buy the cheapest of what she needed and make due until she had a job.

  Her greatest problem was buying the goods without being discovered by those searching for her. Nearly all of the shopkeepers knew her by sight, which meant Sara would have to travel as she was before she could make herself presentable. Without her crinoline, she was forced to roll the waist of her skirt until the hem just brushed the floor. She tried walking to see if her bare feet were visible. They were. With a small shrug, Sara decided that was far better than ruining the hem of the only skirt she owned. She simply looked like a desperately poor woman—which was exactly what she now was.

  God had blessed her with a rainy day. The streets would be nearly empty on a day such as this, and Sara stepped out of the inn with a lightness she thought amazing given her wretched circumstances. She had overslept, and it was coming on near noon when she began to make her way down the street, her eyes darting about as she looked for pursuers. Keeping close to the buildings, Sara escaped the worse of the downpour, but was soon soaked to her skin, her hair clumping thickly down her back. The streets were deserted and Sara relaxed a fraction. She walked, keeping the waterfront within sight, crazily planning to dive into the river to escape anyone giving chase.

  Rain slashed against her face, her skirts hung heavily against her legs, making it difficult to walk. The smooth slate sidewalks were cold and slick beneath her bare
feet, and she made a mental note that shoes and stockings would be the first of her purchases. Up ahead through the rain she could see the gray outlines of two men walking her way along the long row of brick warehouses that lined the waterfront. Quick panic set in, which she tried to quash. Certainly in her present state no one would recognize her. As the men grew closer, their forms became more defined, their faces less obscure. Both had their heads lowered against the rain and Sara prayed they wouldn’t even spare her a glance. When they were within a few yards, Sara lowered her head, allowing her hair to obscure her face, telling herself not to look up. She walked stiffly, fear almost paralyzing her, even as she told herself they were simply two men walking down a street. Just as they were about to pass, Sara looked up and straight into the eyes of one of the men. A stranger, thank God. She felt an overwhelming sense of relief and almost found herself smiling a hello when she saw a stunning flash of recognition in his eyes a split second before he reached for her, this man she could not recall ever seeing before in her life. For one horrible moment, Sara could do nothing but watch that large, dirty hand stretch toward her.

  With a small sound of fright, Sara turned and ran, stumbling as her wet skirts heeded her flight.