If I Wait For You

by Jane Goodger

  How had he not noticed before? How had he overlooked the fact how enticing those eyes were, how soft her mouth was? Unaccountably, this realization made him angry, at himself, his mate, and this girl who was foisted upon him and would no doubt tempt a parish priest, never mind a young, viral captain. Blast it all.

  Sara looked up at the captain and saw in one second that he was not pleased. She knew from her brother about the captain’s more-than-generous proposal, and she’d foolishly thought the captain was, if not pleased, then glad to be able to help.

  “Your brother has told you about my proposal I take it?” he asked.

  He looked at her directly, and she immediately felt like a gangly fourteen-year-old looking up into the most startlingly beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. She just wished she saw something in his deep blue eyes that told her she was more than simply a nuisance. She thought she detected something else in those mesmerizing eyes, something other than the obvious scorn she saw now. Anger, perhaps? She shrank unconsciously deeper into her pillow, away from him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want to dispel any notion you have that this will be a pleasant interlude. It will not. You will, no doubt, be seasick and cold and miserable for much of this journey. You will be away from home and all that you have known for several years. You will not be allowed on deck during the boiling. Ever. You are not to go further forward than the mizzen mast. You are not to speak to the common sailor. Your world, Miss Dawes, has just shrunk to the size of this stateroom, the after cabin, the dining room and the stern of this ship.”

  He stopped for a moment, allowing his eyes to touch her face for a single breath, before again training them on the bank of windows behind her. “You will sleep in that bunk,” he said with a jerk of his head toward one wall. Sara shifted to look at the bunk set into a cozy nook. It held a mattress, blankets and a pillow, and a railing to prevent the sleeper from rolling out of bed in rough seas.

  He continued. “It is too small for me.” There was almost a hint of apology in his voice but when Sara looked up she saw nothing soft in his expression.

  “I am used to my solitude, Miss Dawes. So I must tell you that I am not good company. I don’t expect idle chit chat in the evenings. I expect you to be abed by the time I enter the cabin for my rest.” His jaw clenched and she could tell he’d tightened his fists behind his back by the way his arms became suddenly tense. Or rather, she thought, more tense.

  As safe as she felt, Sara was beginning to think perhaps she should reconsider sailing with the Julia. When her brother had explained the captain’s proposal, she felt nothing but relief that she would be safe…and a tiny bit of excitement. She was to go on a whaler, to see the world, to visit all the exotic, dangerous places she’d dreamed about. Through her fear and misery, she allowed herself that shiver of anticipation of not only the adventures she faced, but of the long days and nights of being in Captain Mitchell’s company. She whisked thoughts of the beautiful Miss Smithers from her grateful mind.

  His cold words, his stony expression, dashed her girlish fantasies. Yes, West Mitchell was a grand man, a fine captain, and handsome to look at. But the obvious distaste he felt to be sharing his cabin with the likes of her was almost tangible. She could almost hear her mother laughing delightedly at her silly adolescent fantasies, those endless hours imagining impossible things. Here was the reality: she was a little nobody in trouble, and he was the man who was honorable enough to help her.

  As if realizing his words had somehow wounded her, his eyes flickered down to her. “I want you to understand, that is all.”

  His tone softened slightly, and Sara dared to look up at him, dared, even, to smile. He moved away from her a single step.

  “I understand,” she whispered, unable to force more than that from her aching throat. “I’ll try not to be much bother, sir.” A thought came to her and she brightened. “I hope I can be of help to you and your men. I can sew and mend and cook, if need be. I’ll keep your quarters clean and neat. My brother has told me all about whaling and its hardships, so I believe I am prepared for what is ahead of me.”

  Sara tried to sit up, but the wound in her neck pulled and she winced. West stepped forward and reached out to press her gently on one shoulder, his large hand warm through the cotton shirt she wore. That simple touch did strange things to her, gave far more comfort than surely was intended.

  “You must remain prone, Miss Dawes,” he said, his tone sounding almost angry, and he removed his hand immediately. “You lost a great deal of blood.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sara frowned. “It’s just that I am not used to being idle.”

  “I’m afraid that is something you will have to get used to, for there is little for you to do on this ship but be idle. I have a steward who cleans my cabin and the men take care of themselves. The men do not want, nor do they need, your help. This will be, miss, little better than a prison for you. While I am willing to harbor you, I am not pleased with these events. And my men, when they realize I have a female on board, will not be please, either. I want you to understand this before we set sail.”

  Any joy Sara had felt was quickly dashed. This would be a long and tedious journey where she would have only her brother to talk to. She was a burden—and unwanted one at that.

  “Have you any questions?”

  Sara stared at her hands. “No, sir.”

  “Then I bid you good day.”

  With that, Captain Mitchell left the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Her eyes strayed to the bunk where she would sleep, only a few feet from where the Captain would lay his head each night. This ship had once been captained by Captain Mitchell’s brother, Zachary had told her, but after a tragic accident, Jared Mitchell had turned the ship over to his younger brother.

  West’s brother refused to step aboard the Julia after his wife and daughter died, leaving the finest ship in the Mitchell fleet to the second son.

  Sara’s eyes again went to the small bunk where a woman once slept cuddling her daughter to her, and her heart ached for Jared Mitchell. She tried to recall having ever seen the eldest Mitchell, but could not remember such a time. She did know of Abigail Hull, who had left behind grieving parents. The Hulls moved to New York, abandoning their New Bedford mansion that even now remained empty.

  How happy the young couple must have been, she thought, sharing this cozy little space, hearing the laughter of a child, whispering to each other in the darkness. The woman must have been tiny, for Sara, who stood a head taller than most women, doubted she could stretch out completely in the space. But she’d be far more comfortable there than West, of course.

  Sara couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like if West was her husband in truth. Would she sleep in that cubbyhole? Or would she snuggle up to her husband on this swinging bed, listening to the sea and the sounds of the sails snapping overhead. Wincing from a sharp twinge in her neck, Sara turned away from the bunk. She shouldn’t think of such things. Mr. Mitchell—she must cease thinking of him as West—was was a man doing a good deed, and any thoughts of them sharing anything were silly in the extreme. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight against the sudden yearning that swept over her, fighting those cruel questions in her heart. What if they were married? What if they shared this bed, turning to each other in the night if only to know that the other was still there? What if they had their own child?

  She squeezed her eyes tighter against such foolish questions. You are a charity case. A good deed. And nothing more.

  “Married, sir!”

  West forced a smile at his first mate’s exclamation. A bridegroom should be happy, should he not? “Two days ago, Mr. Mason,” he said heartily.

  “But, sir. I didn’t even know you were courting.” Oliver Mason had been on one or another Mitchell ship for as long as West could remember. He was the only man on board who openly disagreed with him, though he always waited until he was out of earshot of the crew. While his second and third mate sto
od squarely in front of his desk, Oliver sat in a chair, hands braced belligerently on his bony knees. For all his experience on a whaler, Oliver hadn’t wanted to captain a ship, though he’d been offered the job more than once. He’d grumbled about disliking the business part of whaling, of being beholden to the ship’s owners, instead of simply enjoying the pleasure of hunting whale. He was crusty and grizzled, with one eye that looked slightly off the mark and a beard that West feared held parts of meals long ago digested. But he was a splendid first mate who swore he could smell a whale a mile away and who struck fear into the hearts of the greenhands---at least until they figured out he looked far more fearsome than he was.

  Mr. Mason and second mate, Mr. Billings, did not appear pleased with the announcement of his marriage, and he did not blame them. West had always made it clear he would never bring a wife on board, and to do so now seemed a betrayal of sorts. He was only thankful these rough men did not read the social sections of New Bedford’s newspapers and did not know of his courtship or engagement to another woman entirely.

  His mates were used to cussing and bad table manners, of whoring without compunction when they berthed in the tropics. He knew they feared all would change. Though Sara Dawes was not his wife, for all the world he would have to act as if she was, at least by insisting the men curb their tongues if only a bit. West, like most whaling captains, allowed island women aboard ship rather than risk men deserting by letting the crew go ashore to spend their lusts. That, he decided, would not change. He would not risk mutiny nor desertion simply to save the sensibilities of a woman he had no care for—even if she was supposed to be his wife.

  “Little will change, gentlemen,” he said, ignoring the frown on his third mate’s face. “I realize this is unexpected. Damned unexpected,” he said, rubbing his chin with one hand. “But we’ll make the best of things, shall we?”

  Mr. Mason raised his bushy eyebrows in mute question, and West realized he’d let too much of his own feelings show. Damned if he wasn’t in the strangest predicament he’d ever heard a man being in. He found himself in the position of pretending indifference to Sara in her company and yet acting the happy groom in the presence of his men. It was untenable, he decided. He disliked dishonesty in his men and was uncomfortable standing before his most trusted men and lying. He reminded himself he did so to save the woman but it made little difference in the end. A lie was a lie.

  “I am not fully convinced a whaler is the best place for a woman,” he said, giving Zachary a look that told him he would not be contradicted on this point. “And if not for the fact that Miss—that is, my, well, Mrs. Mitchell—has no family at home, she would not be here.” There, now he sounded almost the reluctant groom, and if the crew noted a certain lack of warmth between husband and wife it would be no surprise.

  “You should know that Mr. Dawes is my wife’s brother.” The two senior officers stared at the third mate with open hostility, as if he had somehow brought this about. Or perhaps they thought he’d been made mate simply because of his connection to Sara, West thought.

  “For the record, gentlemen, I made Mr. Dawes mate before I met his sister.” The men’s expressions cleared.

  “Won’t be so bad,” Oliver grumbled. “I was aboard the Julia with your brother and his wife and it were all right. She made pies and such.” He shifted in his chair as if he’d just gushed about the woman.

  West thought of Abigail and wondered suddenly how she got on with the men. She had been such a quiet little thing, pious and serene, such a contrast to his boisterous brother. West realized he knew nothing of his “wife” other than her name. No, he corrected himself, that was not true. He knew Sara’s eyes hid nothing of what she felt, and so he knew he frightened her, and that her guileless laugh made him smile.

  West forced himself to think of other matters. “What sort of crew have you scrounged up, Mr. Mason?” he asked, launching the officers into a lengthy discussion of just how green the hands on this trip would be. A fair amount of training would have to be done before the Julia could even think of dropping the whaleboats and bringing in one of those great beasts. With the pay so poor, it was only the most starry-eyed lad who stepped aboard a whaling boat willingly. Too many times, the crews were made up of men trying to escape something, most often the law. West didn’t care. Once they were at sea, the men were his. He was a demanding captain, but fair, and it was his reputation and that of his brother that allowed him to recruit better hands than other whalers.

  “Well, gentlemen, it appears we are ready for our journey,” West said as the sun touched the western horizon. He tried to ignore the jolt of despair he felt at speaking those words. Already, before the ship even left the wharf, he was thinking of the day the Julia would spy Block Island or Cuttyhunk rising above the Atlantic waters and know he was home.

  Chapter THREE

  Sara lifted her head from the small wooden bucket that was her constant companion and stared blearily out the bank of windows behind her at the choppy Atlantic, dark gray against a gray sky. Three days. Three days of constant sickness, of a stomach clenching painfully, of retching little more than bitter bile into her bucket. She needn’t have worried about what she would do all day. It was all she could do to leave the bunk and make her way to the captain’s tiny water closet. Head, she amended to herself. In the rare moments when she was not retching, she tried to sew, knowing she must have a dress and underclothes before she could leave the cabin. Feeling better, she made a feeble attempt to make up the beds, to clean the cabin, but the sickening lurching made her efforts futile. Never in her life had she felt so completely useless, so unwanted. She hadn’t thought how difficult it would be to do nothing, be nothing for weeks and months on end.

  West entered the cabin and came up short, as if he’d forgotten she was there, and she felt a stab of remorse. He had not been cruel. In fact, he had not been anything. They did not speak to one another; it was almost as if she were a bit of furniture and one that kept getting in the way.

  He eyed the bucket that was never far from her with a grimace. “It will be better when you can go atop,” he said gruffly. He looked about the cabin and frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “I was straightening up. I thought I could help.”

  “Do not,” he said. “It is my steward’s job, not yours. I’ve come to check you bandages.”

  Sara nodded, feeling miserable. Her entire life, Sara had thought of others, and she could not stop doing so now. Every deed, nearly every thought she’d had as long as she could remember was about how she could make life better for those around her. She’d gone to the market and bought her father’s favorite foods. She’d pressed her mother’s dresses, put pretty flowers on her dresser just to see her mother’s pleased smile. To be in the position of being so completely unwanted and unneeded was as foreign to her as being aboard this ship.

  Her face burning and turned away from him, she made her way through the aftercabin’s connecting door and silently lay upon the stateroom’s bed exposing the bandage, praying the captain would not see the tears burning in her eyes. She felt the tug of the bandage as it stuck slightly to the cut, felt his fingers brush lightly near the wound, felt her tears spill over.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  Sara swallowed. “No.” Don’t ask, she pleaded silently. Don’t ask why I am crying, because I don’t know, I truly don’t.

  West worked with quiet efficiency, all the time painfully aware of the tears running down her face and wetting his pillow. She kept her head turned away from him, too proud to let him see her weeping. He finished dressing her wound and let his eyes move over her face, her jaw, her slim neck, and down to where her breasts lay, full and round, beneath the white cotton. He had the terrible urge to hold her. He did not know why she was crying but he figured this beautiful young girl had more than enough reasons to feel sad.

  “Your stitches were fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  West straightened, his gaze pinned
to her profile. My God, he thought, she is so beautiful. She was not like those delicate creatures he’d known, with pert noses and rosebud lips. Not like Elizabeth, his traitorous mind thought. She was far more striking than that, and yet he had the distinct feeling she didn’t know just how extraordinarily pretty she was. He forced himself to look away from her, reminding himself of all his promises. If he stared at her every night this way, he’d not last out the week without touching her, never mind years. When he felt his loins thickening, he clenched his jaw, but he did not look away from her. Slowly, she turned her head around to face him and he allowed himself to look down at her. Thankfully, her tears were gone, for he knew had she still been crying, it would have taken perhaps more strength than he had not to draw her into his arms.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Of all the things he thought she would say, an apology was not one of them. “Why are you apologizing?”

  “I know you do not want me here. I know I am a burden.” There was no self-pity in her tone. He could not deny her words, and decided then that he must agree with her. He mustn’t allow himself to feel sorry for her, to feel anything for her.

  “You are that, Miss Dawes. But I have made my promise to your brother to protect you and I will hold to it.”

  She accepted his words calmly, as if that is what she expected him to say. And it was that acceptance of something he found slightly dishonest that was most disturbing. He could not say he did not want her here in his cabin, in his bed. He could not. Even as he recognized the subtle torture of keeping her, he knew he would not be able to set her from this ship, and told himself it was his honor keeping her there, keeping her safe.

  The captain’s prediction came true. As soon as she stepped out of the companionway and onto the main deck, Sara felt better. A cool blast of wind buffeted her face, and she smiled. She hadn’t realized how stuffy the cabin was until filling her lungs with the sweet ocean air and was glad she’d forgone a bit of modesty to take some air. With the captain’s borrowed coat around her, no one could notice that she still wore her brother’s shirt above her newly sewn brown wool skirt.