If I Wait For You

by Jane Goodger

  The companionway opened up near the helm, and as she stepped up onto the deck, she faced the ship’s stern and the helmsman. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of her. She gave him a tentative smile, feeling conspicuous but so happy to be breathing the sharply cold air. She’d never been on a ship at sea, and looked about her at that ropes and sails, finally making sense of the sounds she’d been hearing from below these past days. Her hair flew about her wildly, and Sara wished she’d thought to tie it back. Clutching it with one hand, she looked about the ship with fascination.

  Hearing a shout above her, she looked up at the mast nearest her and gasped when she saw several men standing on a yardarm hauling in a sail, their movements strong and sure. Higher still, the captain called out instructions to the men, urging them on. Fear made the back of her head tingle. He was so high, so vulnerable, with nothing between him and the hard deck. She heard him call out harshly to one of the men, right before one of them fell from the yardarm. She let out a scream until she realized the sailor’s foot had thankfully been caught on a rope. The man, little more than a boy, really, continued to scream.

  Without hesitation, West climbed the down the mast and out onto the yardarm with the agility of a man who’d lived most of his life at sea. Above the poor dangling soul, West gazed down, a smile on his face, and Sara relaxed. Surely if the boy were in real danger, West would not smile. With the gracefulness of a man confident of his own strength, West reached down and effortlessly pulled the screaming boy up and untangled his foot from the line. In that moment, something happened to Sara, her entire being became aware of West in a way that made her feel almost light-headed. It was the effortlessness of his movements, the sheer strength and gracefulness—the beauty of a man hauling a helpless boy up to safety, muscles bunching, face intent. Sara blinked rapidly, trying to rid herself of this odd feeling that was as frightening as it was wonderful. She had no name for it, she only knew she was entirely aware of him in a way she had not been just a few moments before.

  Now red-faced, the young man clutched the yardarm as West said something to the sailor for his ears only. The captain, Sara saw, was no longer smiling, but apparently giving the lad a stern lecture. Then he roughly ruffled the boy’s hair and the small group of men on the yardarm began hauling in the sail again.

  “Saw a man’s head crack like melon one time,” a voice said next to her.

  Sara felt a shiver run down her spine and the hairs on the back of her head sprang up.

  “Happens near every trip, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  Sara turned, seeing a large bearded man standing there, an evil glint in his eye. Then she realized that glint wasn’t purely evil, but held a small degree of humor. Behind that meanness, Sara thought she saw something far less menacing. This man, she thought, is just like my father. All bark and no bite. She pushed her hair from her eyes and smiled slightly at him and saw his surprise that she hadn’t fainted at his gruesome words. How many times had her father regaled his little family with grisly tales? She’d always known her father was simply trying to anger her mother with such vivid yarns, but Sara had enjoyed hearing about them even though she pretended to be horrified. It was entirely unladylike, but the more gruesome the story, the more vivid her father’s description, the better she liked it.

  “Tell me, sir, what does a split open head look like?” she said, knowing such a question was the last thing this man would expect from her.

  He stared at her a long moment, one bushy eyebrow disappearing beneath his loosely-fitted black knit cap. Then he let out a sharp bark of laughter.

  “Ain’t pretty.”

  “I imagine not,” she said, turning serious. “Does it happen every trip?”

  “Nah,” he said with obvious reluctance. “Not with Mr. Mitchell it don’t. He trains ‘em well, he does. Men’ll die. Always do. But Mr. Mitchell don’t tolerate it well. Won’t have it on his ship. I’m Mr. Mason, by the way. First mate.”

  “An honor, Mr. Mason,” Sara said, knowing full well she didn’t need to introduce herself.

  Sara’s gaze went from the gnarly Mr. Mason to West, who was again urging the men to furl the large sail. She could hear him shouting words of encouragement and instruction to the men and felt a fierce sense of pride, then immediately felt foolish. She forced herself to look away, ignored that strange feeling that bloomed in her breast, and found herself looking into the hard little eyes of Mr. Mason. Those eyes seemed not to miss a thing, though she prayed he would not see the blush on her cheeks.

  “Beg pardon, Mrs. Mitchell. Got work.” With that, the man moved away barking out orders to men who stood idle.

  Sara stayed on deck only a few more minutes, fearing her presence was too much of a distraction to the men. Telling herself she would become used to the men, and they used to her, Sara escaped to the aftercabin, sat on the long sofa and waited for the first wave of nausea to hit. Closing her eyes, she could hear the shouts of the men, the hull creaking, the waves rushing by sounding almost like a hard October wind rustling the leaves. She felt the ship roll beneath her and smiled. The captain had been right; her seasickness was nearly gone. It was a wonderful thing, to finally feel well after days and days of sickness. Perhaps she would be a hearty sailor, after all.

  Feeling better than she had since stepping aboard ship, Sara gazed about the room, which to her eyes was in complete disarray. The steward, whose job it was to maintain order in the captain’s rooms, had apparently not done his job at all. Goodness, it was ramshackle, that’s what it was. Finally, she would have something to do, something to make herself useful. To make the captain look at her as more than a burden.

  Feeling wonderful, she set about straightening books and organizing charts that seemed to be piled haphazardly with absolutely no thought to order. Rolling up her sleeves and tying her wayward hair back with a rag, she set to work putting the room to rights. In one corner she found a pad filled with sketches showing life aboard the whaler. They were a remarkable depiction of life at sea, and Sara was stunned when she realized the drawings had been done by Mr. Mitchell. She quickly recognized Mr. Mason, a pipe jutting from his bearded mouth, his expression devilish. Other drawings were of men she hadn’t met yet, men who perhaps were not on board ship any longer. Feeling as if she were somehow invading the man’s privacy, she left the drawings where she found them and concentrated her efforts on other parts of the room. When she was finished, she stood back and surveyed the room, inordinately pleased with the order she saw.

  “Miss Dawes.”

  “Mr. Mitchell. I was on deck earlier today.”

  “Yes, I saw you. I take it you’re feeling better?” he asked, his eyes moving over her face. “I don’t detect a green cast to your skin.”

  “Much better. Thank you. And how is that young man who fell?”

  His mouth quirked in a quick smile. “He’s fine. I should have left him dangling a bit longer, though. Still, I think he learned his lesson.”

  He stared at her a long moment, then said. “Your hair.”

  Sara’s hand immediately went to her head, acutely aware she must look a fright. The rag was doing an inadequate job of keeping it from her face, and she felt her face heat with embarrassment. She self-consciously tucked a stray strand behind her ear.

  “I’ve something for you, for your hair, that is. In my top drawer. Hair combs. For your hair. I like to carve from the bone, you see.”

  He had a look of expectation on his face, so Sara looked back in the drawer and saw, tucked in one corner, the combs of which he spoke. Pulling them out, she looked at them with wonder. Daffodils, her favorite flower, made up the top of the combs. She loved the bright yellow flowers for they were one of the first flowers to thrust through the cold earth and proclaim that spring was here. Sara had planted a thick row of bulbs along the edge of the kitchen garden and would smile when she saw them, a burst of yellow in a still-gray world. Her fingers idly tracing the fine carving, Sara stood and gave West a curious look.


  “Daffodils. They are my favorite flowers.”

  “Are they?”

  She stared at him to see if there was anything in his gaze to tell her whether he’d somehow known they were her favorites, but his eyes held nothing but bored disinterest. She narrowed her eyes.

  “When did you carve these?”

  “Shortly after departing,” he said, and Sara thought she detected the tiniest upward quirk of one side of his mouth.

  “You made these for me.”

  West felt ridiculously pleased by her obvious delight. She smiled at the combs as if they were the finest of treasures, and for that moment, West was completely mesmerized.

  “You looked like you had hair that would fly all about,” he said gruffly.

  One of the locks of hair she’d tucked behind her ear had already fallen down and was brushing against her cheek. Without thinking, he lifted his hand to touch it, to rub that silky lock between his roughened fingertips. It looked so soft, impossibly so, resting on his work-rough hand. He dropped his hand, his knuckles brushing her soft cheek, before his hand turned to a fist by his side.

  That’s when he noticed the rest of the room.

  “You have been cleaning.”

  Sara, who had been willing herself not to lean her cheek into his hand, gave him a sharp look. He did not sound pleased. Perhaps he was concerned about her health, Sara thought. She smiled to reassure him, and couldn't help thinking that he was far more considerate than she’d thought.

  “Yes, but I assure you, Mr. Mitchell, I am perfectly well. My neck pains me not at all and I am happy to report that all seasickness appears to have fled.”

  “I was not asking after your health, though I’m pleased you are doing better.”

  Sara felt a small tingle of foreboding and her smile faltering slightly.

  “I do not recall giving you leave to clean.” He said the word “clean” as if it were an evil act.

  “I thought you would be pleased,” Sara said, dismay clearly etched on her face. She might have imagined that wonderful moment when he gently touched her hair, but she had the combs digging into her palm to remind her.

  “Tell me what you’ve done,” he said with strained patience.

  The room, which she’d looked at with such pleasure, now held an atmosphere of gloom. He stood behind his desk looking about as if completely baffled by what he saw. And angry. It was clear, though he was trying valiantly to hide the fact, that he was quite angry.

  She had thought he would be pleased and told him so, hating the slight quiver she heard in her voice. She was a child again, presented before her mother wearing what she thought was a lovely little dress only to have her mother say, with a dismissive flick of her hand, “My God, Sara, what are you wearing? Take it off immediately.”

  “I thought I was clear when I told you it was the steward’s duty to clean the stateroom and this room.”

  “Yes, you were quite clear,” Sara said, lifting her chin. “However, it was also quite clear that this room was filthy and in disarray.”

  He stared at her, those blue eyes of his darkening as his gaze narrowed. “The room was as I like it.”

  “But it was dusty. And disorganized.” She walked over to the bookshelf, trailing the back of one hand along the spines of the books. “See? The books are now organized by author.”

  “And if I don’t know the author’s name and only the title?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip, and West’s eye immediately fastened there. “I suppose it will take a bit of time finding your book, then,” Sara said with some reluctance.

  “And my charts?” West shot a look over to the charts, now neatly tucked behind a railing that was installed for just that purpose. “How have you organized them?”

  “That was more difficult. But I thought the most logical way was to arrange them by size.”

  “By size.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” she said, walking over to the charts as briskly as she could given the movement of the ship. “They were in a terrible jumble. I couldn’t begin to see any sort of reason to it. Now it is orderly. Neat.”

  “But now I cannot find a damned…” he stopped and swallowed heavily before continuing. “I will not be able to find my charts, Miss Dawes.”

  “You mean you don’t know them by size?”

  He looked heavenward in a beseeching manner. “Grant me strength,” he muttered.

  Sara stiffened. “I thought only to help.”

  “I realize that, Miss Dawes. But you have not helped. You have made it impossible to find anything in my own cabin. I am willing to share this space with you, but only if you keep things as they are. Do not touch my things. Do not rearrange my books or my charts. Or my clothes.”

  Sara blushed, realizing he’d noticed that she’d refolded all his clothing neatly in his drawers.

  “But what am I to do all day?”

  “As you have discovered, I have plenty of books in my library.”

  Sara’s eyes swept over the three shelves of books with more dread than anticipation. She didn’t mind the thought of reading in her spare time, but to have reading as her only way to pass time was exceedingly depressing.

  “Surely there is something I can do. Perhaps help you in some way. I could help spot whales or…”

  “Miss Dawes, we have gone over this before. I believe your presence aboard this ship will be less intrusive if you keep to yourself and to these rooms.”

  “I shall feel like a prisoner.”

  “Better this prison than a real one.”

  Sara gasped at his heartlessness. “I would have been better off in New Bedford,” she said rashly, feeling a rare bit of temper begin to grow.

  “I can arrange that.”

  “My brother said you were a kind man. He was sorely mistaken.”

  He bowed mockingly, but his jaw tensed, as if her remark had somehow bothered him. “If it is a cruelty to save you from certain prison, I am guilty.”

  Sara felt the alien sensation of the prickling heat of anger. “If my presence is so unwanted, then why did you agree to allow me to sail? If you planned to be so disagreeable, you would have been better to deny my brother’s request. Indeed, I wish you had.”

  “When I made the agreement with your brother, I did not realize that you would be so damned…” He stopped abruptly, clamping his mouth shut and fisting his hands by his sides. He was not a man to show his temper, even if it raged beneath the surface. West realized with sudden perception that he was angry not over her cleaning, but because he’d been so weak to want to touch her, even if it was only a few strands of hair and the softness of her cheek.

  Heat suffused Sara’s face. Never in her life had she felt more unwanted than at that moment. He could not have made himself more clear how noxious was her presence on board this ship. She felt an even bigger fool for having him the center of her dreams, for having wanted him to touch her. He was so unlike that imagined man, so much harder and disagreeable. She decided then and there that she did not like West Mitchell. Not at all. He was boorish and…mean. Yes, mean. As indifferent as her mother had been to her, Sara was certain she’d never purposefully hurt her. But this man seemed to be going out of his way to make her angry. She looked at him, at his gloriously thick brown hair, at the curls that so rakishly teased his strong forehead, at the blue eyes that had so mesmerized her, and saw nothing but a disagreeable man. Well, perhaps a completely compelling disagreeable man. A completely compelling disagreeable man who had painstakingly carved daffodils into her hair combs. Sara crushed her teeth together for allowing herself to soften so quickly.

  “I understand,” she said as calmly as she could manage. And she did understand. All those silly girlish fantasies were cut free and West Mitchell became simply another man who had no need of Sara Dawes. That mind-numbing nervousness she felt each time she was near him fled.

  “I am glad you understand,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than usual.

  “As much
as possible I will keep out of your way, Mr. Mitchell. I will, however, begin taking my meals with you and the other officers. As distasteful as it obviously is to you, you have agreed to pose as my husband. It would seem odd indeed if you are never seen in my company.” With that, Sara turned, fighting back the sudden tears that clogged her throat.

  Once in the stateroom, she squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the combs to her breast. She’d not cry over him, nor over her silly lost dreams.

  She washed her hands and face in the basin, then gazed at herself in the mirror tacked to the wall above the washstand. Her hair was a sight. Against her will, she looked at the two hair combs she’d tossed negligently on a shelf. Before she could stop herself, Sara smiled.

  Perhaps he wasn’t so bad, after all.

  Chapter FOUR

  With quick efficient movements, Sara unbraided her hair before the mirror, then stopped as if seeing a stranger returning her gaze in the glass. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining a bit from the tears she refused to shed, her hair curling about in wild disarray. For a moment—just the amount of time it takes to inhale a single breath—she thought she looked pretty. And then she breathed, she blinked, and she was looking at her own reflection, at Sara Dawes, the big horse of a girl that no one wanted. Somehow, that was better, for it was familiar even if it was slightly disappointing.

  She looked at the daffodil combs, waging an inner debate whether to wear them or not. Would he think himself forgiven if she wore them? Silly thought. West Mitchell wouldn’t care if she wore them or not. He simply wanted to tame her wild curls. He found them disagreeable and so carved these combs so that she would no longer offend him. Sara might have been able to convince herself of such a thing if he hadn’t taken the time to carve daffodils. They were not such a common flower that a man would, of all the flowers available, choose to depict them on the combs. A rose would have made much more sense, for didn’t most women claim that flower to be their favorite? He’d known somehow she’d favored daffodils and that’s why he’d carved them.