If I Wait For You

by Jane Goodger

  And so, clutching that letter in hand, Sara presented herself to Julia Mitchell, who, after mild bewilderment, accepted her with the alacrity of a woman who has never had a daughter and has the good fortune of having a surrogate thrust at her unexpectedly.

  Months and months had passed since she’d been that girl on the beach declaring her love to a man who did not love her. She didn’t quite know who that girl was, the one with the wind-whipped hair and burnt nose. The one who’d fallen so desperately in love with a man who even now, nearly two years later, just thinking about could make her stomach feel a bit sick. Though, for some reason she could not fathom, it was not an entirely unpleasant sickness.

  With two years between her and that girl, Sara could be fairly philosophical about what had happened to her in those six months aboard the Julia. With her newfound wisdom, she realized that the girl who stepped aboard the Julia three years ago had been profoundly alone and terribly young—ripe pickings for a dashing captain. Of course, this particular captain was of the sort not to take advantage of a young woman’s ridiculous crush. That made it all rather more humiliating. Poor, poor West, she could now think, he’d done a wonderful job of holding her at bay, a young woman who fancied herself in love, who dreamed that her heroic captain would fall in love with her.

  She was a woman now, in temperament and looks, she decided looking at her placid countenance with satisfaction. At twenty, she had sailed to the other side of the world, seen things most women could never imagine seeing. She’d nearly died, but she had lived and lived and lived ever since.

  Sara found herself on that trip, and she lost the ugly little girl who hung her head low, who was afraid of saying foolish things. She lost, she was certain, that silly ninny who fell so desperately in love with a whaling captain.

  Sara found she could control her fluttering heart—it hardly fluttered at all any more even in the presence of men far more classically handsome than her sea captain. Why, just look at her behavior with Gardner, West’s fabulously good-looking younger brother. There was none of that soul-wrenching, stomach-churning feeling when she was near him. She loved Gardner dearly and had decided she would likely marry him. It was a sane, calm love. Manageable. Thank goodness that temporary affliction, that madness West had made her feel, was gone.

  Well, nearly.

  West was due home soon, and just the thought of that homecoming made her palms grow damp. And she still wore the busk he so beautifully and painstakingly carved. Every day. Each time she slid the busk into a clean corset, she felt guilty for betraying Gardner. For some reason she could not bring herself to store it away, a keepsake of another time. It belong in a drawer, not pressing against her, a constant reminder of West and his unrelenting hold on her. It had been the sort of gift a man gives to his wife. But even then, she had held it against her heart, not once considering the impropriety of such an intimate gift.

  Sara placed her fingertips at her temples and pressed little circles there. What would she do when she saw him? Pretend he was a dear old friend? He was that, and so very much more.

  “No,” Sara said aloud, glad to see her face harden in the mirror, her eyes glittering with determination. “He’s nothing. You will not, Sara Dawson, do a thing to make him think you are still that silly little girl who fell in love with him.”

  Saying her new name aloud was like a balm. She would never forget the look on West’s mother’s face when she arrived at the door, looking travel-weary and somehow fierce, bearing a letter her son had written more than six months before. Nearly the first thing she’d said to her once Sara and Julia were settled into her parlor was, “My dear, what an unfortunate name you have.” Sara’s face had turned scarlet, which, thankfully, Julia mistook for outrage.

  “You see, Miss Dawson, one of New Bedford’s most notorious women is named Sara Dawes. A murderess and a fugitive. She killed her lover then burned her parents alive and fled. It quite captivated the city for weeks.”

  Sara could think of nothing to say, so she remained silent. With an ease she now found remarkable, Julia welcomed Sara into her home. She hardly asked her a question, other than to ask after West. She’d taken everything West had written in the letter at face value: Sara was orphaned in Hawaii when her mother and father died of a fever, leaving her and her older brother—whom he had taken on as a mate—stranded among strangers. West had written he met Sara through the same missionaries that he stayed with during his stop at Hilo, and had sympathized with her plight, offering to give her a home.

  Sara had thought the story contrived, but Julia never questioned the validity of the tale and welcomed her into the Mitchell home. In the months and months that passed, Sara came to love Julia like a mother. Julia was tall and willowy, with hair that was once blonde, but was now turning a soft gray. She was elegant, soft-spoken, and the kindest person Sara had ever known. She was, Sara came to realize, much like herself. It was a startling revelation, and wonderfully liberating, to discover that she greatly admired a woman who was so similar to herself.

  Afraid she would somehow betray her feelings, Sara did not allow herself to talk about West, though she could not help—at least in the beginning—thinking about him endlessly. It had been her one weakness. After six months living in the Mitchell mansion safely cocooned and out of the public’s eye, a packet of letters arrived, and Sara, her stomach a jumble of nerves, gathered in the parlor with Julia and Gardner and listened to West’s prose.

  Gardner, his legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, said only, “If he’s in such a hurry to give up the ship, I wonder that he didn’t give it up to me on this trip.” It was a touchy subject, Sara soon realized, the fact that West had thought Gardner too young to be ship’s master. It was the one thing that could make him angry, the single subject Sara found she could not tease him about. Otherwise, Gardner was the most pleasant man Sara had ever met.

  Sara found herself frowning into the mirror. Of late, Gardner had become more and more insistent they marry, immediately, if possible. It was always done lightly, as if he were a suffering swain being torn asunder by her ruthless rejection of him. She could hardly take him seriously when he acted so tragically in love, though she suspected behind all the play he was quite serious about marrying her. He’d told her he loved her so many times, she’d lost the wonder of hearing it. Still, it was nice to have a man like Gardner act so thoroughly besotted with her. Sometimes she wondered, though, if Gardner’s declarations were more theater than emotion. Sara couldn’t help but think that even if she were to reject Gardner’s proposal outright, it would not wound him. He would simply shrug his elegant shoulders and move on to the next girl. When these doubts assailed her, she told herself it was simply her insecurities so well fostered by her mother coming to head.

  They did get on so very well and everyone told them what a lovely couple they made. Sara had fun with Gardner, she laughed, she danced, she was carefree for the first time in her life. A lifetime with Gardner would be a wonderful thing. She told herself this over and over, but it did nothing to help ease her mind. For some ridiculous reason, she felt as though if she married Gardner she would somehow be betraying West. It was silly to think such a thing, and Sara rationalized that it must be because she was still so hurt by his rejection. She refused, completely and utterly, to believe that she still loved him. West Mitchell was a figment of her imagination, a man built up in a young girl’s heart, a man who did not exist. The real West Mitchell pitied her for her love. He could not have been more direct, more cutting: “Don’t wait for me Sara.” He’d been trying to be kind, to let her off as easily as possible. She knew that, but still it hurt. Even now.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Sara stood quickly, smoothing down her skirts. She wore the loveliest of her many gowns, all given to Sara by Julia who claimed to be in heaven buying clothes for a young woman who wore them so well. A daughter to spoil, she said, for a woman plagued with three sons.

  Her dress was mint-green silk wi
th cream lace trim and a smart little bows down the back of the wide skirt. Her sleeves fairly frothed with lace and she thought the effect quite pretty. And, of course, she wore the bustle West had given all those years ago. It was, Julia had told her, the perfect dress to wear on a warm summer’s evening to an engagement reception.

  She was just leaving her room when Gardner approached, giving her a grin. “There you are, imp. We’re going to be late, you know.”

  “We are going to be no such thing and you know it,” she said lifting her chin. “Oh, don’t you look dashing this evening.”

  “I have to if I want to keep all the gentlemen away from you.”

  She waved a hand at him and laughed. He led her down the hall toward the entry away, chatting about who was expected to be in attendance, and Sara stopped dead. West was home. He stood just in the doorway, looking just as stunningly handsome as Sara remembered.

  She moved without thinking, unable to stop herself, she threw herself into his arms, laughing and crying and so filled with pure happiness she didn’t stop to think how this would look to anyone watching. West was silent, his arms at his sides, and Sara was about to step back when he moved his cheek against her hair and brought a hand to the back of her head, pulling her close for two breathless seconds.

  Sara pushed away, but kept her hands at his waist as she looked up at West. She was far too happy at that moment to think about how inappropriate her enthusiastic reception was. She was unaware that her hands were still about his waist, unaware of the scowl that marred Gardner’s face as he stared at her hands on his big brother’s waistcoat.

  “West, good to have you home, brother,” Gardner said heartily.

  Sara stepped back, smiling widely from one brother to another.

  “Oh, I wish we did not have to go,” Sara said. “But you’re home for good, now, and we’ll have forever to talk.”

  West remained silent, his expression not quite happy, not quite anything. Sara’s stomach gave a nervous little twitch as she realized for the first time that perhaps he was not nearly as happy to see her as she was to see him.

  Gardner looked from her to his brother, obviously torn about what to do. “Hell, Baxter would choose tonight for his damned prenuptial party. I’m the best man and haven’t got a choice of whether to go. Damnation.”

  “Go on,” West said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m hellishly tired as it is.”

  Sara took Gardner’s arm, pushing down her disappointment. She turned as they were about to walk through the door. “It’s good to have you home, Mr. Mitchell,” she said, switching back to her formal address as if that might erase the previous few minutes of guileless abandon.

  She and Gardner walked silently down the wide steps toward their waiting carriage. It was dark now, with a sky brilliant with stars and a three-quarter moon.

  “I should have brought a wrap,” she said, feeling the coolness of the night air on her bare arms.

  Gardner began removing his coat when Sara put her hand on his arm.

  “Oh, Gardner, I don’t want to go. I haven’t seen my brother in two years and I’ll just go insane thinking that I’d rather be talking with him than a bunch of silly debutantes.”

  Gardner let out a sigh. “All right, then. But give me a kiss, princess, for me to remember you by.”

  Sara gave a jaunty little movement of her head before closing her eyes and pursing her lips. The only kisses Gardner had ever bestowed upon her were quick, almost impersonal pecks on the lips or cheeks. But tonight, his kiss was harder, more insistent, and Sara’s eyes flew open with surprise. She moved her head back, away from his sudden ardor.

  “I’m sorry,” Gardner said, dropping his hands from her upper arms. He smiled at her, rakishly, his white teeth glinting in the darkness, putting Sara at ease. “Good night, Sara.” Even then he hesitated, his smile hiding some other darker emotion. Then he turned away and stepped aboard the carriage without looking back, leaving a confused Sara behind. She wanted to call after him, to tell him that he’d nothing to be sorry about. But she didn’t. Instead, she turned toward the door, skirts swirling about her, and ran up the steps. At that moment, the door swept open.

  Sara gave a startled oh, stopping herself just before crashing into West’s chest. She beamed a smile into his face, once again filled with happiness that West was home. Slowly her smile faded as her mind took in his expression—she had no name for what she saw in his eyes, but a tingling of unease swept through her.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Mitchell?” she whispered. “You’re looking at me so strangely.”

  “Call me West.”

  “You want me to call you by your given name?”

  “I do.” His eyes swept over her, quickly, hungrily, and Sara took a small step back.

  “What is wrong?” she asked again, the beginnings of panic filling her.

  West blinked, then he looked at her with a kind of awe, the way a man looks at a comet streaking across the sky. Purposefully, he put his hands on her upper arms, his sudden smile startling in its intensity. He began laughing, a sound of pure joy that did nothing to settle Sara’s nerves. He was acting like a madman, one minute looking fierce, the next laughing with abandon.

  “Mr. Mitchell, stop it. Please. Your frightening me.”

  “I’m frightening you?” he said, still laughing. “Oh, Sara. My girl. Sara.” He shook his head, chuckling. He moved one hand to her face, moving his fingertips along her jaw. “I thought you were dead, my girl.”

  Sara stepped back. “Dead?”

  “The typhoon. The Bonnie Lassie sunk, did it not?”

  “It did. But it sank in the most fortuitous place. Only a short swim to Maui and not a shark in sight. I floated on a small barrel the entire way.”

  He grinned down at her as if drinking her in. Well, she supposed anyone would be happy to see someone they thought dead. “I’m alive and well and not going to a reception. I’m off to see my brother. He’s still with the ship?”

  West nodded. “He is going to be overjoyed when he sees you. My God, the lad is going to faint.”

  “I do hope not,” Sara said. “How dreadful for him to have thought I was dead. Poor Zachary. Could you escort me, Mr. Mitchell? I’ll just change and be down shortly.”

  With that, she turned and fled up the stairs, leaving West behind feeling decidedly unsettled. It occurred to him that while she’d seemed pleased to see him, she was not acting like a girl greeting her long-lost love, a man for whom she’d promised to wait. A man who’d proclaimed his love in writing begging her to wait.

  “I want to thank you for sending me Sara, West. She has brought joy into this household,” his mother said, following his eyes up the stairs where Sara had just disappeared.

  He told his mother about the typhoon and his belief she had died, which he hoped would explain his reaction to seeing her. “My goodness, what a shock it must have been. And her brother thinks she died, too?”

  “He believes he is all alone in the world, which is why he volunteered to stay on the ship. She has a way of touching everyone she meets.” He swallowed. “Frankly, I’m surprised she has not married. Does she have lots of beaux?”

  “Three proposals to date,” Julia said. “I believe Sara finds them a bit perplexing. She truly has no idea how pretty and charming she is.”

  West could not stop the red hot jealousy that surged through his veins. It erupted so quickly, he had to forcefully control his expression so that his mother could not guess his thoughts. “Only three?” he asked blandly. “Is she waiting for true love, a European title, or simply for someone exceedingly rich.”

  “Exceedingly rich,” Sara said from the stairway, her eyes flashing angrily. “But a title would not be rejected out of hand. As long as it came with scads of money.”

  Julia laughed lightly. “I think Sara is waiting for love,” she said conspiratorially. “And I think she’s found it.”

  West’s chest constricted, but he maintained his bored mien. “Ahh.
Love. Not very practical,” he said, giving Sara a hard look. Was she in love? With whom?

  He felt the sudden, primitive urge to find the man, to tear him from limb to limb, to stomp on his inert body.

  Julia looked from her son to her ward with concern, as if aware of a sudden blooming emotion between the two. “West,” she said, an obvious attempt to keep her tone light, “stop pretending to be of such a practical bent. I know you better.”

  “It depends on what your definition of love is, I suppose, Mother. Some people are incapable of that emotion.”

  Sara walked to the bottom of the stairs, her simple skirt trailing behind her. “I imagine you speak from experience?” she asked, tilting her head as if truly curious.

  West narrowed his eyes, his mind filled with images of Sara with another faceless man. “I do.”

  Sara flushed becomingly, but damned if West knew why. He would have thought shame or chagrin, but her eyes held something close to anger.

  “Shall we go see your brother, Sara?”

  Sara gave him a genuine smile, and his breath caught in his throat. She couldn’t love someone else, he refused to believe it. The thought that she would bestow such a smile upon another man was unthinkable.

  Despite the chill in the air, it was a lovely evening and West and Sara by tacit agreement decided to walk to the wharf. Sara, once again, was that animated, happy woman she’d been in the first moments of his arrival. She could not contain her excitement of seeing her brother, of imagining the look on his face when he first saw her, and West found himself smiling simply from the sheer enjoyment of hearing her talk.

  “How should we do it? Should I just walk in on him? Or should you go and then tell him I’m alive and well. I think I should surprise him,” she said, answering her own question.

  They walked side by side, her chattering happily, as if the tense moments in the foyer had never happened, as if he wasn’t dying inside knowing she loved another.

  “Oh, West,” she said, stopping and grabbing one of his wrists with two hands, her happiness uncontained. “I’m so glad you’re back and safe.”