by Diane Noble
Enid knew Angor Wallace, the harbormaster, well, as did everyone, young and old, on Prince Edward Island. He was known to read the mail and relate to his wife Maeve the contents, should they be of a curious nature. She would then spread the word about the island, telling each to dare not tell another, which of course they readily did.
Enid gave him a nod as she took her place in line with others awaiting Angor’s distribution of posts and parcels. She was ready to turn away, disappointed, when he called out, “Mrs. Livingstone, I’ve something fer ye!”
Her heart lifted as she approached him. “’Tis terribly good news. Yer captain is on his way. This was sent by packet from Liverpool a full month before he sailed on the Sea Hawk.” He handed her a letter with a broken seal. “Don’t know how that happened,” he said, just as always.
Enid accepted his curiosity as a fact of life, as did most other citizens of the island. Angor had been harbormaster for longer than she could remember. He meant no harm.
She thanked him and made her way back to the buckboard where Brodie Flynn waited.
“Did you hear good news, then, Mrs. Livingstone?” Brodie asked as she climbed back onto the seat beside him.
“The Sea Hawk will be in Halifax four days from now,” she said. “And the captain wants me to meet him there. Also Mr. MacKay, so ’twill be a double blessing.” Smiling, she looked up at the boy. “It’s only for twelve hours,” she said, “but even that is worth the voyage over.”
“You’d best be leavin’ soon, then,” he said. “Takes three days by packet ship to get there.”
“Aye,” she said. “But I saw on a posting by the gangway that the Liberty will sail tomorrow.”
Brodie grinned up at her. “And ye’ll be on ’er.”
“Indeed, I will.” She chirped to Foxfire and the aging mare plodded forward as Enid unfolded the post once more.
“I’ll take care of yer farm for ye,” Brodie said.
Enid didn’t answer. Holding the reins loosely with one hand, Enid held the unfolded letter in the other, her attention held fast on the first paragraphs.
Dearest Enid,
I have the best possible tidings. I have been in contact with an expert in the field of childbirth and related issues. I have arranged for you to accompany me on the return voyage from Boston. Once again, we will anchor in Halifax for twelve hours, then sail for Liverpool. I hope these good tidings bring you the same joy with which I have met them.
Of course I understand your reluctance to sail and your reasons, which run deep and fixed. But wouldn’t it be worth it, should this physician get to the heart of your difficulties…
She scanned the rest of the letter, unable to concentrate on much of its content because of the shocking words in that first paragraph. Hosea mentioned something about the speed record, the joy of sailing with their friend Gabe again, and that Gabe needed to also speak to her.
Enid flushed as she thought of Angor reading the letter and then telling Maeve, who would spread it around the island. Perhaps Hosea didn’t remember the old harbormaster’s indiscretion. He had never liked the farm, had never liked being away from his ship, so it stood to reason that the insignificant matter of an old harbormaster’s propensity to snoop would not have stayed with him.
She sighed deeply as she refolded the letter.
A trip to England to see an expert about her inability to conceive? Her heart thudded beneath her ribs. Her heart’s deepest desire was to have a child.
She flicked the reins above Foxfire’s back to pick up speed, her thoughts racing through her heart and mind as if they were a bird in flight with no place to land.
She had no right to worry about her husband’s folly when she had committed greater sins of her own. A secret buried deep in her heart that meant she couldn’t go to England with him, or anywhere else…unless she told him what she’d kept hidden all these years.
Only one other knew her secret, and he did not know the whole of it.
His name was Gabriel MacKay.
SEVEN
Gabe was standing in the dining room with the captain, his chief mate, Mr. Thorpe, and Brigham when the earl, his Welsh manservant, Griffin Carey, and the earl’s granddaughter, Lady Mary Rose Ashley, entered the room. The captain greeted them and then made introductions to the others, but Gabe couldn’t keep his eyes off Lady Mary Rose. She was even lovelier this night than she had been the morning they met.
Her auburn curls had been tamed into an upsweep that showed off her lovely white neck. A few tendrils sprang loose here and there, but somehow the imperfections suited her. She wore an off-the-shoulder frock of a shimmering dark green that complimented the creamy hue of her skin, and a single strand of pearls encircled the base of her slender throat.
When she caught his gaze they shared a smile. For a moment, Gabe thought he couldn’t breathe.
He walked over to her, and she turned away from the others to greet him. The earl’s servant moved to one side of the serving board to stand with the steward, Mr. Quigley.
“Ah, ’tis the rescuer of errant hats,” she said to Gabe as they moved away from the group, “and of mischievous little boys.” Her smile widened, now showing only a hint of the dimple in her chin. “I didn’t have a chance to thank you for the latter, but we are indeed indebted to you for your quick thinking—and for your obvious lack of vertigo.” She laughed. “It seems as though from the moment we arrived to board, someone needed to rescue us from one mishap after another.”
As she spoke, he found himself mesmerized by the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He tried to think of a quip to give himself time to regain his bearings. And to breathe again. But none came.
“Lady Ashley,” he finally said with a slight nod, “it is good to see you again, and indeed, I would count it an honor to come to your rescue at any time day or night.” The instant the word night left his mouth, he felt himself flush.
She assured him by her expression and musical laugh that he had not offended her in the least. “I truly thank you, good sir. I hope we won’t need you again, but we appreciate the offer of your services. We now have a rather magical nanny watching over our little brood, and she seems to have brought them under control.” She laughed again, lightly, and cast a bright look of appreciation toward Griffin Carey. “Or perhaps I should say she seems to have cast them under her spell.”
“I didn’t know Mormons believed in sorcery,” he said.
The room became as still as a tomb.
He’d done it again. This time accused her of believing in witchcraft. He could have slapped himself on the head.
Surprisingly, it was Lady Ashley who came to his rescue. “I spoke in jest when I intimated our dear Bronwyn has magic powers. She simply has a way with children I’ve seen in no other.” She looked again at Griffin, who was still standing by Mr. Quigley, and smiled. “You are indeed fortunate to have such a comely and gifted wife. There is no need for spells, with her innate ability to love and adore children. It is that love that causes them to behave. Nay, more than behave. They thrive in her presence.”
Griffin inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“And I misspoke in accusing you or any of the Saints of sorcery,” Gabe said to Lady Ashley, fully aware that everyone in the room was listening. And that Brigham’s gaze was boring a hole through his back.
Lady Ashley didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought. “Yet I understand,” she said, “that those who use seer stones have powers of divination. ’Tis our own Prophet, I’m told, who in his past committed such foolery of his—”
The captain cleared his throat, interrupting the conversation. “I believe it’s time to take our places at the table. Our galley cook will not be pleased if the fare he’s provided goes cold.” He gestured to the table. “Sit, please. Everyone. And I will ask a blessing upon our food and upon our voyage.”
Gabe escorted Mary Rose to the table, pulled out her chair, and seated her. As soon as the others gathered, he s
at down to her left. The captain took his place at the head of the table, though remained standing until everyone else had taken their places—Mr. Thorpe to the captain’s left, directly across from Gabe. Next to him, and across from Mary Rose, sat Brigham. The earl took his place at the end of the table opposite the captain.
The captain opened his prayer book to the service of evening vespers, thumbed through a few pages, and began to read the ancient prayer of thanksgiving, his voice low and humble. Those who knew the words joined him, praying softly in unison. Though he kept his head bowed, Gabe glanced furtively around the table at the others as he intoned the words he’d known since childhood. Brigham met his questioning gaze with a steady one of his own. His lips did not move, and the angle of his head did not speak of reverence.
At the conclusion of the prayer, the captain, rather than murmuring the traditional amen, surprised Gabe by continuing:
“O Lord, we ask that a good measure of the blessings you might bestow upon us might instead be bountifully bestowed upon those in greater need. We also ask that your presence be with those we love who are away from us. We thank you for their safekeeping and ours, and for the knowledge we have that without your grace we would surely perish, and that without your love to sustain us, life would have no meaning.”
When the captain looked up, his focus seemed to drill into Brigham’s steady gaze. He then added, “May his grace sustain us, may his Spirit indwell us and give us peace. For we recognize that it is not our works that save us, O Lord. It is your grace alone that draws us to you. It is not our worthiness that enables us to come to you. We can do nothing to deserve your favor. Not one of us can provide a substitute for your sacrifice that will wrap us in your robe of righteousness.”
He glanced around the table, his gaze again lingering on Brigham as if gauging his reaction, before adding:
“For all these gifts, and more, we thank you, O Lord. Amen.”
In all the years he’d known Hosea, Gabe had never heard him offer a blessing over a supper table quite like the one he’d just uttered. It was more a homily than a prayer.
He was instantly aware of what seemed to be a silent conveyance of thoughts, not particularly pleasant, between the captain and Brigham. Gabe suspected that while he was caught up in conversation with Lady Ashley, he’d missed the meat of what surely had been a fascinating discussion about American frontier religions, perhaps the profusion of false prophets, or the age-old argument about faith versus works. He’d thrown something of all of these elements of Anglican faith into his prayers.
The captain reached for his goblet of Madeira and lifted it. “To continued safe passage,” he said.
“To safe passage,” the others murmured. Glasses clinked, and sips were taken.
“And to speed,” Gabe added, lifting his glass higher. “To eighteen knots or higher.”
“Hear, hear!” The captain touched his wineglass to Gabe’s. There were cheers all around. “And as the Irish say, ‘May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back.’”
“And may Cook’s fare not have cooled after your most eloquent and ardent prayer, sir,” said Mr. Thorpe with a crooked smile and a pointed glance toward the waiting steward. He lifted his glass to another round of “Hear, hear!”
The group chuckled and the tension dropped as Mr. Quigley, assisted by Griffin, served a hearty soup, followed by kidney and beef pie made with a suet pastry. The steward added more heavy bread rolls to the baskets, and then refilled the goblets.
Mary Rose took a bite of kidney pie, chewed thoughtfully, then turned to Gabe. “Eighteen knots. ’Tis a marvel.” The ship rolled gently and the lamp swung, dimmed, and then settled.
“Possibly nineteen.”
“And should we keep to that speed, how long until we reach Nova Scotia?”
After one look into her eyes, Gabe had a difficult time concentrating on anything as mundane as food. He had fancied himself in love only once before, many years ago. He’d thought his wounds had healed…until his talk with the captain the night before, when he was reminded that the captain was married to Gabe’s first love. He surreptitiously chased a rather large and gristly piece of beef around his plate and then gave up before Lady Mary Rose might notice and think him a bumpkin. Instead, he picked up the Madeira and took a sip.
She was watching him with a quizzical look, and he realized that he hadn’t answered her question. “Seven days,” he said. “After twelve hours in Halifax, taking on food supplies and water, we’ll sail for Boston.”
“And from Halifax to Boston?”
“Another seven days, eight hours, and we should sail into Boston Harbor”—he grinned at her—“with great fanfare of course.” He attacked the hunk of beef when he thought she wasn’t looking.
“That is certainly precise,” she said, her gaze taking in his plate. “You have it down to the hour.”
“That’s why I’m on board. Precise calculations.”
“Hear, hear!” rang out from the other end of the table. The earl lifted his glass and saluted Gabe.
Gabe inclined his head. “Thank you, but we haven’t done it yet.”
“I, for one, cannot wait to step foot on American soil. It’s been years since I was last there.” Twisting the end of his mustache, he smiled at the group and leaned in closer as if to tell a secret. “Nothing in this world can compare to setting eyes on land that seems to stretch out before you as if you’re looking into eternity itself. I can’t wait to see it again, to look up into God’s heavens, brighter and bluer and sunnier than anything we have in England…and I’ll thank my Heavenly Father for the Prophet, his vision, his status as the chosen one to usher us into this new era of church history.” His eyes filled and he blinked rapidly, cleared his throat, and then continued: “To think that I will live to see the reestablishment of God’s only Church on earth. For that alone, I will be eternally grateful—to the Prophet and to this great man who sits with us this night.” He lifted his glass again in salute, this time toward Brigham.
After a moment of almost reverent silence, the captain reached for the bread basket, broke off a hunk of bread, passed the basket to Gabe, and then said to Brigham, “I hear you’re taking a group overland to Commerce. That’s on the Mississippi, isn’t it?”
“You’re partially right, though the Prophet has renamed it Nauvoo, which means ‘beautiful’ in Hebrew.” He smiled broadly. “We’ve drained swamplands and built homes and businesses. Our industry is booming, but we’re still in need of workers—black-smiths, shopkeepers, wheelwrights, harness makers—opportunities abound in Nauvoo.” He played with the stem of his goblet, then turned to Gabe and said, “We’re in special need of an architect. We could use someone with your skill.”
Gabe sat back and chuckled. His life had to do with shipbuilding; nothing else interested him. He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not interested, but thank you for the offer.”
Brigham turned to the rest of the diners. “We built a magnificent temple in Kirtland, but unfortunately, we were forced to leave. We’re building a new one that will surpass even the Kirtland temple in every way—especially because of its location overlooking the mighty Mississippi.”
The captain settled against the back of his chair. “What exactly happened in Kirtland?”
“Unprovoked attacks,” Brigham said, his expression changing. “In Kirtland, followed by more of the same in Far West. Persecution, worse than one can imagine, drove us out of both towns. Vigilante groups chased families, even little children, like we were animals, hunting us down to shoot for sport. They burned our homes, our farms, our businesses.” His gaze took in everyone at the table as the lamp above them swung with the undulating movement of the sea. He kept the emotion in his eyes veiled, but his expression spoke of deep anger toward those who dared harm his people.
Lady Mary Rose leaned forward. “Unprovoked attacks? Why didn’t you tell us of these before?”
“He did, my dear,” the earl said quickly from
across the table. “At least he told me.”
“I should have been made aware of the danger we’re heading into.” Her voice was calm, her words precise, but they held an edge of anger. “Grandfather, you should have informed me of all these details before we made our decision.”
Gabe noticed that Brigham and the earl exchanged glances. Lady Mary Rose noticed it too. She turned to Brigham with an unblinking stare. “You should have warned us that you were leading us into atrocities of this magnitude.” She turned back to her grandfather. “I’ve a mind to—”
Brigham’s voice was calmer when he interrupted. “I need to assure you, Lady Ashley, no one will ever again drive us from our homes and businesses. Not one child will be harmed—or forced to witness the deaths of his mother, father, sisters, or brothers.”
“I just don’t understand,” Mary Rose continued. “What triggered the mob’s response?” Her tone was accusatory, as if the Mormons had possibly brought it on themselves.
Gabe sat back, enjoying the interchange immensely. This woman knew her own might and was a fighter. He found himself enormously impressed…and attracted to her even more.
“They wouldn’t simply attack a farmhouse, chase women and children for sport, would they?”
“The Saints were not the agitators,” he said. “We are a peaceful people. At least we have been until now. As God is my witness and as Joseph Smith is his beloved Prophet,” he said, “I tell you these attacks were unprovoked. I can also tell you that the Gentiles will never again come against us with force, because”—he drew in a deep breath and looked down as if praying—“because, my friends, we now are ready to fight back. Our militia has begun training in Nauvoo.
