The Red Siren

by Marylu Tyndall

  Some time later, after he had poured out his heart to his Father, the scuffle of footsteps accompanied by baritone humming jarred Dajon from his meditation. He opened his eyes to see Rev. Halloway flipping through the pages of a book in the shadows by the communion table.

  Clearing his throat, Dajon rose from the altar.

  “Ah, my friend, you startled me,” the reverend exclaimed as he came into the candle’s glow, a wide grin on his ruddy face. He cast a glance behind him where the faint gleam of a new day brightened a window in the back of the sanctuary. “’Tis early. What brings you here at this hour?” His bushy brows knit together.

  Dajon shifted his weight and clutched the hilt of his sword. “I could not sleep.”

  “Something amiss?” The reverend led Dajon to a pew. “Sit. Tell me.” He closed the book on his lap.

  Dajon squinted at the title on the volume, unsure whether he should share his fears with his friend. “Richard Allestree’s Whole Duty of Man?”

  “Aye, have you read it?” The reverend lifted the book.

  Dajon shook his head and sat beside him.

  “I shall lend it to you when I am finished. It will strengthen your faith. But you did not come to discuss what I am reading.”

  Dajon squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I did not come to talk at all, only to pray.”

  The reverend patted him on the back. “Then you have already done what is most important.”

  Rev. Halloway’s green eyes sparkled in the candlelight. The crinkle of his leathery skin and the gray flecks in his curly blond hair were the only things that gave away his age. He exuded a genuine concern that always pulled Dajon’s darkest secrets out of hiding.

  “Admiral Westcott requested that I act as guardian to his daughters while he is overseas.”

  The reverend let out a deep laugh. “Yes, the Westcott daughters. Newly arrived from England. I have heard men in town speak of their beauty.”

  “Then you know my dilemma.” Dajon sprang to his feet and paced before the altar.

  “You speak of Lady Rawlings?”

  “Aye.” A heavy weight entombed his heart as memories of a past life resurrected. “My answer was no, of course. But I fear my career will suffer for it. He doesn’t understand my refusal. But what choice did I have?” Dajon released a heavy sigh.

  “’Twas a long time ago, Dajon.”

  “Not long enough.”

  The reverend slapped his hand on the pew. “When will you forgive yourself for what God has already forgotten?”

  “How can I? It was my own foolish passion that caused her death.” He gazed at the cross. “And I have vowed to God that I would never repeat that mistake.”

  “He has heard you. He knows your heart. And He will not give you a temptation you cannot resist.”

  Dajon sighed and gave the reverend a lopsided grin. “Have you seen Miss Faith Westcott?”

  “If you mean the redhead, aye, I have.” The reverend nodded. “I have taken notice of her as much as the good Lord allows.”

  “Even though I’ve just made her acquaintance, something comes over me when she is near. A flame that burns in my gut and befuddles my brain.” Dajon plopped down on the pew again and propped his elbows on his knees. “I have the strange sensation that I have met her before, but I know that’s not possible.” He shook his head. “Of all the men under his command, why did the admiral have to ask me? I have spent the past four years making all the right choices, doing my duty to God and country.”

  “Perhaps that is why. That he trusts you with his most precious treasures—his own daughters—says a great deal about your character.”

  Dajon snorted. “If he only knew.”

  “You are not the man you once were.” The reverend leaned back against the pew, the aged wood creaking beneath his weight.

  “Perhaps. But it will be a long time hence before I can make amends for what I have done.”

  The reverend touched Dajon’s arm. “You can never pay the price for what God has already paid, my friend.”

  “As you keep telling me.” Dajon attempted a smile. “Nevertheless, I find I am not ready for such a temptation.”

  “If you were not, God would not have sent it your way.”

  Dajon clenched his hands together. “It matters not. I turned him down and now must suffer the repercussions to my career.”

  “Surely the admiral will not punish you for refusing such a personal favor?”

  “You do not know him. He is not called the ‘Iron Wall’ for nothing.” Dajon snickered. “No one who has ever come against him has walked away unscathed.”

  The door of the sanctuary swung open and crashed against the wall. A stiff breeze whipped through the narrow room, sending the candle flames flickering.

  Dajon turned to see two uniformed men marching toward him. He stood. They saluted him, and the one closet to him held out a piece of paper. “For you, Mr. Waite.”

  Dajon took the paper and broke the seal. It was from Admiral Westcott. As he read, his blood turned to ice.

  Mr. Waite,

  My orders have come through, and I am to set sail immediately. I found your refusal to act as guardian over my daughters in my absence somewhat surprising and therefore have no recourse but to assume it was merely due to modesty on your part. As I am sure you are aware, I consider this task to be associated with the security of our grand and glorious nation, long live King George, in that it will afford me the ability to focus entirely on my duties rather than on the safety of my daughters. I must tell you my resolutions are firm, and therefore I place my daughters in your trustworthy charge. And I assure you that you shall find yourself amply rewarded when I return. Instructions have been left with Edwin Huxley, my steward.

  Everything inside of Dajon screamed a defiant No! Yet there was no one present to whom he could protest—at least no one with the power to alter the path laid before him.

  I did not wish to wake the girls, so I shall leave you the task of bidding them farewell in my stead. I trust you implicitly, Waite. But mark my words, I will hold you personally responsible for the safety and welfare of my daughters.

  Signed this day, the 15th of August in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and eighteen,

  Rear Admiral Henry Westcott

  Chapter 6

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Faith shoved a pillow over her head and rolled over. “Go away.” Tap, tap, tap.

  “Miss Faith. You got to get up now.” Molly’s voice filtered through the door.

  Faith fought against the sleep that pressed her deep into the mattress, but then she decided nothing could be important enough to disturb it and allowed it to consume her again.

  The door creaked open, and footsteps clicked across the room, followed by a blast of bright light as her curtains were drawn back. “Sorry to disturb you, but you are needed downstairs.”

  Morgan cawed from his wooden perch next to Faith’s bed.

  Straining to sit, Faith huffed and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?” She held out her hand, and Morgan flew to her. “Where is Loretta?”

  “Noon, young missy.” Molly clamped her hands on her hips. “Far too late for a proper lady to be sleepin’. And I sent the chamber maid on an errand.” Molly eyed Morgan. “And a proper lady don’t live with no bird, neither.”

  “But I just retired to bed—” Faith snapped her mouth shut.

  “I know when you got yerself to bed. You and that scrap dog Lucas out roamin’ the streets all night doin’ God knows what.” She clicked her tongue. “Shame, shame, shame on both of you.”

  “It is not what you think, Molly.” Faith swung her legs over the side of her bed while Molly sifted through her armoire. It’s actually much worse. Faith smiled.

  “It’s not my business to think. I jest keep prayin’ for you, and for Lucas, too.” Molly broke into a song that sounded like a cross between an African chant and a Christian hymn.

  Blinking her eyes in an effort to keep them open, Fa
ith stared at Molly as she selected a gown and undergarments and approached the bed. Two oval black eyes set in glowing skin the color of cinnamon stared back at her. Standing barely over five feet tall, the slender cook more than made up for her size with her determination.

  Faith snickered. “Good heavens, what is the rush?” She set Morgan down on the blue satin coverlet.

  “Heaven will be good, not that you gonna see much of it.” Molly tossed a green silk gown, stiff petticoats, and a bodice onto the bed beside Faith. “And the rush is that handsome captain be down below awaitin’ you.”

  “Mr. Waite? Why ever would he be here?” Faith jumped to the floor and tore off her nightdress, anxious to find out what the man wanted and to be rid of him as soon as possible before he ingratiated himself with her family.

  Molly strode to the door, shaking her head. “Well, if I’d known that would get you up, I’d a said so in the first place.”

  After quickly donning her gown, Faith flew down the stairs, but then she halted at the bottom to thread her fingers through her hair and pat her eyes, hoping the puffiness of sleep had subsided. She held a lock of her hair up to her nose and drew in a deep breath. Lemons. She smiled. At least the lemon oil she had sprinkled through her hair masked the scent of the sea—something she knew the captain would smell in an instant.

  Turning, she burst into the parlor, intending to make a grand entrance. But she was too late. Hope had already draped herself over poor Mr. Waite.

  Grace sat stiffly on the sofa, while Edwin stood beside the admiral’s desk, a sheaf of papers in hand.

  Plucking Hope’s arm from his, the commander turned toward Faith. His dark eyebrows rose as he straightened his blue coat and took a step toward her. The tip of his service sword clanged against the table, and he glanced down. But when he raised his gaze, his blue eyes met hers with such intensity that Faith’s heart took on a rapid beat. She chided herself. She was supposed to be getting rid of him, not allowing his good looks and commanding presence to turn her insides to mush.

  “Miss Westcott.” He bowed, and a strand of his dark hair brushed against his cheek.

  Her breath quickened. “Mr. Waite.”

  “Forgive me if I disturbed your rest.” He grinned.

  “Rest? Nay. I was reading.” Faith waved a hand through the air and gazed off to her right.

  “Our sister always sleeps half the day away,” Grace said with disdain.

  “Grace.” Hope patted her silky golden hair, pinned up in a fashionable coiffure, and stared at her sister. “You should not say such things. What will Mr. Waite think of us?”

  Mr. Waite shifted his stance, his black boots thumping on the wooden floor. “I will not keep you and your sisters long. I have come to extend your father’s farewell and to go over my obligations with Edwin.” He nodded toward the steward.

  “Farewell?” Faith huffed. “So my father has fled in the night like a coward.”

  Darting to her, Hope clutched Faith’s arm. “Can you believe Father left us without saying good-bye?” Tears glistened in her sister’s eyes, and Faith’s heart sank. It seemed her father’s true love was and always would be the navy. “I am sure he had good reason.” She offered her sister a weak smile.

  Two black bags sitting by her father’s desk caught Faith’s gaze. Surely this pirate hunter was not planning to take up residence in their home? Had he not resolutely turned her father down? “Are we to assume, Mr. Waite, that you find yourself equally lacking in fortitude—so much so that you cannot deny my father’s preposterous request?”

  Mr. Waite gritted his teeth. “I assure you, Miss Westcott, I find the arrangement as displeasing as you do. But I fear I was given no choice.”

  “Ah.” Faith raised one brow. “So he left without speaking to you as well.” She flattened her lips. It certainly sounded like the kind of conniving tactic her father might employ. He had never been able to take no for an answer.

  “He was called away suddenly.” Mr. Waite’s tone held no conviction.

  “He could not wait a few hours?” Hope sobbed and crossed her arms over her lavender brocade gown—the one that brought out the gold sparkles in her hair and the deep blue in her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if he loves us at all or simply wants to marry us off and be rid of the responsibility.” She swiped a tear from her cheek. “I wish Mother were still with us.” She hung her head, her voice tinged with sorrow. “We may not see Father for a year.”

  “Six months, in fact, miss,” Mr. Waite interjected. “At least that is the time period he indicated to Edwin.”

  Edwin nodded in agreement from his position beside their father’s desk.

  Forcing back tears from her own eyes, Faith plucked a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Hope. “Father loves us in his own way, Hope. And Grace and I are still here. We will not leave you.”

  Grace rose to join them. “Faith is right. We will never leave you. And you know Father was never good at saying farewell.” She eased a lock of Hope’s hair from her face and smiled, her green eyes beaming with warmth and love.

  Mr. Waite cleared his throat. “I have no doubt he was quite upset at having to leave so suddenly.”

  Faith cocked her head. “And all along, I was under the misunderstanding that good Christian men were not supposed to lie.”

  The captain snapped his blue gaze in her direction. “’Twas merely my opinion, miss, and therefore cannot be judged as either false or true.”

  “Then should we expect to be assaulted with your good opinions on a regular basis?” Faith retorted. Perhaps if she were rude enough to him, he would leave.

  “So as not to offend your tender sensibilities, I will attempt to keep my opinions to a minimum.” He gave her a mock bow.

  Tender. Of all the. . .

  “The truth of the matter, Mr. Waite, is that we know our father far better than you do.” Faith turned and stomped toward the bookcase, trying to mask her anger. “The Royal Navy is his life. I fear we have always come second.”

  “As Mother did as well.” Hope twisted a lock of her hair around one slender finger until it appeared hopelessly entangled.

  Grace stilled Hope’s hand and began to untwine her hair. “Human love is fraught with shortcomings. Only God’s love satisfies.”

  Faith snorted and waved off her sister’s religious platitude as she turned to face them.

  Hope eased the loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have found no satisfaction in God’s love.”

  Grace clutched her sister’s shoulders. “You should not say such a thing! And you should not speak poorly of Father either.” Releasing her, Grace took a step back, her conflicted gaze shifting between Faith and Hope. “We must honor him as God’s Word says.” Yet even as the words left her mouth, they rang hollow through the air.

  Faith flung a hand to her hip. “It is hard to honor a man who intends to do the same thing to us as he did to our sister Charity. Can you deny that, Grace?”

  Hope began to sob again.

  Grace slid onto the sofa and shook her head. “I cannot deny that what he did was wrong, even cruel. But the Bible says we must honor him anyway.” She sighed and clutched her gown, twisting it in her hands as if trying to make sense out of the pious rules she dedicated her life to following.

  “And how can I honor a man I hardly know?” Hope swallowed and lowered her gaze. “Even when he is home, he seems to find no pleasure in us—only fault.”

  “Then why are you so distraught when he leaves?” Faith wrinkled her brow.

  Hope glanced at Faith, a wounded look in her blue eyes. “Because I keep hoping that someday he’ll grow to approve of me and maybe. . . maybe even love me.”

  Faith’s heart shriveled. “Father will always be Father. But we will always have each other, and we have just as much love to give you as any father or mother.”

  “Even more,” Grace added, and Hope’s sobs slowly softened.

  Faith’s gaze landed on the captain. She had forgotten he was
still standing there. His annoyed gaze wavered over them and then shifted to the door as though he wanted to make a dash for it and never return. What a handsome vision he presented, even in his flustered state—tall, broad shouldered, commanding in his blue navy coat. A bit of stubble peppered his strong jaw as if he had been too hurried that morning to shave.

  “If you ladies would be so kind as to take a seat,” he finally said then turned toward Edwin, who stood staring out the window, no doubt bored by what he often called the Westcott sisters’ theatrical display. “Edwin, the papers, if you please.” Mr. Waite held out his hand.

  Faith eased onto the sofa where Grace had taken a seat. Hope slid next to her and squeezed her hand.

  “So am I to assume, Mr. Waite, that you intend to become our guardian—despite your earlier protest?” Faith shot him a challenging look.

  His sharp eyes locked upon hers. “It seems for the time being that I have been given no choice in the matter. However, allow me to assure you ladies”—he directed a stern gaze at each of them in turn—“you will no doubt find my methods of command no less strict than you are accustomed to.”

  Faith found her admiration for the man rising. Regardless of the difficult position imposed upon him by their father, Mr. Waite had no intention of shrugging off the responsibility as some men would have. Yet despite her regard for his integrity, it did naught to aid her plan to be rid of him. In fact, quite the opposite, especially if he intended to rule the house with an iron hand. For with their father gone so often, she and her sisters were not accustomed to discipline. And now was certainly not the time to start.

  “Mr. Waite, surely you understand this is not your ship and we are not your crew. Are we to be flogged and made to scrub the deck whenever we misbehave?”

  Hope giggled.

  “If you do not misbehave, Miss Westcott,” Mr. Waite said, perching on the edge of the admiral’s desk and taking the papers from Edwin, “you will not have to find that out. Now.” He shifted through the documents in his hand. “Your steward and I have gone over the admiral’s wishes, and we are in complete agreement on every rule.”