Wilhelm squeezed his mother’s hand. “I will, Mother; I promise.” Yet no sooner did his hopes rise upon the wind than thoughts of Captain Waite shot them down.
“Now what ails you, Willy?”
“I fear there is another suitor who might divert Miss Westcott’s affections from me.”
“How could any woman choose another over you?”
Wilhelm had wondered the same thing himself, but after the past few encounters with Captain Waite and Miss Westcott, it seemed obvious the girl was far too innocent to understand the crafty manipulation and venomous charm of the commander.
“I daresay, then.” His mother gave a haughty snort. “She is not as wise as you make her out to be. Dismissing your affections. Upon my word, ’tis unheard of. Who is this suitor?”
“A commander in the Royal Navy, a callow, ignoble fellow.”
“A lowly commander? What do you expect from an admiral’s daughter? She is not worthy of you.” She waved her bony hand through the air. “Let her go.”
“I cannot, Mother. I must have her. I have never wanted anything so badly.”
True to form, his mother took his hand in hers. “There, there, Willy. There, there. You shall have her, then. No woman dares to shun my dear Willy.”
“What am I to do, Mother?” Having accomplished his goal, Wilhelm pushed back from her aged, decaying body. “I cannot force her affections.”
“Perhaps not, but you can rid yourself of the competition.”
Wilhelm was pleased to see that his mother’s desires ran along the same twisted lines as his own. “But how?”
“We must eliminate him by cunning. Dig up his skeletons. Everyone has something reprehensible in his past. Find his and expose it for all to see.”
She gripped his hand, her fingers like icy claws. “Ruin the man. Destroy his career.” Her eyes narrowed into the cold slits of a hawk hunting its prey. “Do whatever you have to in order to get what you want.”
Chapter 17
Running her sleeve across her moist brow, Faith stirred the thick cauldron of lye and pork fat boiling in a large kettle atop the fire. She’d had no idea making soap could be so difficult and tedious. A sweltering August wind steamed in through the open door and, joining with the heat from the fire, transformed the kitchen into a giant furnace. She felt like a Sunday goose being roasted alive. As she continued to stir the bubbling fat, the muscles in her arms burned with a searing pain that matched the growing agony in her heart over the argument she’d had with Hope earlier that day.
But now as Faith laid down the greasy ladle and patted her neck with the hem of the stained apron hanging at her waist, she found the task anything but enjoyable, and she supposed she couldn’t blame Hope for not wanting to partake of this noxious mess.
She lifted a strand of her curly hair to her nose and cringed. The stench of lard saturated her. Grabbing a ribbon from the table, she tied up her thick tresses and took a step outside for some fresh air.
Shielding her eyes from the bright sun sinking behind the oak trees that lined the fence, Faith watched Lucas brush down a horse across the way in the barn. When he glanced her way, she smiled, and he returned the gesture.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she allowed the slight breeze to cool the fiery skin of her neck and face before she returned to the kitchen.
Staring at the gurgling brew, Faith hoped she had put in the right amount of lye, or the soap would not harden correctly. From what she had learned from the ladies in town, soap making was an exact science and took years to perfect, and from the looks of things, it would indeed take her that long before she could produce one decent batch of soap. All her prior attempts had ended in a foul-smelling puddle of slop, not fit to wash the cutlery with, let alone a person. Last month she’d been forced to send Lucas on a two-day journey to Beaufort to buy soap from one of the soap makers in town so she could sell it here in Charles Towne as her own. But she could not afford to be without Lucas for that long again, not when she was so close to acquiring the fortune she needed. Oh, why had she not chosen some other craft like perfume making or quilting?
A deep chuckle sounded from the door. “So ye truly is tryin’ yer hand at soap, mistress?”
Faith flung a flustered look over her shoulder at Lucas, whose large frame shadowed the doorway. “The ever-suspicious Mr. Waite dropped his glove of challenge upon me today. I had no choice but to accept.”
“He did, did he?” Another hearty chuckle bubbled through the room like the aroma of her fatty stew.
“You find that amusing?”
“Aye, to see the”—he glanced both ways behind him—“notorious pirate captain the Red Siren covered wit’ grease and smellin’ like a rancid pig, all due to a simple comment from Mr. Waite. Aye, I do find it amusin’, the power he holds over ye.”
Faith spun around. “He holds no power over me.” She tossed the ladle onto the table. Brown sticky globs splattered across the surface. Faith wiped the sweat from the back of her neck. “Other than the noose, I suppose.” She gave Lucas a sassy look. “And it will be your neck, too, if we are caught. Perchance then you might not find it so amusing?”
The grin on Lucas’s mouth did not falter.
Faith blew out a sigh, relieving her tension. “How else do you expect me to prove to the man where my fortune comes from when it suddenly appears?”
He shrugged. “Seems to me such a man would never buy such a ludicrous tale anyway.”
Faith sank into a chair with a huff. “I fear you are correct. But I must at least make a pretense of producing some soap, whether he buys the tale or not.”
She batted at a pesky fly that must have found her new scent alluring. “But how else to convince him?”
“All he be knowin’, mistress, is that the Red Siren be a lady with red hair.” He cocked his head. “That don’t prove nothin’.”
“Good heavens, that is it.” Faith shot to her feet. “I know exactly how to divert any suspicions he may have of my even remotely being the Red Siren.”
Lucas’s brow furrowed.
Outside the window, Molly strode by the kitchen, hoisting a basket of vegetables atop her head. Following Faith’s gaze, Lucas watched her over his shoulder until she disappeared into the house.
Faith cocked her head and grinned. “No doubt, she’ll be coming here soon to cook supper.”
“I knows.”
“Why don’t you stay and talk to her, Lucas?”
“She don’t want to be talkin’ none to me, mistress.” Disappointment tugged the corners of his mouth downward.
“I would not be so sure.” Faith grabbed the ladle and shuffled back to the boiling pot.
“Oh, saints preserve us. Whatever is that smell?” Molly’s voice sliced through the steamy room, and Faith turned to see the tiny cook push past Lucas and explode into the room like a firecracker.
Faith shook her head. How could so much energy be contained in such a small package? “I am making soap, if you must know.”
“Not in my kitchen, you’re not.” Molly set her basket down on the table and threw a hand to her nose.
“Where else do you suggest?”
Lucas stood just inside the door, his gaze taking in Molly as if she were the queen of some exotic land.
Following Faith’s glance, Molly turned to the large groomsman. “What you grinnin’ at, you oversize fool?”
“I’s grinnin’ at you, Miss Molly.” Lucas crossed his arms over his chest.
Molly’s tongue went uncharacteristically still as if the heat in the room had melted it. She stared at Lucas dumbfounded, the attraction between them like a grappling hook pulling one ship to another and neither able to prevent it. “Well, stop it before I wipe that smile off yer face,” Molly shot back.
“Good day to ye, then, Miss Molly.” Lucas nodded and headed out the door.
“Good day, Mr. Corwin.”
Faith gave Molly a crafty look.
“Now don’t you be grinnin’ at me, neith
er.” Molly began unloading her vegetables onto the table. Ripe tomatoes, green beans, okra, carrots, and summer squash.
Faith’s mouth watered at the sight. She had not eaten since breakfast that morning. Resuming her stirring, she wondered why the expected froth had not appeared in her mixture. Flies began to swarm around it as if it were naught but bubbling horse manure. It certainly smelled as if it was. “My soap is nearly done boiling, Molly. Then I shall pour it into the frames and be out of your way.”
“I dunno who you trying to fool, Miss Faith, but you ain’t made a bar of soap in your life.”
“Perhaps, but there is a first time for everything.” Faith smiled, remembering the complete look of adoration on Lucas’s face when he had looked at Molly. Swinging around, Faith laid down her ladle and wiped the sweat from her brow with her apron. A first time for soap making and a first time for love. “I do not know if I should speak of this or not.”
“Then don’t.” Molly directed a stern glance her way. “I ain’t in for no gossip.”
“It isn’t gossip.” Lucas would certainly be furious, but she hated to see these two precious friends of hers lose out on something wonderful—something meant to be—due to pure stubbornness. She might as well just blurt it out. “Lucas is sweet on you.”
Silence, save for the crackle of the fire and the hum of insects, settled over the room.
Molly did not look up, but a slight quiver in her bottom lip gave her away.
“Mr. Corwin? Hogwash. I won’t be hearin’ talk like that.”
“Come now, surely you have noticed the way he looks at you.”
“He looks the same way at the horses.” Molly laughed.
Faith threw a hand to her hip. “He is handsome, strong, healthy, and a good worker, Miss Molly. He would make a fine husband.”
“Husband?” Molly flinched, and the whites of her eyes widened against the encroaching darkness. “By all that is holy, what d’you think yer doing—matchmaking? You who swears never to marry unless you’re forced to. I declare, I never thought I’d see the day.”
“I just think you two would make a good match, ’tis all.”
Molly’s expression sobered. She set down the squash and eased into a chair. “I tells you, Miss Faith. I seen a lot of pain in my life. And it all comes from caring ’bout people.”
Faith took a chair beside the cook and gave her an understanding nod. After all, hadn’t all of Faith’s pain come from things that had happened to those she loved? But it suddenly occurred to her that she really knew nothing about this woman whom she had grown to care for these past months.
“Molly, tell me about your past.” Though her voice was soft and pleading, Faith worried her words came out more as an order than a request.
Flinching, Molly straightened her back then gazed at the floor.
As a servant would beneath a harsh command.
A servant, not a slave, for the admiral paid her well for her position. But Faith considered Miss Molly more a friend than a servant. Did Molly know that? Or did the shackles of slavery bind her heart from ever giving itself freely to anyone in authority over her? “You may tell me only if you wish.” Faith laid her hand over Molly’s. “We are friends.”
Molly raised her gaze and smiled. “I was torn from my ma and pa when I was jest ten, Miss Faith.” Her smile faded. “Sold as a slave to a landowner in Barbados. A kind family. But by the time I was sixteen, the mistress o’ the house got it in her head to be jealous o’ the way her husband was lookin’ at me. So they sold me.”
“How awful.” Faith swallowed. The idea of slavery repulsed her. She could not imagine anyone finding it acceptable, let alone civilized. Yet how different was slavery from what had happened to her older sister, Charity?
“Sold me to a vicious sugarcane farmer on Jamaica, a spiteful man, miss,” Molly continued. “He did things to me I’d rather not say.”
Faith grasped both of Molly’s hands and squeezed them. “The only way I survived was by makin’ friends wit’ the other slaves. They became like family to me.” Molly raised her moist gaze to Faith. “But then one day, I watched my owner beat my dearest friend to death for stealin’ a banana from a tree. So’s I ran away. Left the only people I loved, once again.” She shuddered beneath a quiet sob. “That’s when I met up with the Franklins. They brought me here to the colonies and taught me to cook. But more important, they taught me ’bout the Lord. That’s when I gave my life to Jesus. ’Tain’t been the same since.” Her sudden grin quickly faded. “But o’ course, they both got killed in the Indian wars.”
Faith closed her eyes against the burning behind them and swallowed. How could this slight woman have endured so much agony in one life? And yet, oddly, she still clung to a faith that spoke of the goodness of God. Perhaps it was all she had left to cling to—this hope of a caring God, a hope that would surely shrivel beneath the next disaster.
“You see, Miss Faith, everyone I’ve ever loved been taken from me. I can’t stand the pain no more. The only One who will never leave me is Jesus, but I ain’t attaching meself to no one else—no man ’specially.”
Faith could understand Molly’s fear of getting close to Lucas, but she knew her first mate. He would never hurt Molly, would never betray her. Faith forced down an unseemly chuckle at how absurd, though true, her approbation was of a man who was a good groomsman but a better pirate.
“Molly, I am so sorry.” She gave the cook’s hand a squeeze. “I had no idea you had suffered so much.”
“Not yer fault, miss.” Her dark cheeks flushing, Molly withdrew her hand and stood. She stomped across the room, grabbed a knife from a counter, and began chopping the heads off carrots as if they represented her ex-owners.
Faith laid a gentle hand on her arm, stopping her. “But I beg you, do not deny yourself love and happiness out of a fear born from other people’s cruelty.”
A skeptical look crossed Molly’s face, but she said nothing.
“Should you not be trusting God?” Faith asked with all sincerity then suddenly cringed. Where had that come from? God had certainly not proven Himself trustworthy in her own life and especially not in Molly’s.
Molly laughed then, a warm, hearty chuckle that filled the room. “Well, mercy me, do you hear yerself, Miss Faith? ’Tain’t no hope for that batch of soap, but there may be hope for you, after all.”
h
Holding a lantern, Faith knelt in the kitchen by her soap crates to investigate the vile brew’s progress. It was well past midnight, and she couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was because of the unusually strained atmosphere at supper that night that stretched across the dining room like a rigid spar. With both of her sisters angry at her, Faith had done her best to ease tensions with light chatter and whimsical jests, but to no avail.
Perhaps it was her fear of the noose, brought on by the captain’s suspicion of her piracy. Or perhaps it was that she was beginning to realize, as she examined the molten slop in the crates, that she had no idea how to make soap.
“Confound it all, what is that smell?” Mr. Waite’s deep voice startled Faith. Springing up, she faced him, one hand subconsciously reaching for her cutlass, which, of course, was not there. Instead, she flung the hand to her breast.
“My apologies, Miss Westcott, I saw the light and wondered who might still be awake at this hour.” He bowed and sauntered into the room, looking ever so dashing in his blue uniform.
“’Tis twice now I have caught you wandering about in the kitchen at night.”
“I could say the same of you, Miss Westcott.” He raised his nose and took a whiff, his forehead wrinkling. “But the last time we met here, the aroma in the room was much more pleasant. Methinks I should be relieved that I missed whatever was served for supper.”
“’Tis not supper you smell, Mr. Waite, but the batch of soap I made today.” Pride lifted her voice, false as it was.
“Indeed?” He approached, the hint of a smirk curving his lips.
Stepping as
ide, she gestured toward the wooden crates filled with her greasy concoction and prayed Mr. Waite knew no more about soap than she did.
He leaned over them but quickly shrank back as if someone had punched him. “I do hope you intend to add scented oil, Miss Westcott, or I fear you’ve created the cure for overpopulation.”
“How dare you?” Faith stormed. “I have already scented them. What you smell is all part of the curing process.” She had no idea why they continued to emit such a foul odor.
His boots scuffed over the floor behind her. Warm breath heated her cheek, and she winced at her own stench. She had soaked in a hot bath for hours—Molly had insisted on providing oceans of hot fresh water in hopes of removing the smell—and scrubbed her skin and hair until they were squeaky, but for some reason, the abhorrent odor still clung to her.
But why did she care what Mr. Waite thought?
“New perfume, Miss Westcott? I believe I may not succumb so easily to your charms tonight.” He took another whiff and then withdrew slightly.
Faith spun around. “Believe me, Mr. Waite, when I tell you that I have since regretted that moment of insanity last evening when we nearly. . .we nearly. . .”
He grinned. “Then you have nothing to fear from me.”
Faith studied his eyes, those crisp ocean blue eyes that seemed to hold as many secrets as the depths of the sea.
Does he know? Is he toying with me?
He hid his feelings well behind a wall of sarcasm and wit. Her gaze drifted down to the strong lines of his jaw shadowed with a hint of evening stubble. One lock of hair hung over his left ear, and she wondered if under his facade of obedience and dutifulness there didn’t exist a streak of rebellion just like this one mutinous strand.
Her heart took on a rapid pace as he returned her stare with equal intensity. Yes, there was more to this man than he revealed. Something untamed, something dangerous lurked behind his eyes—eyes that were now fixated upon her lips. He swallowed—the long, hard swallow of a man dying of thirst.
The Red Siren Page 16
