by Regan Walker
“I have not forgotten, Tara. But you cannot dwell on the war, or the tragedy it brought the McConnells. So like my brother you are, both staunch Americans.” Her aunt picked up her dainty teacup and took a sip.
“Father is not just an American, Auntie. He is a patriot. Why else would he name his four sons after our commander in chief and men who signed the Declaration of Independence?”
“Yes, and your mother always supported him, God rest her soul. I realize your father wants you to wed an American, but I know of Englishmen with whom you might have much in common who would make worthy suitors.”
Tara felt torn in two. Her father expected her to return home to Baltimore a lady, worthy of a refined American statesman. And her aunt wanted her to wed an Englishman, likely one with a title, as she herself had married a baron. Did no one care what she wanted?
“No matter whom I would marry, I cannot help but wonder what my fate would be as a wife. You know well that sitting in drawing rooms, doing embroidery and serving up tea are not to my liking. I would feel a prisoner should I be confined to that life.”
“There is much more to being a wife than that, my dear. I shouldn’t wonder with the right man you would be quite content.” Her aunt gazed off into the distance, appearing to ponder. “Yes, the right man could make all the difference.”
“Father’s greatest hope, I am sure. Perhaps he should have given me the name he first had in mind. It might have produced a more docile child.”
“What name was that?”
“Martha, after George Washington’s wife. Think if he had.”
“Oh, my. That name doesn’t suit you at all. Though I did think Tara an unusual choice,” her aunt said thoughtfully.
“My mother apparently didn’t hold by the name Martha either, at least not for her daughter. By the time I was born, they’d agreed on Tara, the name my father brought back from his last voyage. But it’s not a name your ton would recognize.”
“Perhaps not, but I think you should give the men of London a chance to win your affections, my dear.”
“Auntie, I've danced with all those Englishmen and I haven't felt even a speck of the longing that I've read about in novels. I agree the right man could make a difference, but I want a man who appreciates me as I am, and is strong enough to confess his love for me. Not these refined English fops!”
“Not all Englishmen are fops, as you call them, Tara.”
Tara rose to resume her pacing in front of the fireplace. “I cannot imagine any of them liking an American enough to wed one, Auntie. Besides, as I said, I have no desire to marry an Englishman. In that, I agree with Father. And I don’t believe they want to marry an American.”
“Well, I dare say they like American money, and that you have. And I disagree with you when you say they do not consider you a marriage prize, though it would not please your father to know it. What I observed last night were young men hovering about you like hummingbirds around a flower, hoping for some of your sweetness, a dance or even a smile. You have only to encourage them and you’d have suitors by the dozens!”
Tara took a drink of her tea, wondering if the young men hadn’t responded to her easy manner and lighthearted banter—she was comfortable in the world of men, more so than the world of women. Raised among her father’s crew, she’d been adopted by them and accepted into their banter at an early age. She had treated the men of London no differently.
But she could never see them as suitors.
“They are dandies, every one, Auntie. Nice enough if you want a ribbon untied or a carriage door opened, but my brothers would eat them for breakfast.”
“Really, child. The way you speak. Anyone would think you’d been raised among wolves or—”
A knock sounded at the parlour door.
Upon her aunt’s “enter,” the butler moved fluidly into the room. Attired in gray trousers and a dark morning coat, the slight man with the morose expression and thinning gray hair balanced a small silver tray on his upturned hand.
“My lady,” the butler addressed her aunt, “a messenger has delivered a letter for the young miss.”
Tara set down her teacup. “A note for me? May I see it please?”
At her aunt’s nod, the butler approached Tara with a veiled look of indignation, extending the tray to her as she reached for the envelope. Higgins didn’t like Americans, owing to the fact his brother had died fighting in the Battle of New Orleans two years earlier, though he made an exception for her aunt because of her kindness to wounded British seamen and soldiers. While Tara sympathized with his loss, and had her own deep wound from the war, she would never apologize for the country she loved.
Tearing open the envelope, she acknowledged briefly the McConnell family seal, dark green wax impressed with a circle enclosing a leaping stag. Her eyes quickly scanned the note. The words caused her hand to fly to her throat as fear gripped her like a cold vise. “It’s from George. Father…is ill.”
“Oh dear. I hope it’s not serious.”
“Surely it must be, for my brother summons me home.” Staring straight ahead, Tara’s thoughts were an ocean away. Her father was ill. Perhaps even dying. She had planned to leave for home in the next month; this would have her leaving sooner still.
Looking again at the note, she read it a second time, seeing something she had missed before. She leaped to her feet. “Oh God…this was dated the first week in March. It has taken nearly two months to reach me! I must leave immediately.”
* * *
Tara gazed out the carriage window, anxious to board the ship that would see her to Baltimore. Despite her urgent need to leave London, Tara had spent several anxious days before her aunt finally declared she’d found a vessel that was acceptable.
Tara’s eyes drifted across the carriage seat to her plump maid, whose face, ordinarily flushed with health, had turned a gray pallor as the carriage bumped along toward London’s waterfront.
“Ohhh,” Rebecca groaned, “me stomach don’t feel so good, miss.”
Alarmed at what she was observing, Tara asked, “What is it, Becca? Are you unwell?”
“I woke this morning feeling poorly, miss. Must be something I ate last night. The thought of a rolling deck makes me want to lose me breakfast. I’ve always hated boats, ye know. Even this swaying carriage is making me stomach feel like it’s pinned up with the laundry and flappin’ in the wind. Ohhh…” The maid groaned again and wrapped her arms around her waist.
Tara’s concern grew. “You do look rather pale, Becca. We are almost to the dock.” Making a decision, she said, “Once we arrive, I am sending you home with the carriage. You’d best lie down for a spell.”
“But, miss, ye cannot travel alone. It would nay be right. Yer aunt took me off my other duties to make me yer chaperone.”
“Becca, I grew up on ships. And the son of my aunt’s good friend, Mrs. Powell, captains this one. It will be fine. I’ve never had a chaperone on my brothers’ ships. I expect this will be much the same.”
“Can ye not wait for another ship?” Becca gripped her stomach and slumped down onto the carriage seat, writhing in agony.
Tara extended her hand to her maid, trying to keep her from rolling on the seat with each dip in the road. She hoped she could ease the woman’s discomfort until the carriage stopped.
“No, Becca. It must be this one. The Wind Raven sails for Baltimore and Aunt Cornelia made clear it was the only ship I was to take. If I go back with you, my aunt would make me wait for another—and that could take months. My father lies ill, maybe even dying.” Though she could not dismiss the possibility, Tara shrank from the thought. She only hoped she would not be too late. “No, it must be this one and it must be today. And I’ll not hazard your health to join me on a ship that may face rough seas and storms.”
At Tara’s words, the maid squeezed her eyes shut and let out another moan.
“I worry such a voyage would not be in your best interest, Becca, nor that of the ship’s crew if
they have to take time from their duties to tend a sick woman or are worried about becoming ill themselves. So do not give my travel another thought. You must return home and recover.” Then with a smile, she added, “Perhaps you might even rest a spell before the carriage resumes the trip home. It might calm your stomach…and I wouldn’t want my aunt to know I’m without a chaperon until the ship sails.”
Chapter 2
Nick strode onto the quarterdeck as Peter Greene, his cabin boy, handed him a mug of steaming coffee, the welcome smell of the hot brew rising to his nose. Though there was a chill in the brisk morning air, the sun was shining and only a few white clouds dotted the sky. His gaze traveled past the rail toward the other ships lined up at anchor in the Thames. He was proud of his schooner and the thirty crew who sailed her. A merchant ship, yes, but so much more. And that was one reason he detested this new assignment from the Prince Regent.
A moment later, his first mate, Russell Ainsworth, approached, the morning breeze blowing his sun-bleached blond hair across his forehead. They had sailed together for many years, making Russ a friend as well as a member of his crew. Nick took a draw on his coffee, comfortable sharing his thoughts. “I have begun to think Prinny sees my family as his own private stock of spies and henchmen, one he can draw upon for his misadventures any time the fancy takes him. First my father’s privateering in the last wars, then my brother’s…activities in France, and now this.” He threw Russ a questioning glance. “How did I let him talk me into this...this Caribbean diversion?”
“He is our monarch, Nick. As I see it, you had no choice. Also, I expect he knows of our last successful run through those waters and is aware of the guns we carry from our days as a privateer. Few merchantmen have them. Even fewer are prepared to fight.”
Nick pursed his lips and nodded. “Now that I think of it, his words did seem more a command than a request. Still, I don’t relish spying on that rascal Cofresí, who’s been harassing England’s merchant ships. And he’s not the only one. It seems there are more privateers turned pirate in the last years since the war with France. Too many seamen without employment.” Frowning, he added, “It’s a sea of scoundrels we’re sailing the Raven into.”
“We’ve survived worse,” encouraged Russ. “Consider, too, along with the wine, silk and wool we carry, our stop in the West Indies will reap a harvest of sugar, spices and rum in great demand in America. The profits will be rich.”
“True, and I take heart from that possibility, but this precarious detour will make us late into Baltimore. And I’ve never intentionally dangled the Raven before pirates who would consider her a great prize.”
“I’d not choose to sail that course either,” said Russ, shaking his head.
“What I am anxious to do is deliver my cargo and claim my new schooner. Since I first heard how those sisters of the wind called Baltimore clippers allowed the American captains to slip through the English wartime blockades, I’ve been hungry for one of my own. The one I’ve ordered from the London agent will be unique—a three-masted tigress.” Nick took a drink of his coffee and stared longingly into the distance, seeing a sleek schooner with a narrow hull, a deep draft, not two but three raked masts and more sail. The vivid picture lingered in his mind. “She’ll be faster than the Raven—twelve knots and more.”
“You still want me to sail the Raven back to London?”
“Yes, yes I do.” Nick turned from his daydream as the sounds of the traffic on the Thames rose to the fore. “We can divide the crew and pick up the extra men we’ll need in Baltimore. It’s time you had your own ship, Russ. You’ve earned it.”
One of the crew approached, diverting Nick’s attention. “Cap’n, there’s a woman on the dock asking for passage to Baltimore. Are we taking passengers this trip?” He sounded doubtful.
“No, Mr. Smith,” he said to the short seaman with the pudgy face, who he well knew frowned upon women on ships. “Definitely not. Certainly not a woman. Tell her to try another ship.”
“I thought ye might say as much, Cap’n. But when I told her I expected you’d be thinking that way, she handed me this here note and insisted ye see it. She said she’d have this ship and no other.” He sneered. “Something about her aunt telling her to take only the Raven.”
Nick handed his coffee to Russ and accepted the envelope, on which was penned, in a decidedly feminine script, Captain Nicholas Powell. With a rising dread of what was coming, he hastily opened it. Inside was a note and money for passage.
“Damn.” He looked into Russ’s questioning face. “It seems the chit is the niece of a dowager baroness, Lady Danvers, who claims she’s my mother’s good friend.”
“Didn’t your mother just sail on the Claire with your father?” A puzzled look crossed his first mate’s face.
Nick could feel his scowl building. “Unfortunately, yes. Since the mater is away, I cannot even verify this friendship I am forced to observe. She is always doing favors for her friends. Likely this woman is one of them. The social onus makes it near impossible to deny the woman passage—or else I face my mother’s wrath. You know her, Russ. A French whirlwind when she’s angry, she makes the Prince Regent look like a puff of hot air.”
Russ guffawed. “I rather enjoy seeing you cowed by your mother. A formidable lady to be sure.”
Nick scowled more deeply. Few could tease him about his mother’s influence and walk away without a scar. Russ was one of them.
Shielding his eyes, Nick gazed toward the dock. “Where is the woman?”
“Just there,” Smitty said. “Standing next to her sea chest and the crates our lads have yet to load.” He pointed to a tall, slim figure clothed in a gray gown with a darker gray cloak, the hood drawn over her head.
Nick could feel his mood grow dour.
“Looks like a governess to me,” Russ chuckled. “Stands straight as a board and drab as a London fog.”
This was not the trip to be carrying passengers, much less a woman. The last thing he needed was a priggish governess whining about conditions on board or ordering his crew about. “God knows what mayhem we’ll encounter before we reach Baltimore. Now this unwanted baggage!” Shooting a glance at Russ, he said as an aside, “Prinny has tied my hands, demanding I say nothing about his assignment until we leave port. We cannot even tell her we do not sail directly to Baltimore.”
“Well, then, she’ll just have to endure the consequences of seeking passage with us,” offered his first mate.
“So she shall,” Nick said, pressing his lips tightly together. “Damned chit.”
Then thinking of another concern, he turned to Smitty, “Where is her chaperone? Has she no traveling companion?” What kind of an Englishwoman traveled without one?
“I asked her that, Cap’n. She said her maid took sick. The woman travels alone.”
Perhaps it was best. One was bad enough. Two would be impossible. Still, he’d have to keep the men from her or account to his mother. Unhappy but resigned to the added nuisance, Nick could see his arguments were at an end.
“Tell the governess we will take her; then deliver her and her trunk to first mate’s cabin and see that she stays there. Tell her she’s fortunate I cannot send her away. Peter can fix her a tray. I’ll not be having the woman wandering about my decks as we sail.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n.” The sailor tugged his forelock, and with a grimace for the unwanted job, headed down the gangplank. “I’ll tell her exactly what you said.”
Nick turned his eyes to the Thames and to the distant horizon. Russ handed him his coffee. Without thinking, he took a swallow and scowled. Cold. Tossing the dark liquid over the side, he handed the mug back to his first mate.
“Sorry, Russ, but she’ll have your cabin.”
“I’ve no problem bunking with Mr. Baker. Nate and I have shared a cabin before.” Then adding with a grin, “The thought of sailing the Raven home under my own command will help me survive the small inconvenience.”
A seaman approached, sm
iling. “Cargo’s loaded, Cap’n. And the tide be with us.”
“Then cast off the moorings and make ready to sail,” said Nick with a satisfied feeling. This was his favorite time on a voyage: pulling away from the dock with only blue water and sky before him.
Russ shouted the orders and Nick’s spirits took wing as he shoved all thoughts of the governess aside and allowed his heart to respond to the call of the open sea.
Chapter 3
Tara paced within the confines of her small cabin, furious at being treated like some unwanted cargo. The short crewmember with brown hair, who had introduced himself as Mr. Smith and deposited her and her trunk in the small cabin with an ungracious huff, had been most direct in conveying the captain’s views. She was not wanted.
Tara could still see the dark figure of the captain, clothed in black breeches and boots, his white shirt a beacon drawing her attention as he glared at her from the quarterdeck. His resentment at having to take her as a passenger was patently clear, no matter her aunt’s letter of introduction. He might have no choice given the note, but then neither did she. Perhaps he was loath to take on a “missish English debutante,” but she was no delicate flower. And she was not English. Far from it, thank God.
Still considering her next move, Tara was distracted when a familiar movement of the ship told her they were underway.
The crossing to Baltimore could take more than a month. She must have something to do with all that time. Surely he could not deny her an active role if she proved herself. She wondered if it would make any difference to the insolent captain. She smiled as an idea came to her. The sea was her playfield and she intended to have some fun.
