Night Storm

by Catherine Coulter

  Because he was young, because he hadn’t really looked into the future at all and decided what it was he wanted to do with his life, he proposed to her, was immediately accepted—he hadn’t expected any other reply, for he was quite a good catch—and married her. He took her to Carrick Grange and kept her in his bedchamber for several weeks, giving her pleasure, and teaching her how to pleasure him as well.

  Then he’d inherited the ships from his American uncle—Mr. Rupert Nevil of Boston. He’d packed up himself and Nesta and off they’d gone. She’d never complained, never argued with him, and had always sweetly given herself to him in bed.

  Nesta had been a good sort and he had been very fond of her. When she’d died bearing Hallie, he’d felt so much guilt he’d nearly choked on it, guilt and pain that her child would never know its mother.

  Alec shook his head. He didn’t much like thinking about old memories. One couldn’t ever change the past, and he couldn’t seem to make himself change his own thoughts about the past. It was always a futile exercise.

  What to do about Genny Paxton? Why didn’t she want to marry? He couldn’t understand such cynicism. After all, Nesta had never wanted anything more than to be his wife, to follow wherever he led her, to be and to do whatever he wished.

  Genny Paxton was too independent and too cocksure. He didn’t like her or her attitude. At all.

  Alec grunted a greeting to Graf Pruitt, his ship’s physician. Dour Graf, as Alec thought of him, was remarkably humorless, as lean as a piece of dried beef, and possessed of a full head of curly gray hair. He was Mrs. Swindel’s romantic interest, and Alec wondered when the two of them would finally visit the vicar.

  “Filthy night,” said Graf.

  “At least it’s not raining. What do you think of Baltimore, Graf?”

  “Filthy city.”

  “What does Mrs. Swindel think of Baltimore?”

  “Eleanor wants to stay here, brainless woman.”

  “I’m sure there are lots of sick people here as well as on board the Night Dancer and in England.”

  “Who cares about Americans? If the whole lot of them rotted, it would suit me just fine. Don’t you remember what they did to us just five years ago? Good God, five years ago last month—September thirteenth, I believe it was.”

  Alec laughed, not bothering to respond to Graf’s typical British outrage at losing anything. He couldn’t, frankly, imagine Mrs. Swindel with Graf Pruitt. They were too much alike. He imagined that when they were together, undoubtedly criticizing everything around them, there would be a black cloud over their heads.

  Alec said finally, “I have wondered upon occasion what we would have done if we had beaten the Americans. Humiliated them for perhaps a year before they tried to beat the hell out of us again?”

  “Shot ’em all,” said Graf. “Lined ’em up and shot ’em.”

  “Well, that would undoubtedly have taken a good, long time. I’m going ashore now. You have a passable night, Graf.”

  “I heard you already were ashore.”

  Alec cocked a brow at that. Then he just shook his head. Graf Pruitt was an excellent doctor. As for his being a reasonable man in other areas, well, one couldn’t expect everything. Alec said nothing, and left the ship.

  He went back to Madam Lorraine’s, selected a young girl endowed with very green eyes—not quite the same brilliant green as Genny Paxton’s—and thick, shining dark brown hair—not quite the rich sable of Genny Paxton’s—and took her upstairs. Her name was Oleah and she had such a thick Southern drawl that he could scarcely understand her, not that it mattered, really. She was from Virginia, she told him, Mooresville, Virginia. She used her mouth to devastating effect, enjoying herself when he groaned. Her body was white and soft, and when he came into her in one powerful thrust, she lifted her hips and cried out. Alec didn’t leave her until it was near to dawn the following morning. Oleah was deeply asleep and richer for her efforts, and Alec was sated. A reasonable trade.

  He snorted at himself. How long would he feel sated? Three days? A week, perhaps; then it would be just as bad as before.

  What to do about Genny Paxton?

  The following day, Alec moved himself, his daughter, and Mrs. Swindel into the Fountain Inn on German Street. It was of prewar vintage, built back in 1773 around an open court and shaded with now naked-branched beech and poplar trees on which the rooms looked out. It was managed by a John Barney, who disliked Englishmen heartily but adored children more. Hallie kept him polite to Alec and Mrs. Swindel. Pippin hadn’t been at all happy about the move until Alec swore to his cabin boy that he would send him all his soiled clothing so he could look after it.

  Eleanor Swindel, true to form, found the armoires in her and Hallie’s rooms to be much too narrow and they smelled. Alec, picturing dead rats, rushed into his daughter’s bedchamber. Yes, smelled, Mrs. Swindel assured him. Smelled of nutmeg, of all the ridiculous things. Like a silly pie—their clothing would smell like food. Hallie giggled and Alec, looking pained, quickly took his leave. He walked to Chatham Street, to Mr. Daniel Raymond’s office. There were no homes at present that would be suitable, according to Mr. Raymond, but he’d heard that following the death of General Henry, known to the Baltimoreans as Light-Horse Harry, some months previous, his home might be available shortly, for there was only his widow left. Mr. Raymond would determine if this were indeed true. He also gave Alec his advice on the Paxton shipyard, in great and boring detail.

  “As you know, my lord, since the end of the, er, war with you, er, England, our shipbuilders have been depressed. Too many ships around, privateering down, no other nation’s ships to plunder and sink, if you will. It will increase again, you may be certain. Some of our shipbuilders are going to Cuba, for example, to build ships for the slave trade, that way avoiding all sorts of, er, interference from the miserable federal men. I—are you interested in the slave trade, my lord?”

  After being assured that he wasn’t, Mr. Raymond continued on about the price he considered fair for outright purchase, possible terms, and other kinds of partnerships to consider.

  When Mr. Raymond finished his soliloquy about the Paxtons, shipyards in general, and specific ways to evade existing laws, he turned immediately to what was undoubtedly his favorite topic. Mr. Raymond was a fussy man of middle years who was fastidiously neat and collected pens from all over the world. He actually turned pink with pleasure when he lifted one to show to Alec. “This one, my lord,” he said to a startled Baron Sherard, “is from France. It’s a turkey feather but you’d never know it, what with the colors so very unusual. And see here, this newfangled gold nib. Lovely, isn’t it? Such a find for me.”

  Alec agreed that the pen was a marvel. He wanted to ask if the thing worked, but held his tongue, then directed Mr. Raymond back to the Paxtons, to Mr. James Paxton in particular.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. James Paxton. He’s a fine man, an excellent head for business, and it’s a pity about his health. His doctor isn’t too optimistic about him, I understand. As for the shipyard, there is another small clipper near completion, I understand, and it’s imperative that a buyer be found quickly.”

  “Are you aware, Mr. Raymond, that it is Miss Paxton who is directing all the work at the shipyard? That she’s giving all the orders to the men?”

  Mr. Raymond looked at him as if he’d suddenly started spouting Sumerian. Then he grinned and waved his gold-nibbed pen at Alec. “Oh, no, my lord. Don’t jest like that. If it got out, why, no man would even consider—even if shipbuilding weren’t depressed, why—”

  “It would appear that it has already gotten out. If not, then why hasn’t there already been a buyer for the clipper? Depression or no depression, the vessel is exquisitely made, only the finest live oak for her frame, copper-fastened throughout, and her bottom is sheathed with imported red copper. The interior workmanship is also equally remarkable—Spanish mahogany, you know—”

  “Yes, it must have gotten out,” Mr. Raymond interrupted, too pert
urbed by this news to remember his manners. “What you say, my lord, I can’t believe it, not really. A woman, directing the work at a shipyard? Surely you must not be correct about that. Mr. James Paxton wouldn’t show such a lack of judgment as to allow a young female—”

  Alec listened to Mr. Raymond carry on. He was thinking about his conversation with James Paxton of the previous evening. He hadn’t agreed that men would ostracize Genny just because she was working in what was considered a male preserve. He’d been wrong, dead wrong.

  “—damn, the girl should get herself married and pregnant! It’s altogether absurd that she should—”

  She’d crossed into that other sphere. It wasn’t fair; at least Genny didn’t think so. Alec wasn’t certain what he believed, but he knew now that he would do something. He would buy the shipyard and make Genny a silent partner, perhaps. She would have to understand that businessmen couldn’t be allowed to connect her to the building of ships. Perhaps it wasn’t fair, but it was the way of the world.

  “—well, I don’t know what to advise, my lord. Surely James Paxton can’t expect the men of Baltimore to condone such behavior, much less deal with a young female—”

  “I understand, Mr. Raymond,” Alec said abruptly, cutting off the lawyer, who was now firmly astride his hobbyhorse. He rose. “I shall be finalizing some sort of agreement with Mr. Paxton soon now. I will need your services again at that time.” Alec shook Mr. Raymond’s hand and left. “For God’s sake,” he said to himself as he walked down Chatham Street, “a turkey feather and a gold nib.”

  He immediately made his way to the Paxton house. Like Genny, he walked from Chatham Street to the Paxton house on Charles Street. He paused for a moment in front of the house, remarking to himself that he liked the Georgian architecture which dominated the buildings in Baltimore. The red brick had mellowed with age, but the white-columned portico was, he guessed, painted once every few years. There were green shuttered windows and wings. The entire two-story mansion was shaded by a grove of beeches and tulip poplars. It was a nice home, a comfortable home, with a lovely sloping front yard and a white fence surrounding it.

  Moses greeted him and took him upstairs to see Mr. Paxton.

  “Miss Paxton is at the shipyard, Moses?”

  “Yes, suh. Always leaves early, she does. Lannie frets because Miss Genny never has time to eat her breakfast. Ah, here we are, suh.”

  The master bedroom was large, nearly a perfect square, with two sets of bay windows in the outside wall. It was furnished with old-fashioned high-backed chairs, a venerable walnut canopied bed set on a dais, and a thick Axminster circular carpet in the middle of the room. James Paxton was seated in an old-fashioned easy chair of polished mahogany, its arms and back padded with a singularly beautiful pale blue brocade, its feet eagle claws.

  “My lord, come in, come in. I must say that I expected you, but not this early. Moses, bring tea for his lordship, and some of Lannie’s sweet crumpets.”

  Alec took a stiff-backed armchair and pulled it closer to Mr. Paxton. “I’ve come about the shipyard,” he said without preamble. “I must tell you that I came purposefully when Genny wouldn’t be here. I won’t dissemble with you, sir. You’ll be quite ruined if Genny continues directing the activities there. You were right, sir. The men of this city will never allow themselves to purchase a clipper schooner, no matter how excellently made it is, from a yard run by a young female, as Mr. Raymond kept referring to Genny.”

  “I know that,” said James Paxton, studying his newly filed fingernails. “The problem is what to do about it.” He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his head against the chairback.

  “I’ll buy the shipyard outright. For sixty thousand American dollars.”

  James Paxton didn’t move, nor did he show any change of expression. He said very quietly, “That would break Genny’s heart. She’s a hard worker, a more dedicated worker than her brother, Vincent, ever was. She’s got a brain, that girl; she understands shipbuilding and she sails well. Not with the expertise of the privateer captains during the war, but still, she captains well. No, it would break her heart. I couldn’t do that to her.”

  “Nonetheless, if she continues directing the work—heart intact—both of you will lose everything. She must be made to see reason.”

  “And reason is a man running things.” James Paxton sighed deeply. “Damned body—I was as healthy a specimen as you’d ever expect from a man of fifty-five years, Alec, always on the go, always ready to take on anything and anyone. Then one day I had this awful pain in my chest, and my left arm was quite, quite numb—well, I don’t mean to moan and groan. Death and dying are just as much a part of life as birth is. But to hurt Genny—what to do?”

  “Suh, your tea and crumpets.”

  “Thank you, Moses. Just put everything on that table and pull it over. His lordship will do the pouring.”

  After Moses had again taken his leave, shooting his master one long worried look that wasn’t lost on Alec, James Paxton continued. “I’m sorry, Alec, but the only solution I can see is that everyone be made to think that a man runs the shipyard. And the only way I can accomplish that is for Genny to wed. Just lemon, please. If the man isn’t you, then it must be another.”

  “Like Porter Jenks?”

  “No, he’s not a nice man. He now runs three slavers—at last count. He refitted three frigates after the war. But clipper schooners are much faster—and speed is of the essence, particularly when a full slaver is trying to escape being captured. As I told you before, it’s a very lucrative trade. I can’t abide him, and even if I could, Genny wouldn’t have a thing to do with him.”

  “She won’t have a thing to do with me either, sir.”

  James gave the baron a slow, long look. “She would if you wanted her to.”

  Alec, impatient, and feeling strangely guilty, looked at his crumpet, then set it down and rose to pace up and down the length of the bedroom.

  “I won’t do it,” he said, spinning on his heel to face his host. “I told you I didn’t wish to remarry. I mean it. I’m not a domesticated man. I’m not a sentimental fool, I don’t like home and hearth, and—” He broke off, seeing Hallie’s smiling face as he’d kissed her good-bye that morning.

  His heart swelled whenever he looked at his daughter, even when she was tired or out of sorts and thus whined and carped and was otherwise obnoxious. She was a part of him, of Nesta; in short, she was unique, and he loved her more than anything, anyone. She’d come from home and hearth. He wouldn’t mind if he had a dozen Hallies, all of them his. “Damn,” he said, and walked to one of the wide bay windows and looked out over a pear and apple orchard.

  “There’s a ball at the Assembly Room on Friday night. That’s the big red brick building on the corner of Fayette and Holliday. I’ve gotten Genny to agree to attend. I will accompany her.”

  “She can’t attend dressed like she was yesterday.”

  “No, true enough. She told me that she’d gone to a mantuamaker, one of the best in Baltimore, she said. She’ll be appropriately gowned, I guarantee it. I ask that you attend also. After all, Alec, you need to meet the pillars of our society and this will be a good place to do it. Perhaps you can see Genny in a new light, so to speak, and she you. What do you say?”

  Alec said yes in the end. But he was cursing silently all the way back to the Fountain Inn.

  A raindrop hit his nose at the corner of Charles and Market streets. Wretched Baltimore weather.

  Friday night was bone-chilling, with bulging rain clouds in the dark skies and an intense calm that portended violent winds later. The Paxtons rode in a closed carriage to the Assembly Room. Genny hadn’t shown her father her new gown from Miss Mary Abercrombie. She herself wasn’t all that certain she liked it, but Miss Mary had assured her that it was the latest thing and that she would be much admired and yes, envied by the ladies, because she, Miss Mary, had designed and sewn it for her, lucky girl.

  So be it, Genny thought, tuggin
g a bit at the overly low bodice of the royal blue satin gown. She didn’t particularly care for the color, thinking as she’d stared in her mirror that it made her look sallow, even though Miss Mary had assured her that she looked a veritable angel. And all the frills and flounces and row after row of white velvet bows made her wince, even though Miss Mary had assured her that plain gowns denoted solid bad taste. And it was the latest style, she said over and over to herself. It was also the only gown that Miss Mary had ready, so there had really been no choice anyway.

  She was wearing an old black velvet cloak over the gown. It was shiny with too many wearings over too many years, but it was nighttime and who cared?

  Genny hadn’t been to the Assembly Room in three years. She’d ignored it, ignored any invitation from local families, until they’d ceased to come. The Assembly Room was her only opportunity to try out her new wings and rein troduce herself into Baltimore society. And let all the businessmen see that she was competent and not a silly twit. She squared her shoulders at the thought and wished yet again, as a competent person, that her breasts weren’t so very near to bursting free of the gown.

  Her father hadn’t gotten an argument from her. Genny knew that to be a success she and her father must mingle with the rich merchants of the city. They must convince everyone that a clipper schooner from the Paxton shipyard was something to be devoutly desired. She could practically hear herself explaining all about the Pegasus’s finer points, detailing the lustrous yards of Spanish mahogany—During the past year, neither she nor her father had seen anyone. Now it was time to emerge and tell the world they were alive and well and ready to conduct business. She was attending the ball because she was a good businesswoman. That was all.

  “Do you think Baron Sherard will be there tonight?”

  The carriage was dark. James Paxton allowed himself a grin, knowing his daughter couldn’t see it and take exception. She wasn’t immune to Alec Carrick, no indeed.