Prosperity smothered a smile. Mrs. Cunningham had made no secret of her dismay that her husband refused to purchase what she considered a necessity. “Thank you, but I prefer to walk, and I have only one small bag.”
Mrs. Cunningham clucked her tongue. “You aren’t accustomed to sea travel. You will find walking most difficult after weeks at sea. Trust me, dear. You need a carriage. Mr. Cunningham will pay the driver.”
Prosperity could not let the Cunninghams incur an expense that she could not compensate. “Thank you for your kindness, but I insist on walking.”
“Well then, have it your way.” She looked past Prosperity and waved. “There you are. I thought you would never show.”
Mr. Cunningham strolled toward them from the direction of the gentlemen’s lounge, looking a bit rumpled and not at all pleased that his wife was hurrying toward him with a stream of instructions.
Mrs. Cunningham’s departure left Prosperity alone with her thoughts. She watched the dock workers wrap thick lines around the dock pilings. Friends, relations, and the curious crowded the length of the wharf, making the disembarkation process difficult. Stevedores and porters threaded through the crowds, but the crew had to push back the bystanders to move the gangway into place.
Prosperity looked for David. He would tower above everyone else. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of a soldier’s uniform, but then the man removed his hat to wave it at the ship, revealing black locks. Not David.
She pressed a hand to her midsection. If her nerves got into such a state at the sight of a uniform, what would happen when she finally saw David?
She forced out a shaky breath as the first passengers streamed off. She would soon find out.
David checked and rechecked the placement of every brick on the rising casemate arches. They would carry the weight of the second tier. Improper construction would bring the fort—and David’s reputation—crashing down.
“O’er there, you darkies,” the sergeant foreman shouted to two men carrying an impossibly large load of brick.
David cringed, as always, but he had learned to swallow his distaste for slavery. No small number of those under his command believed that the Negroes were inferior and needed direction—the rougher, the better. David saw instead men who sweated and toiled in the hot sun, while their wages went to masters who sipped lemonade on shaded verandas. His abolitionist father would preach against such men, but Reverend Myles Latham was in Nantucket, not Key West.
David made sure all his men rested and received adequate rations, much to the displeasure of his cohort who led an all-white contingent of laborers. In Lieutenant Ambleton’s view, paid laborers deserved more rations and rest than a slave, though he never expressed that sentiment to their commanding officer. When given the same provisions, David’s men bore up better under the heat and bouts of fever. That was proof enough for him.
“Message for you, Lieutenant,” one of his men called out.
David stepped out of the casemate and squinted against the blazing sun. He lifted a hand to his forehead and absently wondered where he’d set down his stifling hat. They really ought to use the straw hats worn by the hired men. He scanned the parade ground until he spotted Private Jameson heading his way. The slender man was better suited for a clerk position, but the army in its infinite wisdom had sent him to labor in the hot sun. Jameson largely avoided work by running messages between the garrison and the fort.
The darkly handsome private stopped before him and jerked a hand to his cap in salute. “Lieutenant Latham, sir. Mrs. Latham sent this note.” He handed over a folded square.
David still flinched at the term. His mother was Mrs. Latham, not Aileen Carlyle. Yet in the eyes of God and the law, Aileen was his wife and the bearer of his name and progeny. By now his parents must have received his letter informing them of his marriage. No doubt they were shocked. An Irish grogshop girl was not the type of daughter-in-law they had anticipated, though he had wisely not stated his new wife’s former occupation or the reason for their haste.
He sighed and dismissed Jameson. His wife sent a message at least once a day. She always needed something: money, medicine from the apothecary, foodstuffs, or simply his presence. He was tempted to ignore the note, but she was heavy with child. The other wives at the garrison had informed him that he must attend to her needs at this delicate time.
He mopped his forehead. What he needed to attend to was his work. The fortifications would never get finished if he spent all his time catering to his wife’s whims.
The short note was scrawled in a nearly illegible hand. Almost every word had been misspelled, and the improperly constructed sentences were peppered with language as raw as her speech. It took every ounce of restraint not to correct and rebuke her for speaking in a manner more commonly used by sailors and soldiers.
Once he got past the wording, today’s message was clear. She wanted milk. Fresh, not from this morning. She expected him to ply the few men in town owning a milk cow to squeeze out a pint midday.
He groaned.
It never ended with the milk. Once he arrived home, she would devise all manner of excuses to keep him there. She was bored and lonely, but she refused to spend time with the other wives. Neither would she listen to reason. To provide for her and their child, he must work. She pouted and asked why he must work so much. He suggested over and over that she make friends. She insisted no woman would befriend her. He had even tactfully hinted that she might pick up the house or dust. Naturally she pointed out that a woman in her condition should not tax herself. A proper husband would hire a housekeeper, but he could not afford a servant. The arguments went on and on.
He would rather stay at the work site than go home.
With a sigh, he crumpled the note and stomped toward the gate. On the way he tossed the note in the cook fire. Work would have to wait.
The town bustled with activity. Prosperity clutched the handle of her small bag as she walked in what she assumed was the direction of the fort. It was at least directly opposite the route the Cunninghams had taken. She did not relish Mrs. Cunningham’s presence at her reunion with David.
The streets ran every which way near the harbor and were lined with houses and shops carrying all manner of goods. Most she could find in any Nantucket shop, but a few windows displayed oddities. Huge tortoise shells, piles of sponges, and large shells with pearly pink interiors drew her eye.
Very few wagons and carriages roamed the commercial district. The bulk of people were on foot. That made her feel a bit less conspicuous, though her black mourning clothes drew more than one sympathetic glance. By and large, the women here dressed in light colors and summery fabrics with straw bonnets and parasols.
A wagon-wheel intersection brought her to a halt. Five streets spread out in all directions except the one she wanted. She sought to ask directions, but foreign tongues coursed around her like the ebb and flow of the tides. Then she spotted a lovely, hatless blonde holding one end of a large sign outside a shop. A man held the other end. They appeared to be placing it above the door. They must be local.
She hurried across the intersection, but they had not heard her approach. She cleared her throat. “Pardon, but might I ask for your assistance?”
The woman turned around with a smile and brilliant blue eyes that reminded her of David’s. She set down her end of the sign. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
The woman’s warm smile spread into a grin. “You’re from the Northeast. Boston?”
“Very close. Nantucket, but how did you know?”
“The way you said sorry.’”
“Oh. I didn’t realize I said it incorrectly.”
The woman laughed. “Not at all. Our friend Tom says it the same way, doesn’t he, dear?”
The muscular, dark-haired man at the other end of the sign nodded. “That he does. If I’m not mistaken, he’s from Nantucket also.”
“He is?” The prospect o
f another Nantucketer in Key West made Prosperity feel even more welcome.
“Fancy that,” the woman said in the same charming accent Prosperity had heard in Charleston. “You must meet someday.”
The man leaned the sign against the ladder and cleared his throat. “I believe the lady asked for our assistance. Introductions might be in order.”
“Of course, of course,” the blonde bubbled. “I’m Elizabeth O’Malley and this is my husband, Rourke. You must be new in town.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Prosperity Jones. I didn’t realize it was so obvious that I’ve never been here.”
The woman laughed. “Your eyes are wide as saucers, and you’re carrying a bag. Those are two fine clues. Are you looking for a particular inn or boardinghouse?”
“Actually, I need directions to the fort. My fiancé is an engineer with the army corps.”
“He didn’t meet your ship?” Mr. O’Malley frowned. “The army should allow a man to escort his lady.”
“Oh, no.” Prosperity hastened to correct his assumption. “That’s not it at all. You see, he didn’t know I was coming.”
Mr. O’Malley’s frown deepened, and his wife’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“It was quite sudden,” Prosperity explained. “There was no time to write ahead.” She bit her lip, unwilling to spill the details of her circumstances to complete strangers.
“It’s quite a walk to the fort,” Mr. O’Malley said. “You might want to hire a carriage.”
“No, thank you.” Prosperity looked down the long street lined with houses. In the distance, a lighthouse rose above the roofs and trees. “I prefer to walk.”
Mr. O’Malley chuckled. “Reminds me of someone I know.” The gaze he cast on his wife left no doubt of his affections.
Elizabeth O’Malley laughed and blew him a kiss.
Prosperity turned away, embarrassed to witness such public affection yet longing for the same with David. “I should be going. If you will point the way . . .”
“Forgive me.” Elizabeth joined her. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I have some experience arriving without notice. He will be . . . surprised, to say the least. I’m sure that in the end it will turn out well, but don’t be shocked if he is taken aback at first. Men, as a rule, don’t much care for surprises.”
Her husband loudly cleared his throat behind them.
Prosperity shook her head. “He loves me. He might be surprised at first, but once the shock wears off, he will be delighted to see me.” She gripped her bag a bit tighter. “Now, if you will point the way, I will leave you to your business.”
“Let’s see. From here, go toward the water on the cross street and then turn left at the end and follow it to the part of town where the colored people live. Mind you, it’s perfectly safe, but stay on the street all the same. Pass the marine hospital and go to the right. Soon you will see the fortifications.”
Prosperity tried to calculate those instructions, but they didn’t make sense. “Wouldn’t that put me in the ocean?”
Mr. O’Malley shook his head. “My wife omitted a turn or two. You’d better walk to the fort with Miss Jones, dear.”
No matter how nice Elizabeth O’Malley was, Prosperity did not want anyone with her when she first saw David. “I wouldn’t want to take you from your work. Surely I can find it by heading in that direction.”
Elizabeth untied her apron. “Nonsense. Rourke can manage the sign quite well without my assistance, and I could use the walk. But first I insist you drink a glass of limeade. A Northerner like you must be suffering from the heat, especially dressed in mourning black. My condolences on your loss.”
“My mother.” Prosperity’s throat constricted. Unlike Mrs. Cunningham, Elizabeth O’Malley spoke with genuine sympathy, not pity.
“I lost my mother also. Two years ago next month. It will get a little easier over time, but she’ll always be in your thoughts.”
Prosperity nodded. She could do little else, for tears rose despite the fact that Ma seemed a lifetime away from this hot, tropical port.
Elizabeth stepped into the building and returned with a glass of cool liquid that looked like lemonade. “Try this.”
Prosperity took a sip and coughed. “My, it’s tart!”
“I told you it needed more sugar,” Mr. O’Malley said.
Elizabeth made a face at her husband. “None for you, then.”
He shrugged. “Florie left a jug of tea inside, if you prefer.”
Prosperity shook her head and managed to down the somewhat bitter liquid. She would not refuse such kindness from a woman whom she hoped might become a friend. “Thank you very much.”
“See? Some appreciate my efforts,” Elizabeth said to her husband as she took the empty glass from Prosperity. “Now, let’s go find your beau. Rourke can take care of this.” She handed the glass to her husband, who took it without protest. Prosperity couldn’t imagine any of the men she knew handling dirty dishes.
The couple set Prosperity at ease. Perhaps it was their obvious affection, perhaps their joy. Whatever it was, the nerves that had dogged her since stepping ashore now subsided.
“Your beau must be an officer then.” Elizabeth pinned a straw hat atop her head.
“A lieutenant.” Prosperity’s heart quickened. Soon she would see David. Soon the two years of waiting would be over. “Lt. David Latham.”
A cloud passed over Elizabeth’s face. She looked up to her husband, who shook his head.
Fear knifed through Prosperity’s heart. “Do you know him? Is something wrong? Has there been an accident at the fort?” How cruel to come this far and learn he’d perished.
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Elizabeth smiled, but it looked forced. “I thought I’d heard that one of the officers married recently, but it must be someone else.”
Prosperity breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m sure it was.”
It had to be.
Aileen lay on a chaise longue situated on the front piazza, or veranda, of their quarters. David gritted his teeth. She hadn’t even bothered to dress. Yet again. She’d thrown a silk wrapper over her nightgown, but her ankles and feet were bare. Completely inappropriate.
Her eyelids were closed, and one hand lazily waved an expensive silk fan that he’d never seen before. Perspiration drenched tendrils of her bright red hair and dotted her pink skin. She looked every bit the strumpet that he’d heard more than one officer’s wife call her in whispered conversation.
He clenched his hands. Yes, Aileen was not educated or cultured, but she was still a child of God and deserved a chance to improve herself. He was giving her that chance, but thus far she’d shown little inclination to take advantage of that opportunity.
Her lids flickered open when he climbed the dozen steps to the main story. “Dahling,” she purred. “What girl don’t love a man who comes when he’s called?”
“You should be dressed by now.”
She waved the fan at him. “Too hot.”
“The other ladies will talk.”
“Let ’em. A rotten lot they are, all ‘have to do this’ and ‘have to say that.’ Not me, love.” She curled her bare toes, stretched her arms, and yawned. “Me eyes is only for me man.” Despite her heavy figure, she curved into a seductive pose and tapped the chaise. “Join me.”
David could not muster a glimmer of attraction for the woman he called his wife. He prayed for her, he urged her to change, but his affections were reserved for the child she carried—his child, his future.
On that baby David could lavish the love he’d once saved for Prosperity. By now she must have received his letter. He could picture her sinking to a chair, a hand to her mouth to stifle the gasp of surprise. Her hand would tremble. Tears would fill her hazel eyes until they shimmered like stones in a stream. Her delicate throat would bob as she struggled to hold back the emotions, but in the end tears would course down her cheeks.
“Why ye standin’ there like a fool?” Aileen snapped, pul
ling him from his thoughts. “Ye brung the milk, didn’t ye?”
“Forgive me.” He scurried forward and deposited the jug on the small table beside her. It was crowded with all the entertainments she required to get through the day. In addition to the silk fan, which would doubtless cost him yet another stiff bill from Greene’s Mercantile, the tabletop housed molasses candies, a half-eaten vanilla cake, an empty teacup and teapot, a deck of playing cards, and the tarot cards he thought he’d thrown into the fire.
She ignored the milk and picked up instead a container of rouge, which she dabbed on her cheeks with her fingertips. Though he’d told her many times that her natural beauty did not require enhancement, she continued to brighten her cheeks as she had when working at the bawdiest grogshop in Key West.
“You don’t need that,” he attempted again.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Men like a pretty face.” Her lips curved into a seductive smile, and her finger beckoned. “Come, love, stay with me a bit.”
David choked down the bile. She had no idea how such talk repulsed him. Instead of tempting him, it reminded him of the depth of his sin. “I need to return to work.”
Her lips drooped into a pout. “Ye just got here.”
“I have men to direct and a fort to build.”
She waved her hand. “That silly old fort can wait. They been working on it for years. What’s a few hours here or there?” The seductive grin returned as she purred out the promise of relieving his tensions in terms that made him blush.
“The b-b-baby,” he stammered. “Think of the baby.”
She slumped back on the chaise with disgust. “I wish that d—” She cut off the profanity at his stern glance. Her lip curled with distaste. “I wish it was outta me.”
He recoiled. “You can’t mean that.”
“I mean every word.” She lifted a hand to her forehead and sighed. “Ye cain’t imagine how much I suffer. The aches. The pains.”
“I’m sorry.” He felt helpless, as always. The women in his family and the wives of other officers never complained while with child. “What can I do?”
Honor Redeemed Page 3
