Love Inspired Historical November 2014

by Danica Favorite

  He straightened and rubbed his chin, the shadow of the sail turning his eyes to jade. “I saw quite a few places coming west. Some were grand, some beautiful, some bursting at the seams with opportunity. But truth be told, there was something about Washington Territory. It’s the most magnificent country you’re ever likely to see.”

  A few of the passengers perked up at that.

  “Go on,” Allie urged him. “What’s it like there?”

  “Is there good farmland?” a man called out.

  “Plenty of water?” another asked.

  Clay spread his hands. “Imagine a narrow plain crossed by streams, fertile, forested, the air scented with the resin of fir, fish leaping out of streams and into your nets. Behind it rises the highest mountains in the country, deer grazing their sides, the rocky tops brushing the sky, white even in the summer. And at its front stretch miles of blue-green waters where whales and porpoises play.” He smiled down at Gillian again. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find a mermaid or two.”

  Everyone was watching him now, as if afraid to blink and miss something. He was a twopenny artist on the streets of Boston, sketching pictures of exotic places on the pavement. Yet while those men embellished their pictures to suit their audiences, she knew Clay would never lie about such matters.

  Somewhere, three months away, lay a fertile land of snowcapped mountains and deep forests. And she had a chance to make her place there.

  Catherine must have been thinking along similar lines, for she straightened from where she’d been reclining on a deck chair. “Mr. Mercer said nurses were needed, but Mrs. Howard told me you claim there’s only one hospital.”

  Clay dropped his hands and shrugged. “Doc Maynard tried starting one in a house, but he’s had trouble keeping it open. Most folks couldn’t pay for their care. You see, in Seattle, we’re what you call land rich and dollar poor.”

  Allie frowned.

  “Why?” Gillian piped up.

  As always, Clay showed no annoyance with the question, though some of the other passengers frowned as if indignant a child would interrupt. “The federal government gave each man one-hundred-sixty acres to prove up, Captain Howard,” he said. “Three hundred and twenty if he had a wife. That means all they had to do was live on the land for five years, build a house and make some improvements, and the land was theirs free and clear.”

  “Riches aplenty, I’m thinking,” Maddie murmured.

  “Then why did you say people were poor?” Allie challenged.

  Clay turned his smile her way, and her gown felt too warm.

  “Because there’re few people willing to buy the land when they can grab their own free,” he explained. “The money that came west went into building houses, bringing out supplies. Anything else we pretty much barter for.”

  Catherine stared at him. “Do you mean to say you have no stores, no means of procuring goods?”

  “We have stores,” Clay assured her. “Goods brought across country, around the Horn and up from San Francisco or across the sea from the Orient. But a lot of what we need we trade for. I might swap salmon or timber for cloth, my fresh-picked blackberries for your fancy shawl.”

  Catherine clutched her shawl closer still. “That’s medieval!”

  Clay chuckled. “That’s Seattle.”

  Allie couldn’t help thinking he was painting things a bit too darkly again. “But all that will change as the city grows and open land becomes more scarce,” she said, and had the satisfaction of hearing other grumbles quieting. “As more people come to the area, you can sell parts of your land, bring additional monies into the economy.”

  Clay inclined his head. “Well said, Mrs. Howard. That’s the hope of Seattle, as well.”

  “Only right now,” Maddie put in, leaning forward as if to make sure she understood, “there’s little money left to be paying a laundress or a baker, you’re saying.”

  “Only when Yesler pays his men,” Clay agreed. “The loggers’ payroll goes a long way toward keeping money flowing. Of course, the money tends to stay close to the mill.”

  “Why?” Gillian asked.

  More people frowned, but this time Allie thought it was because they had the same question.

  Laughter lit Clay’s pale green eyes. “Because shopkeepers cater to their tastes. The fact is, we have more grogshops than grocers.”

  Allie put her hand over her daughter’s mouth before she could ask what a grogshop was, as all around them faces turned crimson.

  “I do believe you’re exaggerating, Mr. Howard,” she told Clay.

  He held up one hand. “My word of honor.”

  “So are we to live in such an uncivilized place?” Catherine protested. “We were given to understand that Seattle was settled and cultivated, requiring only our contributions to flourish.”

  Clay nodded to her in respect, but his tone was firm. “We’re an outpost of civilization, Ms. Stanway. We have the same challenges as any other frontier town—securing enough clean water and food for everyone, keeping the peace, building for the future with limited resources.”

  Allie dropped her hand from Gillian’s mouth. “Why must you always play the pessimist!”

  Clay’s face hardened. “You said you wanted to learn the truth about Seattle, Mrs. Howard. Don’t blame me if it’s not to your liking.”

  Oh! Another moment of this and she’d have to put her hand over her own mouth or risk saying something harsh. Of course she wanted the truth, and she’d thought he’d give it to them. But it was all too apparent that Clay Howard was set on shading the truth every bit as much as Asa Mercer had with his stories of blessed shores.

  She thought she understood why Mr. Mercer had been so boastful when he’d first lectured to them in Boston. He’d wanted to convince them to come. He believed in the future of Seattle. Having such a compelling vision, he’d been blinded to anything that might hinder their acceptance of his offer, even to using the funding appropriately.

  But Clay? Why was he so set against them all going to Seattle? It sounded as if he owned pieces of nearly every industry there. Wouldn’t more citizens merely mean a greater profit? Weren’t teachers and seamstresses, and yes, wives for those who could stomach the role, a good thing?

  Any way she looked at it, Clay Howard was still keeping a secret, one that could well spell their success or downfall in Seattle.

  So, what would she have to do to get him to share it with them all?

  Chapter Nine

  Clay couldn’t help being pleased by the time the Seattle School, as Gillian called it, broke up for the day. Already he could see that the other passengers were rethinking their decisions.

  If they enter the territory with a little caution, Lord, I’ll count my time in these classes well spent.

  Allegra, however, did not seem as pleased. She handed Gillian to Ms. Stanway and remained behind as the other passengers filed down the stairs to the lower parts of the ship.

  “That was not as useful as it could have been,” she informed him. The breeze tugged a strand of midnight black hair loose from the braid around her head to tickle her cheek, but those deep blue eyes were far from amused.

  Clay shrugged. “You wanted me to tell them what I know about Seattle. I did.”

  She shook her head, lips thinning. “You told them what you wanted to tell them. They need the truth, sir. They need information on which to base decisions.” She peered up at him. “You could do better.”

  He felt his cheeks heating. What, was he going to be discomposed by a Boston socialite? He’d faced down outlaws and claim jumpers alike.

  “What do you want, Allegra?” he demanded.

  “A little more discipline,” she said, raising her chin. “I’ll ask each of your students to think of a question and bring it to me after dinner tonight. Once I compile them, I can give them to you a few at a time for you to compose your lessons.”

  Clay blew out a breath. “I’ve no need to compose lessons. I’m not a schoolmarm.”


  “Which is why you need my help,” she countered. She picked up her skirts and swept down the deck.

  Clay shook his head again. What had he gotten himself into? For a moment, he was tempted to tell her the deal was off. Then he remembered Ms. O’Rourke’s hot cross buns. With a groan, he knew he was going to submit.

  He thought perhaps Allegra would let him off that night, as she, Gillian and Clay had been invited to dine with Captain Windsor and Mr. Mercer in the upper salon. All the officers were there in their brown-and-gold uniforms, smiles as bright as their brass buttons. Mercer’s black frock coat could have graced the best Boston dinner party. Every lady who had been invited must have chosen her best gown, as well, for Clay hadn’t seen so many silks and velvets since he’d left Boston. Even Allegra looked as if she’d dressed for the occasion.

  Her dark hair was pulled back in a chignon at the nape of her neck, with two red velvet bands crossing the top and back of her head as if to keep every curl in place. Her white satin gown was trimmed in red velvet, and the red velvet bodice was fitted to her form. Clay thought he wasn’t the only man having difficulty keeping his eyes off her.

  “It’s wonderful having you dine with us,” Catherine told her from where she sat on Allegra’s other side. The tall blonde was dressed in a blue satin gown. “And you, as well, Mr. Howard,” she added with a smile that stopped at Clay and did not venture down the table to where Mercer was prosing on about some matter.

  “Yes, Howard,” Reynolds put in from across the table. “About time you stayed upstairs where you belong. Though, mind you, I can’t blame you for wishing to see the sights belowdecks.”

  He laughed at his own joke, but Catherine merely eyed him.

  Allegra went one further. “You might consider joining us downstairs yourself, Mr. Reynolds. I promise you excellent company. And Mr. Cummings has promised to serenade us with his concertina, so we shall shortly have music, as well.”

  “Then you are indeed ahead of us, Mrs. Howard,” Reynolds assured her with an eye to where the baseboard of the upright piano was strapped against the far wall. Clay made a note to offer to the captain to set it on its legs the next day, when he wasn’t conscripted for Allegra’s classes.

  The company was better than the meal, he had to own, for even the captain, it seemed, dined on beef and beans. The dinner was even less appetizing after having had a taste of Ms. O’Rourke’s masterpieces that morning.

  “How exactly did your friend manage to bake when the cook can’t seem to do better than hardtack?” Clay asked Allegra after they’d finished eating and were taking a turn about the room. Gillian was sitting on one of the leather-upholstered chairs with Ms. Stanway and listening in her solemn manner as one of the officers tried to woo the pretty blonde. Neither Gillian nor Ms. Stanway looked amused.

  “The cook has the proper ingredients,” Allegra assured him. “He simply has no idea how to use them.”

  “Then by all means,” Clay said, “have pity on us all and teach the fellow.”

  Allegra shook her head, dark hair glinting in the candlelight. “He has no interest in learning. We were fortunate that he also has a sweet tooth and was persuaded to let Maddie bake from time to time. That and the fact that Captain Windsor was willing to allow us to use ship’s stores.” She slanted a glance up at Clay. “I understand she’s planning on ginger cookies tomorrow.”

  Clay’s mouth promptly began watering again.

  As if she knew she had him, Allegra began searching in her beaded reticule. Like many of her gowns, it was made of fine material with an excess of satin bows and silk fringe. He tried to picture it on the wrist of any lady in Seattle and failed.

  She lifted several pieces of paper into the candlelight from the folds of her bag. “We must talk about tomorrow’s lesson, sir,” she said.

  Clay nodded to the chief officer as they passed the spot where the man leaned against the wall. By the scowl on his face, he apparently hoped to distance himself from all the flirtatious conversations going on around him.

  “I wouldn’t think we had all that much to discuss,” Clay said to Allegra. “How hard can it be to stand up and talk about my home?”

  “Not nearly as easy as you’d suppose,” she protested. She stopped him and shook the papers in her gloved fist. “I promised everyone I would give you their questions, but some of these are ridiculous.” She plucked one from her hand. “Listen to this— ‘Are there many men of your stature in Seattle?’”

  Clay couldn’t see why she was so upset. “I’d say there are any number who have achieved a level of success by making the most of opportunities.”

  Allegra rolled her eyes. “Knowing the lady who raised the question, I doubt she was asking about your prospects.” She selected another. “What about this one—‘Do you have any brothers?’” She threw up her hands, and the pages fluttered like the wings of a startled bird. “You offer them an excellent opportunity to prepare themselves for the future and all they can do is flirt!”

  Clay hid a smile. If Allegra had raised her eyes above her papers for a moment, she’d have seen any number of her compatriots engaged in flirting at that very moment. The two engineers, Mr. Tennant and Mr. Rowland, had a lady on each arm as they promenaded, and Mr. Debro stood by the head of the table, surrounded in skirts. Even Reynolds was up against the opposite wall as he attempted to fend off a pair of determined gray-haired spinsters.

  “Perhaps they’re merely practicing their conversations,” Clay suggested to Allegra, “before they reach Seattle and start hunting for a husband.”

  “They’d do better to consider how to farm the opportunities than to hunt for husbands,” she insisted.

  Clay gazed down at her. The color in her cheeks was growing, her chest rising and falling in her velvet bodice as if the very idea of searching for a husband incensed her.

  “Oh, come now, Allegra,” he said. “You know the pattern. A young lady is expected to accumulate a certain set of accomplishments and then find a husband who appreciates them.”

  Now her eyes were narrowing as well. “If she is so very accomplished, why must she need a husband?”

  Clay frowned. “Did you take up with those women agitators after I left Boston? I can’t believe Frank’s death caused these changes in you.”

  She dropped her gaze before answering. The ship must have taken a wave sideways, for the floor rolled, and Clay caught her elbow to steady her, the silk of her evening gloves soft under his grip. She did not pull away.

  “I have read a few of their treatises,” she admitted. “And I can appreciate most of their arguments. But it was Frank’s death that made the decision for me.”

  Her fingers plucked at the velvet edging her short cap sleeve. “When you left Boston, our parents expected me to marry him, so I did. Everyone expected us to take the house next door to your parents, so we did. When Frank died, everyone expected me to move in with your mother, wear black, stay indoors and shrivel away for a time before marrying again. All my life I’ve done what people expected of me. Perhaps I decided to do the unexpected for once.”

  It could not have been that simple. He’d known her to send a swain off for a cup of punch or her shawl on a whim, but to leave Boston? That had to have taken foresight and planning.

  “You said you paid Mercer all you had for your tickets,” Clay said. “How could that be? Frank left you well off.”

  Her smile was sad. “So everyone assumed, but everything except a small household allowance was put in trust for Gillian. She’ll have all she needs once she reaches her majority.” Her look turned fierce. “She can marry who she pleases. Or not marry at all. She can be her own person.”

  The ship rolled again, and the few dishes left on the table chimed against each other as they slid. Allegra swayed, and Clay put an arm about her waist to keep her from falling. Her gaze met his, and the surprise melted into something more. He felt himself slipping into the depth of her eyes as he leaned closer.

  “Isn’t it a fine
evening, Mrs. Howard?”

  Clay jerked away from Allegra to find Asa Mercer standing beside them, smiling pleasantly. What, had Clay been about to kiss Allegra, his brother’s widow, in front of half the ship? What was he thinking?

  *

  Allie saw the color flame into Clay’s face before she attempted to focus on their leader. She found it difficult to even respond to Mr. Mercer’s question. For a moment there, time had turned back. She’d been a debutante again, and Clay Howard was bending closer, as if he meant to kiss her. The planes of his rugged face had softened, his golden lashes drifting closed as his lips neared hers. And her heartbeat had sped just as it had all those years ago.

  Why did these memories persist? She wasn’t that person anymore. Wasn’t there a Bible verse about how anyone who set his hand to the plow and looked back was good for nothing? She’d set her face toward Seattle. She shouldn’t be looking toward Boston, for any reason.

  “Yes, Mr. Mercer,” she managed to say, pasting a smile on her face. “It is a lovely evening. Thank you and Captain Windsor for inviting me and Gillian to dine.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said, tugging down on his waistcoat. “I am a man who can admit mistakes. And clearly a lady of your refinement deserves to be among her own kind.”

  She could not have understood him. “I assure you, sir, I am well pleased with my accommodations belowdecks.” She glanced at Clay. “I don’t have to worry about seawater trickling under my door.”

  Clay’s color had returned to normal, and now he smiled as if he too remembered the day he had been seasick. Mercer, however, waved a hand.

  “A rumor only, my dear lady. I can assure you the first-class accommodations are superior in every regard, and a much better place for you and your charming daughter.”

  Allie glanced across the salon to where Gillian was playing pat-a-cake with Catherine. She hoped her daughter’s frown marked her concentration this time.

  “Gillian has a routine now and is comfortable in our stateroom,” she told Mercer, returning her gaze to his. “I would prefer not to change things.”