by Louisa Trent
Josh narrowed his sights on the ruin that was his friend, taking in the rheumy, bloodshot eyes, the ale-soft paunch, the gouty bare feet, and felt his former pity change to disgust. That Ben had squandered his life on the forgetfulness of liquor he could forgive, but what he had allowed to happen to Harry--this Josh could not forgive. On many separate occasions, and on each and every time Josh had shipped out, he had left money with his friend to care for his younger sister, yet Ben had spent that money on himself. Such selfishness was indefensible.
Josh was about to tell Ben so, when Harry returned, a satchel that had seen better days under an arm, each hand occupied with a nephew. "Off to bed with you now, you young ruffians," she said, knee to floor, giving the lads an affectionate hug.
"When will you come back?" the older of the two asked.
Making up his mind, Joshua spoke up before Harry had chance to reply. "Your Aunt Harriet will not be coming back."
"Oh, yes, I will." Anger flared in his new acquisition's eyes.
"You will not."
Harry straightened. "Then our arrangement is off, sir."
Josh retained his patience, though his aroused state strained forbearance to the limit. "The children will come to my house. I am putting in a butterfly garden, and I will need expert advice."
"My brother and me know everything there is to know about butterflies, sir!"
"Of course you do, lad. Which is why I need your help."
The boy looked to his aunt. "When might we visit, Aunty Harry?"
Aunty Harry's expression softened. "You heard Captain Kane; the invitation is for my day off. Now off to bed with you dicken-raisers!"
When the two had scampered away, Harry returned her attention to him, where it rightly belonged, considering the investment he had made in her.
"Thank you, sir," she said, prettily.
"Not to mention it." Josh motioned to the bag, the meager bulge in its leather sides telling him the satchel didn't hold much. "Is this all of your belongings?" he asked incredulously, picking it up.
At her nod, he said. "Then we will be off."
Ben's inebriated snores ushered them to the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When they arrived back at the sea captain's mansion, an old sea dog awaited them on the front walk.
"What can I do for you, Kouadjo?" The sea captain inquired of the wizened, dark-skinned man.
"Emergency down at the docks, Cap'n. The oil barrels, it is. When I sluiced them out, they sprung leaks like sieves, each hole so big an octopus might squeeze through. All look to be defective. Best come quick," the messenger imparted. "The Suzanne shoves off on high tide."
"Damn and blast that cooperage!"
"Aye, aye, Cap'n. He be a rotten scoundrel, is that one," the sea dog agreed.
"Very well, Kouadjo. I will be along shortly."
The seaman dipped his head, and scurried off.
"Kouadjo," she said thoughtfully, when they were once again alone at the gate to the mansion. "What an interesting name. African, is it not?"
"Kouadjo is merely the name I call him," he explained quickly. "A nickname, as it were. To all others, he is known as James Roberts. He is not a runaway, but a freeman born."
Of all the heinous deeds the sea captain suspected her of, the implication behind that swift explanation was by far the worst. Since the enactment of Fugitive Slave Law of 1850, it was illegal to aid and abet runaway slaves. Did Captain Kane really believe she would turn him in, if he should have a runaway on his payroll? When had he become so wary, so cynical?
Her father had been an outspoken abolitionist, and he'd not been alone; there were a number of similarly inclined Quakers in New Bedford, all looking to see the end of slavery. This was why when Frederick Douglass escaped enslavement, he came first to New Bedford, to work the docks, to blend with free people of color ... and fellow runaways ... before moving on to become a great writer, politician, orator and abolitionist. Though Mr. Douglass was now famous, respected and admired, it was still dangerous to help people escape the chains of slavery. Harry had always believed perhaps her father was close to Josh, closer than he was to his own son, because they shared an abhorrence of slavery. She knew Josh's fearless high-mindedness had always drawn her to him. Where were those fine principles now? Where had they gone? Lost in his quest for wealth and empty social climbing?
"All of us are born free; it's injustice that enslaves people," she said coldly. "Call me a whore, a thief too, but do not dare to call me a sympathizer of slavery! I might have cast off much of my father's teachings, but not everything. I would never turn in a runaway!"
"These are perilous times, and I have much to lose if accusatory fingers are pointed in my direction. I employ only free men of African descent on my ships and in my warehouses."
And to think she had once thought Joshua Kane a man of unswayable moral convictions, of lofty principles! How mistaken she had been. He looked out for only his own skin, looked after only his own fortune, and ignored the plight of those who were not nearly as fortunate. He was in a position to help, and instead he thought only to protect his own assets.
"So much for having a social conscience," she said snidely.
"And just so you are aware of my position," Joshua said. "Now, I am sorry. But there's no help for it; I will have to go see to the barrel problem. Leaky barrels cut into my profit."
"And we cannot have that," she snipped.
"Will you be all right alone in the house? I could get Peggy to stay with you," he offered.
"I do not need a keeper, sir."
He cleared his throat. "So--do you stay? Will I find you here upon my return? Or shall I give you the money now before I take my leave of you?"
"I stay. Where else would I go tonight?"
"Ben's."
And that proved how little he understood her situation; her brother and sister-in-law were happy to see the back of her. "No," she said sadly. "Not Ben's. I am not willing to drag the children through the mud with me."
"I did mean what I said, No one need know the true terms of your residence in my home. For all intents and purposes, you are my housekeeper. I have no wish to destroy your reputation."
She laughed dismally. "That was accomplished long ago. Whore, thief, now rich gentleman's kept fancy woman--I would say if anything, my reputation is improving. Now go and see about your leaky barrels."
When still he hesitated, she waved him off. "Go."
Josh shook his head. "If I have your oath that you will retire to bed and remain there. You are dead on your feet."
"The Religious Society of Friends forbids the giving of oaths..."
The sea captain smiled. "'Because giving an oath is prejudicial to the cause of truth, and to that confidence between man and man, the maintenance of which is indispensable to our mutual well being,'" he quoted. "But as you no longer practice your faith, that tenet doesn't apply."
"I still find it difficult after all these years to..." Henry shook her head. "So silly! You have my oath. Now off with you!"
Once her pledge was given, like a small and uncertain lad, Josh climbed back into the carriage--curious he had even bothered to extract her word or give it any weight, considering his poor opinion of her.
The gilded clock on the front parlor's marble mantelpiece was striking midnight as she let herself back into the empty house. Frowning, she pondered the meaning of this new humility in Joshua Kane, a man who, in the past, had never lacked confidence. Why was he unsure of himself now? And why should she be touched that, worried over her fatigue, he had ordered her to bed, even suggesting Peggy stay with her?
She thought for a minute about that, scouting out more devious motivations for his source of worry, other than concern for her well-being.
And promptly found them.
He most likely reasoned that, secured in bed, she would not wander the house, touching his precious hoard of treasures. Captain Kane probably thought that, left to her own devices, his new whore-t
hief would abscond with the silverware. Thus Peggy was assigned to guard not her, but what Joshua treasured most. Things, not people, is what he treasured.
The truth was, she really would have liked to wander the mansion, exploring those exotic foreign treasures showcased in the lavishly appointed downstairs rooms. But not having been given leave to do so, Harry stomped up the staircase to the third floor--the servants' quarters.
As no staff was in residence, she had her pick of the attic rooms, which fortunately for her, were all furnished with single beds and washstands. Nothing grand, but clean. She had slept in far worse places. In her term as scullery maid, she had shared a narrow cot with three other servants in a tiny loft above the attic, where the ceiling was so low under the roof eaves, she couldn't stand up straight. And hot! My, in the summer she thought for sure she would suffocate in the heat. And in the winter, the top skim of water in the washbasin froze, and had to be broken in the morning to perform her ablutions.
Seeing that Captain Kane intended to treat his future servants with consideration should have cheered her immeasurably.
Alas, it did not. The change in him from idealist to cynic was just too depressing to make her feel cheery. Her parents would have been so disappointed! Her father, in particular, had treated Josh more like a son than his real son--a source of jealousy for Ben. Perhaps that was why her brother drank...
But she was too tired to think about any of that now. Her bone-crushing weariness had finally caught up with her, and yawning hugely, Harry undid her cloak, pulled back the linen, and crawled naked into bed under the covers. Stroking the love bite on her swollen nipple, she fell asleep.
* * * *
"Goddammit!" Joshua Kane raged. "All these barrels are of inferior quality. Not one will hold whale oil." He clapped The Suzanne's first mate on the shoulder. "You are a right good man, Kouadjo, with a right sharp eye. Must be from all your wildebeest scouting on the Serengeti Plain. And it's a good thing too that it rained today, eh? Otherwise, we would not have caught the problem until the ship was out on high seas and the barrels started leaking our profit all over the deck. Make no mistake, your diligence will be rewarded. On this expedition, there will be a nice increase in your take of the profits."
The small man glanced worriedly at the ship's owner. "What will you do, Cap'n?"
"There's naught much to do but delay sail. Johnson, the barrel-maker, will hear from me first thing on the morrow. For now, go home, mate. Get some sleep. We meet back here at first light."
Kouadjo scratched his bald pate. "If you say so, Cap'n."
Whenever the African's skull got itchy, Joshua took notice. The man possessed any uncanny sixth sense. "What has got you worried?"
"The white lady read much in my name. Can she be trusted?"
"She's a thief and a whore, but her father was a Quaker of high integrity. I wouldn't trusted her around a set of silverware or around a gaggle of stiff cocks, but she's no sympathizer."
"And you return to her now?"
Joshua understood his first mate's confusion. Ordinarily, he would not have waited 'till morn to resolve the problem. He would have gone to Johnson's house, dragged the cheat up out of bed by the scruff of his neck, and taken his ire out on the barrel-maker's backside. But a cheeky redhead lady slept in his new bed in his new mansion in the newly fashionable part of town, and the importance of leaky barrels dimmed in comparison to getting back to her. Profits be damned! He couldn't wait to have that hot, curvy body naked and squirming on the tick next to him.
"Aye," Josh told his mate, and leapt back into the carriage without a backward look. Kouadjo could go scratch; he had years of wholesome living to rid himself of.
The return ride seemed to take forever. As soon as the wheels came to a stop, Josh opened the carriage door, jumped down, and raced for the house, taking the stairs to his second floor bedchamber two at a time.
And for his effort, what did he get? A lusty wench in his bed, boneless and warm with sleep, willing to do anything to take the cares of the world off his shoulders, if only for a few brief hours?
Like hell. What he got was the same empty bed he always returned to, only this time, the vacant bed was a source of additional worry. She had given him her oath! Where the hell had she gone?
After lighting a lamp, he went looking.
He should have expected as much. The scamp had never caused him anything less than grief. Why had he taken the lapsed Quaker at her oath?
As befitted a man of his significant wealth and prominent social position, the mansion reflected every convenience and luxury. Architect-designed, labored over by a small army of skilled artisans, the house was built on a grand scale. In short, to proclaim his success, to impress upon the good people of New Bedford he had come a long way from his humble origins as the fatherless, slightly-too-dark son of a whore, he wanted an imposing house built.
Apart from his somewhat austere accommodations, all the rooms were fit for royalty, or so his interior designer had repeatedly assured him. And well they should be, considering the prohibitive cost of the sumptuous velvets and satins and brocades and lace that adorned the walls and windows and beds and furniture, all imported from Europe and Asia. High crown-molded ceilings, gleaming floors, tall windows--some with decorative stained glass--all shouted opulence and good taste.
Now that he was searching out Harry, he wished there were not quite so many damn grandiose rooms to check.
She hadn't fallen asleep in any of the numerous and thickly cushioned chairs downstairs, perhaps while gazing in admiration upon any of the three carved marble fireplaces, the stone and artisan both imported from Italy. Neither did she slumber in any of the six upstairs bedchambers on the second floor.
Harry hadn't appreciated any of the first or second floor rooms enough to stay put in any one of them.
This left the third floor.
Mumbling a foul spate of salty curse words under his breath, guaranteed to make even the most drunken of sailors blush, he ran the steps.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Harry, asleep on the upper level of the mansion in a closet of a bedchamber, looking for all the world like a disheveled street urchin, didn't stir a muscle, as frowning, he approached the narrow cot. He had wanted her in his fine bed, dammit! She'd had her pick of any of the other beds too, but which one did she claim? The plainest, thinnest tick in the mansion, a cot he wouldn't let a dog sleep on, a room he had decided he would use for storage; which explained the lumpy mattress and cast off furnishings.
So much for impressing her with his fine taste, he thought, setting the oil lamp he carried on the modest bed stand.
Leaning over Harry as she slumbered on, he drew a careful finger down the smooth slenderness of an arm thrown out above the cover, his fingers lightly tickling the creamy-white skin from bare shoulder to bare elbow, and back again.
She didn't so much as twitch.
All tuckered out, he decided, straightening to undress.
Naked, he furrowed into the lumpy tick beside her, the space no wider than a ship's berth,
Ah, yes. He had come a long way only to wind up in a second-hand bed in the attic. The irony of the present situation did not escape Josh as his bare arse stuck out over the edge of the narrow bed frame. This wasn't much of an improvement over the circumstances of that first time they had lain naked together. At least Harry wasn't stinking drunk now.
"Shove over, sweetheart," he murmured.
Sleeping as deeply as she was, come morn she would not recollect he had ever spoken the endearment. But he needed to say it. This might very well be his only opportunity for honesty. And so he needed to hear the word, for it had always been the truth: Harry had always been, and continued to be, his sweetheart, though it was too late now to acknowledge that pathetic state of affairs.
Harry was a whore, just like his mother had been a whore. There was no room in his future for a woman of easy virtue, for a woman who could be purchased as easily as he had purchased Harry. Th
ere was his reputation to consider. For seven years, his conduct had been impeccable. He had taken no mistress, had made no whorehouse visits, living only to grow his wealth and improve his social status. He shouldn't take a whore to his bed now either, not when he had worked hard at distancing himself from his checkered origins. But he was a man, and men have needs. Because he was also wealthy, society would forgive a small dalliance and look the other way--so long as he didn't rub anyone's face in his male weakness. Discretion was the order. Passing Harry off as his housekeeper would work out very well. So why foul everything up by bringing her downstairs to his master bedchamber, to the room meant for a wife, the mother of his children, for the sake of a brief interlude?
Because he deserved a bit of decadence in his austere existence. Because he had decided not to wed, so what harm would having her there do?
Despite the expectations of all those marriage-minded society mamas scouting the market for an eligible gentleman, despite their apparent willingness to overlook his dark skin tones for the sake of his fat purse, no lady-wife would ever share those fine bedcovers with him. He was a gentleman of indeterminate background, and he would not pass on a problematic legacy to any progeny of his. A man should know where he originates! All he had was a trove of questions, the answers valuable only to him, and perhaps to those who would deem his bloodline unacceptable, should it flow from a continent too dark for their tastes.
Close to his mouth was an earlobe, a pale shell perfect in every way. Josh nuzzled the classic confection while filling his nostrils with her hair's perfume, and craving a scent of a different variety, the musky sweetness found between a woman's legs. Should he awaken her with a kiss there?
