Prize of My Heart

by Lisa Norato

  Lorena thought it terribly tragic he didn’t call for his mama, but the closest the woman came to compassion was to shove a tiny sea captain’s doll she referred to as Captain Briggs into Lorena’s hands. She addressed her only child for the last time, saying, “That silly doll is the last you’ll ever see of that papa of yours.” The murderous look in her eyes sent a chill up Lorena’s spine.

  She shook off the unpleasant memory and grew stern. “Drew, this morning I promised I’d read aloud to you from David’s psalms. Remember I said you needed to learn David’s wisdom? Well, young man, this sulking is very unwise. Tonight of all nights. And if it does not stop, I shall be forced to put you to bed with no stories of David for a week—”

  “No!” he barked, blue eyes blazing and in a voice far too demanding. One look at Lorena’s sharp, disapproving glare, however, and he quieted. The color rose high on his cherub cheeks, his golden lashes lowering ashamedly as he murmured, “I … I’ll be good.”

  With a little assistance he wriggled to an upright position and not a moment too soon. Footsteps thudded down the hall. Lorena straightened his cravat and wiped the drool from his chin. Outside in the foyer the footsteps halted, then thumped back across the corridor toward the west parlor.

  “I don’t understand where they’ve gotten off to.” It was her father’s voice. “I thought they’d be waiting… .” Papa appeared in the doorway. His eyes twinkled at her while he addressed the gentlemen behind him. “Ah, here they are,” he said, chuckling. And to his daughter, “For a moment I thought I’d misplaced you.”

  “Sorry, Papa.” Lorena rose to greet her guests. Her white lace shawl slipped off one shoulder to ruffle in the crook of her arm. Its silky fringe dangled from her elbow as she anxiously watched her father enter. He was followed by a rusty-haired fellow, heavily freckled, with long side whiskers as coarse and wild as a boar’s-hair brush, and a chest so thick it seemed to overpower the lower half of his body.

  Then suddenly he was before her. The guest of honor strode through the door like the giant he was, looking all the more so standing inside Lorena’s dainty parlor.

  With the exception of his unkempt, shaggy hairstyle, he made quite the fashionable figure in a single-breasted jacket of midnight blue, cut straight at the waist with knee-deep tails. His waistcoat was yellow silk brocade, his trousers dove gray and tucked neatly into the same black knee boots of this morning. The points of both his starched white shirt and jacket collars were turned up to flank his lean cheeks and parallel the edges of his long side whiskers. Beneath the determined set of his jaw lay a white neckerchief tied in a meticulous bow.

  Lorena could not tear her gaze from the imposing sight of him. There was something about his confidence … something in the firm set of his jaw and the steadiness of his expression … something in his look of fierce determination that made her wonder whether he’d come with a purpose more substantial than supping with her family.

  She regretted her presumptuousness in thinking she could remain in complete control, fearful at any moment he might unleash his anger, blanching against the riot of butterflies in her stomach, only to watch his gaze pass idly by, as though she had blended into the wallpaper.

  He looked instead at Drew.

  “Gentlemen, may I introduce my daughter, Lorena, and my young son, Drew. Children, meet our guests. Captain Brogan Talvis and his chief mate, Mr. Jabez Smith.”

  At Nathaniel Huntley’s introduction, Brogan held back and left Jabez to exchange pleasantries while he indulged in the sight of his son, dressed in the attire of a little man.

  My, how the lad had grown these three years of their separation. His heart swelled with pride, so much so that he remained barely aware of Huntley’s daughter, until the boy scooted off the sofa to stand beside her and take her hand.

  Watching, a pain stabbed Brogan’s heart. He felt excluded. His gaze rose from the girl’s white satin slippers to their ribbon laces wound around her trim ankles and peeking out from beneath a shortened hemline that displayed the lace edge of a petticoat. The gown was of Empire fashion, in a shade somewhere between that of spring lilacs and a ripe plum. Its satiny fabric shimmered in the glow of the oil lamps the way a pool of water captured the reflection of a rainbow.

  When at last Brogan looked into that delicate face framed by ginger ringlets, he found her regarding him with chocolaty brown eyes he recognized at once.

  His breath caught.

  That morning he had mistaken her for a servant, but she hardly fit the part now, did she, dressed in finery with her hair bound at her crown and silver earrings dangling from her ears?

  In kerchief and soiled work clothes, she had been fetching. This evening, however, with her beauty displayed to full advantage, she stole all logical reason from his mind. He’d been certain nothing could distract him from his course of action, but suddenly all his long-awaited plans were swept away in a wave of attraction, and he was conscious of nothing save the blood pumping beneath his skin.

  Brogan deepened his shallow breathing until his heart slowed to normal, and when at last he could breathe freely again, his anger had increased tenfold.

  So the skinny scullery maid was not a maid at all. Nay, she was a rich shipbuilder’s daughter, but did that give her license to bash a man over the head and then leave him rotting in the wet marsh, while nasty midge flies flew up his nose and gnawed on his flesh? His jaw clenched, tightening the surrounding muscle and straining the cords of his neck, until Brogan felt his head might explode. Were it not for the others present, he would demand she explain what trickery she’d used to knock him out cold.

  But he refused to say a word. Aye, she owed him an explanation, but to mention the incident now would only heap embarrassment upon himself.

  And she did have pretty ankles. Thinking of them made it possible to smile in the face of his displeasure. Brogan bridged the distance between them with a few strides and bowed.

  As he reached out, she placed slender fingers in his broad, callused palm and greeted, “Welcome to our home, Captain. I hope this evening finds you faring in the best of health.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Huntley, and good evening. I am well, aye. However, I did have the earlier misfortune of having been struck with a headache. It came upon me suddenly and with great force.”

  It was an odd greeting for the lady of the house, to which she paled, her smile waning into an expression of remorse. She reclaimed the hand, but not before Brogan felt her tremble, and moved in a manner to block Drew from his view with the shimmery folds of her gown, much in the manner of a mother hen hiding her chick beneath a wing.

  “I am very sorry to hear it, sir,” she said.

  Brogan dismissed the apology with a silent harrumph and leaned toward his son. “How fare you, Drew? We would have met earlier, but I think perhaps I may have frightened you on the stairs this morning.”

  The little fellow stepped out from hiding, but instead of accepting the hand Brogan offered, he pointed a finger at his father and shouted, “I do not fear giants. George says you’re a pirate. Are you a pirate?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, running his gaze over Brogan’s person. “Where is your sword?”

  The only sound in the room was that of Jabez’s deep, husky chuckle.

  Huntley’s daughter colored with embarrassment. “Perhaps you misunderstood George,” she told the boy. “We shall ask him later, but regardless, that is not a polite question for our guest.”

  “It is a fair question,” Brogan countered. “I wish to answer the boy.”

  Brogan saw the surprise on her face, but Miss Huntley merely conceded with a graceful nod. “As you wish, Captain.”

  Turning from her, he braced a hand on each thigh as he bent to address the child. “Drew, I was granted a letter of marque signed by the president to serve as a privateer during the war. I am not a pirate. There is a difference.”

  “George says there is no difference.”

  Brogan straightened. He did
not know this George, though the name did ring familiar. As for Drew, his son had pluck for such a wee one. It filled him with pride, and in response, his smile was one of love and patience. “Oh, does he now? Well, you can assure George there is a considerable difference. Would you like to know what that difference is?”

  The lad stuck a finger in his mouth and mumbled something that, as far as Brogan could decipher, sounded like, “Uh-huh.”

  “Then I shall tell you.” Clasping his hands behind his back in a wide-legged stance as though he were once again braced for balance on the schooner Black Eagle, Brogan explained, “A pirate acts out of greed, but a privateer serves his country. Take for instance this war past. Our American navy amounted to a paltry seven frigates and fifteen armed sloops. England faced us with eight hundred war vessels, almost two hundred of which were ships of the line. Now, Drew, how would you propose to defend your country in such an instance?”

  Brogan bowed lower in anticipation of an answer, but all he received was a gaping stare.

  He answered his own question. “Utilize the talents of thousands of Americans who have been trained exclusively for the sea and send out privateers to strike England where she is likely to suffer the most—that is, her merchant fleet. In so doing we drive the price of British goods to the sky and let all England know they cannot infringe on our rights to free trade, nor impress our men.”

  Brogan frowned, concerned his zealous views may have exceeded the comprehension of a five-year-old. “Have I confused you, son?”

  “George says stealing is wrong!”

  Brogan gazed down upon his son’s sweet, scowling face, and then squatted before the lad, his own expression just as intent, yet longingly so. He ached to hold him. Instead, he searched the boy’s eyes, fully aware of the significance of what he would say next and spoke from his heart, heedless of the others in the room. “Drew, taking back what is yours by right is not stealing.”

  Jabez cleared his throat, a hoarse warning, or merely an expression of his disapproval. No matter, for Brogan doubted he had disclosed any secrets with just those few words. What he didn’t expect, however, was for Miss Huntley to draw further attention to the remark.

  “I find that a rather queer statement, Captain. I mean, I do understand the strategy of our American defense system in sponsoring privateers, but I fail to see how you can justify … stealing … by claiming …”

  Her words dwindled to a soft, inaudible whisper that dissolved on her tongue as Lorena watched Brogan Talvis straighten to his full height. He stood with his back to her father, blocking her from Papa’s view, and fired her a condescending glare that dared her to continue.

  She didn’t, of course, but her reaction was borne more of shock than fear.

  Jabez Smith intervened. “Please do not mistake the cap’n’s meaning, Miss Huntley,” he implored, his expression apologetic. “He is a zealous man and was merely defending a cause he believes in. I can assure ye, the cap’n esteems justice and honor and loyalty like the true patriot he is and meant no offense.”

  “And certainly none was taken,” her father quickly assured before Lorena could answer for herself. Then, with a lift of his thick graying brows, he added, “Children, we are talkative this evening.”

  She bristled at the rebuke. Did Papa think because she was a woman she did not understand conversation about war? Or perhaps, more accurately, he thought so highly of Captain Talvis that he believed the man to be above reproach. She clearly heard the captain claim that the goods of the British merchant fleet rightfully belonged to the United States.

  Lorena did not wish to be unsympathetic, prejudiced, or quick to judge. She knew the realities of war and its hardships. She realized there were times men found themselves in circumstances where no alternative seemed right. Still, that didn’t release him from bearing responsibility for his actions, and as a future man, Drew needed to understand he could not justify taking what was not his to take.

  But apparently, any lessons were best taught in private and not before guests, so Lorena swallowed her indignation while her father announced, “Gentlemen, I believe supper is waiting. Shall we proceed to the dining room?”

  The diners gathered around a long oval table in a room lit by candlelight, where they were greeted with the clean aroma of bayberry and a heartier one of fresh-baked cornmeal-and-molasses bread.

  A warm piece of the loaf had been wrapped inside each individual napkin and left in a tidy bundle on the porcelain dinner plates. Bayberry tapers burned on pewter holders scattered across the mantel, from a tiered silver epergne on the sideboard and in a pair of silver candlesticks on the table. Their flames cast flickering shadows on the white linen cloth, magnifying the three-tined forks to the size of pitchforks.

  After a first course of lobster stew, the entrees were brought out: stuffed and roasted pigeons, buttered and sprinkled with crackers and seasoned with sweet marjoram; boiled leg of mutton garnished with Brussels sprouts; a whole cod fish, baked inside a pastry crust and stuffed with lobster and oysters; and roast pork with spiced apple sauce and cranberry relish. There was sage-and-onion pie, boiled carrots, a salad of cabbage, and creamed potatoes.

  And mashed turnips. Drew thought they tasted like the worm he ate that afternoon. The oysters resembled it. Captain Briggs liked oysters, because they were slippery going down and didn’t need to be chewed.

  If Drew were king, he would let Captain Briggs eat at his table every night, and no giants. Giants ate like the pigs at Timmy’s farm. Like they couldn’t get enough food into their bellies.

  But what really bothered Drew was the way the giant stared. Drew didn’t like being stared at. He couldn’t understand why the giant’s eyes looked sad. It was like when Timmy had moved to Duxboro with his family. On Sunday mornings he’d stand alone in the meetinghouse courtyard, watching Drew and the other boys play, wanting to join in, but too bashful to make new friends until Drew made the first move.

  Drew knew the giant wasn’t bashful, but he wondered if he had friends. He had Mr. Smith, but maybe he scared everyone else away because he was so big.

  Drew liked Mr. Smith. He liked the way Mr. Smith raised the food to his mouth on the rounded edge of his knife blade instead of using a fork. Drew had tried to do the same, but Lorena squealed when she saw him and snatched the knife away before he’d gotten the oysters halfway to his mouth.

  Mr. Smith had a drawing of the Savior nailed on the cross pricked into his arm. “Done with India ink from China,” said he. It could never be washed off. He let Drew touch the picture, but all Drew felt were the bristly hairs on Mr. Smith’s arm.

  Mr. Smith also made exaggerated faces and told scary stories, like the one about how the giant had once killed a shark with his bare hands. Drew thought it would be fun to have a friend who could kill a shark with his hands. But then he remembered he was still angry, because it was the giant’s fault Captain Briggs could not come to the table.

  Dessert arrived. Chocolate custards, sweet and rich, served on blue-and-white Staffordshire china. They looked wonderfully patriotic, Lorena proudly observed, garnished with white swirls of fresh cream, ripe blueberries, and red raspberries.

  Just the thing to serve an American privateer captain who believed in justice and honor and loyalty.

  She had not forgotten the scornful glare Captain Talvis bestowed on her earlier. They weren’t off to an amiable start. Lorena remained hesitant to join in the dinner table conversation. Not that it interested her. Papa monopolized his guests with talk of ships and the merchant trade, trying to impress the captain with his ability to turn the sea into profit in hopes of interesting him in a new business venture.

  “Something troubling you, dear?” Mrs. Culliford leaned in to whisper as she placed a serving of custard before her. “You seem far away.”

  “I have a lot on my mind, Mrs. Culliford.”

  The dear woman gave Lorena’s shoulder a squeeze of motherly affection. “I insist on helping with arrangements for the lau
nching ceremony,” she promised before moving on to serve the captain.

  Lorena heartened at the kindness. She picked up her dessert spoon as a custard was placed before the captain and paused for his reaction.

  The process of making chocolate custards was no easy chore, but an exercise in precision and care, from boiling the milk to measuring each ingredient to simmering the custard at just the right temperature and then stirring, stirring, stirring in only one direction. But not a moment did Captain Talvis spare the artistry of her labors or savor its decadent, visual appeal. No matter that he’d been eating heartily of the savory dishes, he attacked her dessert with all the impatience of a man who hadn’t enjoyed a decent meal in weeks.

  Lorena had been observing him, stealing glances through coyly lowered lashes as she endeavored to gain a better understanding of the privateersman. She took note of frivolous things like the pleasing arrangement of his sharp, masculine features. They lent him a formidable air while at the same time she found something about Captain Talvis to be curiously sentimental.

  He seemed taken with Drew, although what interest a handsome bachelor sea captain had in a small boy, Lorena could not imagine. She might have been disturbed if not for the sincerity of his gaze. The captain’s countenance was just as Drew described. As a man beholding a gift, a rare jewel, a treasure beyond imagining … a prize.

  She found him full of contradictions. And the more time Lorena spent in his presence, the more mysterious he grew.

  “May I offer you another, Captain? I daresay, chocolate custards must be your favorite sweet,” Papa remarked, motioning for Mrs. Culliford to bring the captain another portion.

  Lorena spooned a cream-dipped raspberry into her mouth. She hadn’t believed Mr. Smith’s sea yarn for a moment, but if ever there were a man who could rip a shark from the bowels of the sea …

  The captain wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Aye, sir, I confess a fondness for all sweets. Until now, if you had asked me to choose a favorite, I would have said nothing is as satisfying to the stomach as a slice of warm gingerbread. Having spent most of my life at sea, I’ve long endured meals of sour beef and the bitter taste of weevils in a ship’s biscuit. So when I have the good fortune to enjoy home-cooked fare and delicacies like this, I can hardly remember my manners and restrain myself from gluttony. My apologies, sir”—he motioned to the second helping of chocolate Mrs. Culliford placed before him—“for now that I have tasted these, I fear all hope on that score is lost.”