“What? I ate everything you cooked for me!”
Yankel barked a laugh and covered it with a cough. The old doctor shuffled toward the door.
Henrietta skewered Marcus with a glare. “One thing, Doctor? Have you a moment to examine Mr. Hardwicke’s ankle? He broke it five weeks ago, and he’s already walking on it. Would you make sure he’s healing properly? There may be swelling.”
The doctor paused. “Eh?”
Marcus shouted, hoping his protest was loud enough. “Unnecessary. If I couldn’t walk, I wouldn’t.” He shook his foot, accidentally kicking Yankel. Pain shot up his leg. He ground his teeth to contain a yelp. He was fine. Really, he was.
“Sorry,” he hissed between his teeth.
“Perhaps an occasion with my leeches shall do you good. I happen to have a colony with me. Sit down, son. This shall take but a minute.”
A memory tickled deep in the recesses of his mind. One he had buried on purpose.
Henrietta dawned a bright smile and clapped. “Oh, what a fantastic idea!”
“Better do what the doctor says,” Mouse crowed.
Leeches. Marcus pulled a face. “You knew about that?”
Henrietta’s eyes sparkled. She must have been there, wicked child that she was, when he and his brothers came out of the lake covered in leeches. Always neat and methodical, his brothers removed them with cool detachment. He, on the other hand, found one on his little pecker and screamed, running in circles until he tripped on a rock, hit his head, and blacked out. He was ten that summer, she nine.
“I’ll hold your hand,” she offered.
“No, thanks.” He took the seat by the dressing table, turning his ire on Mouse. “And you, not another word, or I tell Augie you died, and the physician performed an ancient animal sacrifice to bring you back.” Considering how Louisa felt about her quilts, he risked invoking Augie’s wrath simply by making the joke.
“With a chicken? You’d have to slaughter it first, and I hear that’s not one of your talents.”
“Hush, Mouse.” Was there no one he could trust?
The doctor placed a handful of leeches around his ankle. Marcus’s stomach twisted at the sight of their flaccid, shiny bodies wriggling about. His stomach turned over to hide.
“Give me your fan.” Marcus held out his hand. Dark clouds gathered at the edges of his vision.
“Feeling faint?” Henrietta slapped her fan into his palm, but didn’t let go. “You’ll never tease me again about needing my fan?”
Christ, she was beautiful when she was mean. “Never.”
Dr. Dewing collected the bloated leeches into his jar. “That’ll keep them happy for a week.”
“Glad I could be of service.” The swelling was less purple, not that he’d admit it. He continued to enjoy the fan’s breeze on his damp skin and the flutter of his hair until his gaze locked on Yankel’s. Though the older man appeared calm, the drumming of his thumb against his leg told another story.
Ah. He wanted privacy with his wife.
“Hen, a little help?” He folded her fan and gestured for the door.
Once they were alone in the hallway, Henrietta said, “Why do you call her Mouse? Why does she permit it?”
Marcus turned to her and let out a breathy laugh. “I thought it was a drunken take on her married name, but apparently Yankel’s called her a little mouse since the day they met.”
She wove her arm into his, leading him toward the kitchen and the sounds of laughter. “Imagine recognizing your one true love the moment your eyes meet.”
He tucked her hand against his ribs where he was sure she could feel the pounding of his heart.
~ ~ ~
Henrietta entered the library, not exactly searching for Marcus who’d disappeared after supper, but should she find him, she’d at least know where he was. Not that she was keeping track of him. He owed her nothing, even if her heart flopped over at the sight of him. Traitorous heart.
After choosing a book from the shelf at random, she settled in a chair opposite An, working on a needlepoint project.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
An shook her head. A bruise staining her cheek had turned a plum color. “Not at all.”
“I couldn’t do needlepoint right now. I can barely see straight, I’m so tired. Truthfully, on the best of days, I’m terrible at it.” She couldn’t help but stare. The book was a heavy weight in her lap. “Did Shrupp do that to you?”
An lifted her head, a small smile lighting her eyes. “I didn’t catch his name.”
“Did you—did you kill him?” If she said yes, Henrietta wasn’t sure how she’d feel.
“I didn’t get the chance.”
Henrietta shifted in her seat, studying An and wondering how a woman went about learning to fight. Even with two hands, that seemed an impossible undertaking. “Why are some men horrible?” She couldn’t say what made her ask, but she genuinely wanted to know.
An set down her needlepoint. Footsteps in the hallway interrupted whatever she was about to say.
“Not the bedtime story for you, Hetty Betty. Come with me. I’ll tuck you in.”
Henrietta’s stupid heart fluttered. “You shall not.”
“Shall too,” he countered, advancing on her. “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder like I did Mouse.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” She wasn’t so sure. If she’d learned anything, the more outlandish the idea, the more serious Marcus was.
He charged toward her, dimple flashing on his cheek. Henrietta leaped from her chair and came around the back of it. He chased her, scooping her up from behind. An laughed. Pressed against his chest, Henrietta flailed.
“Let me down!”
“Only if you come willingly.”
Henrietta bucked one last time and stopped struggling. “What’s in it for me?”
“I have a present for you.”
“Why? It’s not my birthday for another month.”
“Oh? Well, this is definitely not a birthday present. It’s a if you don’t come with me I’ll embarrass you in front of your new friends present. Ask An. I’m very embarrassing.”
“He’s scandalous. You should go.” Smiling, An picked up her embroidery.
“Fine.” Henrietta huffed. Marcus put her down, but grabbed her jaw to bring her in for a kiss. She didn’t have any protest left in her. Besides, he was a quality kisser.
“Out! Both of you,” An shouted.
Marcus chased her up to his bedroom. He closed the door, and the lock snicked into place. A loud ticking filled the room. On the table by the window sat a pretty clock in a mahogany and copper case. At the center of the clock’s face, copper sea serpents chased the fanciful minute and hour hands around Roman numerals. There was also a dial for the phases of the moon.
Henrietta ran her fingers over the top of the case. “It’s lovely.”
Marcus came beside her and turned the clock around. The open sides were covered in glass plates to protect the mechanical gears. Screwed to the back was a copper plate etched with flowers and stylistic swirls around a block of text.
“The clerk told me it says, ‘Time is the most valuable thing a man can spend,’ which I thought was a charming sentiment. If it doesn’t, I’ll point him out, and you can rap him on the knuckles for me.”
Henrietta’s chest constricted. “It’s absolutely… lovely.” Tears filled her eyes. How did he know?
“You hate it. I figured you’d prefer anything but cherubs.”
“I don’t hate it.” She fumbled for her kerchief and couldn’t find the slit in her skirt. “It’s—” She’d never told him. She was sure of it. “My father—” The tip of her nose dripped. Could she do nothing with dignity? Where was her bloody pocket?
&n
bsp; Marcus brought his billowy sleeve to her eyes and dabbed her tears, even pressing the linen to her dripping nose.
“Oh, Marcus.” She cradled his face. His beautiful face that broke her heart day after day. “I can’t accept this. It’s too—”
“Perfect,” he finished for her. “I’m not a man for words, Hen. You know this. You know me. Better than anyone. Better than them.” He gestured to the hallway and beyond. “I’m trying to tell you I love you. I’m trying to tell you I want to spend all my time with you, however much time we have. I want to be the person you count on to make you feel safe, to find your damned pocket and wipe your nose, and the one who tucks you in at night. I want you.
“I don’t want you helping Mouse. I want you as my wife, living in my house, spending my money on servants who were once women in difficult circumstances, who shall do the hard work for you because I want you ready for me when I come home. Because, Hetty Betty, I will want to make love to you every night. Some mornings, too. Do you hear me?”
Henrietta laughed through her tears. “I hear you. But what if I don’t want to stay home while you have fun?”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Then you’ll come with me. But you must still be ready for me,” he threatened with a nonthreatening grin.
“I’ve been ready for you since I was fifteen.” Henrietta draped her arms around his neck, plunging her fingers into the curlier hair at the base of his skull, enjoying the shivers shaking his frame.
“I am grateful for your patience.” Marcus leaned down and whispered against her lips, “I’m ready now.”
Epilogue
The Shipyard, Turtle Bay — May 1776
Captain Turk had the crew take a break from rehabilitating the hull of the Valiant for the rest of the day. The list of repairs seemed to increase daily. He hadn’t slept in a week, hadn’t changed his clothes either. They were stained with all manner of filth.
He swiped a soiled lace cuff over his sweating brow, eyeing the main yard forty feet above deck. His stomach preemptively dropped into the harbor, leaving behind a wash of acid at the back of his throat.
“Cap’n, where do you want it?” A deckhand only slightly filthier than himself offered the coiled length of rope worn across his torso.
“Over the yardarm.” Turk pointed, twirling a finger at the wooden beam high above them.
The deckhand ducked and made for the ratlines.
Though Turk received his letter of marque to operate as a privateer, he wasn’t certain how the generals of the Continental Army would receive news of the battle of Turtle Bay. They didn’t count the Valiant among its fledgling navy, and he preferred it that way. But he’d crossed a line, engaging with the enemy. Perhaps he should have accepted the warning shot from the Remus and awaited further instruction. His gut wouldn’t allow it.
The same gut flopping over like a scared pup at the mere thought of a swan dive.
For the two weeks since the Remus struck her colors, he expected penalties and sanctions. Maybe imprisonment. He knew there wouldn’t be sleep.
Then the box arrived.
Voices carried from the gangway. A woman’s laughter floated expansively above the others. Hardwicke embraced her, stopping the parade of friends to give her a kiss.
Turk’s chest tightened. A cool sweat broke out on his brow. Was this what dying felt like?
“Cap’n? Anything else?” The deckhand stood before him, looking scruffier than before.
Turk groped for words that dissipated in his mind like bubbles floating to the surface of the sea from the arse-end of a pair of breeches. He scrubbed his face with his hands, breathing in the fresh, calming scent of varnish.
“Cap’n?”
“No. Very good. At ease. Steady on.” He was definitely dying. He checked the swinging rope above and nearly lost his footing.
The deckhand saluted and fled. Coward.
Turk’s friends arrived, taking in the changed landscape from the last time they’d been aboard. The masts stood erect, the ratlines webbed out, rising up the shrouds. Splintered gunwales, floorboards, and the starboard corner of the companionway all gleamed with freshly varnished wood.
“Turk, my treasure. How are you?” Louisa enveloped him in a hug big enough for three of him. He was equal parts miserable and elated. There was no mathematical average to how he felt.
He huffed a sigh. “Ready. I’m ready.”
“You sure are.” Louisa looked up the mainmast, squinting into the bright sky. The tip of the mast drew circles in the clouds. Gulls cried overhead, perching along the topsail yard. An auspicious sign, as good as dolphins and sea turtles.
“What are we ready for?” Hardwicke, dressed as instructed, wore a light shirt and loose breeches. Henrietta left him to study the rigging, mumbling something about pirates, dukes, and mistaken identities. Marcus’s dog followed, her nails clacking against the new deck.
“Is it the pillories or the gallows?” One-Hand An called from the shade of the main mast.
“The ducking chair,” Augie suggested.
“They haven’t used a ducking chair in Turtle Bay since the witch trials,” Henrietta called from the top of the main hatch.
“Henrietta, please come down!” Turk took to pacing between Marcus, who finally noticed his wife’s explorations but did nothing to stop her, and Henrietta who’d taken out a notebook and pencil.
Asher ran his fingers over the smooth rail, walking toward Augie. “How does she know that?”
Henrietta stuffed her notebook into her pocket and climbed down. “It’s common lore around here if you know who to ask. Captain Turk, why have you gathered us?”
He drew a settling breath. “Thank you, Henrietta.”
His friends approached, finally noticing the black lacquered box he’d placed on an upturned hogshead. “I’ve received my answer.”
“Brandy? Excellent. Pa was asking about the next shipment.” Asher rubbed the back of his neck, likely contemplating how they would smuggle it past Caldwell’s men. The colonel set up checkpoints from Turtle Bay to Manhattan with personal orders to arrest all of them on sight.
“There is no next shipment, Ash. I’ve been docked since the battle, or have you forgotten?”
Asher coughed into his fist, but it lacked conviction.
“What’s with the fancy box, Cap?” Augie pounded Asher on the back.
Turk lifted the lid of the box, withdrawing a letter and flattening it against his chest. For the first time in days, he wished he’d worn something nicer. Not the emerald silks, but at least a clean coat.
Putting on his spectacles, Turk scanned the letter for the highlights that set his heart tripping. “Congress is offering us ‘funds to establish a new branch’ of the Sons of Liberty, coined the ‘Sons of Neptune’ in order to ‘obtain Intelligence and Supplies’ by all means necessary ‘by Sea.’ Et cetera, et cetera. It’s signed by none other than Mr. Benjamin Franklin.” He turned the letter around to show off the signature.
He was met with one titter and a whole lot of silence.
An took the letter, eyes narrowing with distrust. “All of us?”
“All,” Turk assured her, a thrum of excitement carrying through him. He hadn’t revealed specific names to Congress when he sent his report. That wouldn’t have been prudent had the British intercepted it. As such, An, Mouse, and Henrietta and Louisa, if they wanted, were as equal as their male counterparts. “Equal is as equal does.”
“Oh, no.” Asher groaned, eyeing the rope dangling from the yardarm forty feet above their heads. “Uh-uh. I was recently as sick as Ma. You wouldn’t make her—”
“Only because I won’t go up against your father,” Turk said. “You, on the other hand, don’t frighten me.”
An studied the ratline with her blunt arm shielding her eye
s. The breeze blew and fluttered the legs of her trousers. “What do I need to do?”
“It’s an old seafaring tradition. A way to bond in brotherhood, especially before a perilous journey.”
An hung on Turk’s every word, excitement shining in her eyes.
“He’s full of shit,” Marcus said. “It’s called ‘ducking at the yardarm’ and it was used as a punishment.”
Henrietta shook her head. “I read about this. It’s not done anymore. It’s too dangerous.” She looked up at the yardarm and turned an unflattering shade of gray. “Wait, are you suggesting a leap from that little wooden pole—?”
“Yardarm,” Turk offered. “It’s not so little from up there.”
“Yardarm,” she repeated, taking out her notebook. “But Marcus’s ankle is finally healed.”
“Marcus is going first if An is feeling pudding-hearted,” Marcus said with a challenging leer. Henrietta sighed, her face pinched in resignation.
An stepped forward. “Unlike you, I have nothing to prove.”
Henrietta glared daggers at both of them.
Louisa reached for Henrietta. “Let us find some blankets while they sort out who’s the biggest noddy.”
Turk fastened the rope under Hardwicke’s arms, around his middle, and between his legs. He climbed all the way up the mast, resting at the crosstrees. Crawling and grabbing ropes for leverage, he made his way onto the yard. At the end, he paused, testing the anchor of the rope with a tug.
Turk’s stomach rose to his throat just watching. He was once a religious man, and for the first time in over ten years, a prayer spilled across his lips.
Marcus leaped, letting out a whoop of excitement, somersaulting through the air, the length of the rope lashed to his body rippling in the downward drive to the water. He plunged deep. A splash came up. The tail of the rope became a carpenter’s plumb line. An eternity later, his head popped out of the waves. Marcus roared.
Turk forced himself to draw breath.
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 28
