Patriot's Pride

by Penelope Marzec

  The bell rang. The kiss ended.

  “I must go.” He left her.

  The book fell to the deck. With a shaky hand, she reached for it and placed it in her lap.

  Her heart thundered in her chest. She ran her tongue around her lips, which still tingled. Frances had never kissed her like that.

  * * *

  Every evening afterward, Derrick sat on a barrel in the bow, entertaining the passengers with his narration of Gulliver’s Travels. Most of the passengers, if they weren’t on duty, came for the event. A few admitted they had read the book in the past, but they claimed he made an excellent orator and they enjoyed listening to his voice.

  The hour of reading used up all of his personal time. His patients, his duties in the running of the ship, and sleeping—of which he got little—took up the rest of the day. He did not spend a single moment alone with Margaret after their delightful embrace under the stairs. He examined her wound, but Mrs. Ulery came with her, preventing anything but professional detachment.

  He told himself it was all for the best. He had taken advantage of the situation when he should have reined in his wayward desires. Getting involved with a woman was folly. Especially now when he was to study with John Hunter.

  Derrick hoped to discover a powerful antiseptic. Those who must endure surgery should never die of infection as Julian had.

  He had no time for any women.

  Still, Margaret came to all the readings, sat beside Mrs. Ulery, and listened attentively. He fought the temptation to look at her and often succeeded, but a few times, as the reading ended, he caught her gazing at him, and the hunger flared up inside. He wanted to hold her again and kiss her more thoroughly than before.

  Worse, she teased him in his dreams. Yes, Julian used to haunt him, but now Margaret tortured him.

  A week after Miss Boulton’s death, the captain came up to him after he closed the book as the light grew dim. Captain Long had listened to each of the readings, too.

  “We should reach London tomorrow,” he told him. “As soon as the sun is up, I will marry Oliver and Miss Cavendish. I’ll be expecting you to deliver a suitable toast. I’ve some Madeira in the hold I brought along for such an occasion.”

  “You knew there would be a wedding?”

  “I’ve married twenty-three couples in my time,” he boasted with a broad smile.

  Derrick wondered how many burials the captain had conducted, but didn’t ask.

  “Don’t you think this is a bad idea? Oliver had never met Miss Cavendish until she came aboard the Prosperity. He knows nothing about her other than the fact that she’s blind and her family undoubtedly has some wealth. She’s expecting the quack, Dr. Mesmer, to heal her.”

  “Love is a beautiful thing. The Bible says so. Love is patient, kind…bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things…never fails. Maybe you should put some of those words in the toast. Mighty powerful words.”

  Derrick rubbed his eyes. “Love won’t cure blindness.”

  “Love doesn’t see blindness.” The captain wandered off.

  What was that supposed to mean? Derrick ground his teeth. Now he had to think of a toast in addition to everything else. He had never toasted anyone on the occasion of their marriage. What stale, trite words fit the celebration other than congratulations and good luck, which the newlyweds would need in abundance?

  He stood and stared off into the vast sea, struggling to think of some joyous phrase, but nothing came to mind. He was well aware of Oliver’s considerable knowledge and skill as a carpenter, along with Miss Cavendish’s graceful singing voice which mesmerized everyone. However, what if she was unable to cook? Bake? Sew? Spin?

  Derrick shook his head. Would her wealthy family welcome a poor carpenter? Would Oliver waste time and money going to France in order for Dr. Mesmer to treat his new wife with his useless methods?

  Had Oliver become entranced by the woman’s singing? What happened when the spell she cast faded?

  His head tumbled with thoughts as he strode toward his cabin.

  “The captain claims we will reach London tomorrow,” Margaret called after him.

  He turned and sudden warmth crept over him. She stood alone, wearing her plain brown dress and simple shawl, but despite her inelegant attire, her face appeared radiant to him—as it always did. Simply the sight of her clouded his thinking.

  “I-I wanted to say goodbye,” she stammered. She gazed up at him with her huge silver eyes.

  He stared at the soft rose of her delicate lips, and hunger crept through him. He clenched his hands in the hope of resisting his baser instincts. The new, white, clean cap covering her bright hair caught his attention. He hardened his heart and narrowed his eyes. He grabbed the cap from her head.

  She let out a squeak of surprise.

  He studied the small thing as rage ignited in him.

  “You used my bandages to make a cap,” he accused as he crushed the fabric in his fist.

  Shock washed over her features but only for a brief moment. She crossed her arms, replacing all her sweet modesty with belligerence. “I did not steal your bandages. Mrs. Ulery sewed the cap for me.”

  “I wondered why she came with you to the infirmary.” He thought the widow was only hoping for more whiskey, fool that he was.

  Her hands twisted together. “She insisted I need a new, clean cap, for the one she loaned me was quite old and worn. I will meet the Dowager Duchess of Dalfour—”

  “Why are you meeting a duchess?” He bristled with indignation.

  “She is my brother-in-law’s mother.”

  An ache began to pound in his head. Derrick massaged his temples in an attempt to relieve the pressure. He wanted to call her a traitor, but he managed to keep his voice even. “Is your brother-in-law a duke?”

  “No. He’s a parson. His oldest brother is a duke. His other brother is a barrister. He has a sister, too, but she lives in Canada. She married a commoner and they were, of course, Tories.”

  He wanted to rip the cap to shreds, but a few golden strands of her hair lay caught in the fabric. Had he hurt her? He lowered his voice as a stab of guilt shot through him. “I shall ask Mrs. Ulery to pay me for the bandages.”

  “The journey is nearly over.” She threw the words at him. “She took but a small amount.”

  His righteous anger returned. “A thief is a thief. She guzzled my whiskey, too.”

  “She needed it for the pain.”

  “She drank more than most men.”

  With a suddenness which took him by surprise, her entire demeanor softened and she laughed. “Her leg must be hollow.”

  He opened his mouth to make another retort, but her merriment continued until she had to lean against the railing to support herself.

  He responded with a weak grin, for he realized the error of his ways. He floundered in misery as he recalled all her toil devoted to caring for the English sailor. She had cared for him, too. He ran his fingers along the edge of his palm. Her fine stitches ensured his dexterity would be unaffected by his injury.

  He gave her nothing for her efforts, except a kiss and, in truth, he had stolen that.

  He shifted from one foot to the other and sought to assuage his conscience. It had all come about because…because he sat next to her…and he was upset…and she was upset…because he found her impossible to resist…because she was beautiful…even if she was a farmer’s daughter…or the granddaughter of an earl…or the sister-in-law of a duke.

  Julian’s voice sounded in his mind. …a certain narrowness of thinking.

  “I am sorry for accusing you of thievery.” He made a stiff, slight bow. “Mrs. Ulery need not pay me back. She used but a paltry amount.”

  She drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at the dampness on her face. “I suppose laughing about her amazing capacity for hard spirits is rather unkind. It really isn’t funny. I don’t know why it struck me as hilarious. I tried to discourage her.” Without the cap, her delig
htful hair tumbled over her shoulder. He longed to run his fingers through the silky softness.

  He struggled against his inclinations and held out the crushed cap. She plucked it from his hand.

  “Goodbye, Doctor Fortune.” She whirled about to rush off to her own cabin.

  His heart plummeted. He reached out and stayed her with a touch.

  “I do apologize. I…I have other things on my mind and I was hasty in my accusation—”

  She interrupted him. “Both of us have been occupied with many chores. This has been a difficult journey.” She attempted to cover her head with the cap.

  “May I help you replace the cap?” he asked.

  “Do you know how?”

  “I often helped my mother with hers.” He smoothed his palm along the gold of her silken hair, twisting it gently into a knot. Though he hated to conceal the radiant mass, he gloried in touching the glossy strands.

  “Can you tell me where you’ll be staying?” He wanted to be sure of the name, though he had heard what she said to the cruel man who hurt her.

  “From what I understand, I’ll be some miles from Sudbury at Broadcraft Hall. The estate belonged to my grandfather, but he died this past year. He left a stipulation in his will to ensure either I or my sister would come for the reading of the will,” she explained. “We cannot inherit the title, of course, or the land which goes with the title, but I do hope for a portrait of my mother and one of my grandfather as well—or some other token I can take home with me in remembrance.”

  Derrick was sure he heard Julian laughing at him. “Won’t you be staying in England?”

  “As I told you, I maintain a profitable baking business.”

  “Did your grandfather hold income in trust for you?”

  “I do not know. However, a small memento, especially of my mother, is something I would cherish. I don’t remember her at all. I was only a year old when she died.”

  He did not remember the cobbler who had been his father, but from what his mother said, he never regretted not knowing the man. “What if your grandfather left you a great deal of wealth? Would you remain in England, dress in fine clothes, and live a life of ease?”

  “I do not want to be separated from my family.”

  “If you gained great wealth, someone else could do all your baking.”

  “Ha! My baked goods are superior. Why would I want to eat anything less than perfect?”

  “You need only command a servant to follow your specifications, but you would never be dirty again.”

  “Idle hands are the devil’s tools.”

  She held out her soft palms, small and finely formed. He had a powerful urge to snatch them and kiss them, but he forced himself to exert a great deal of control and prevented his passions from taking over.

  “More importantly, the Lord gave me these hands. I am to use them for Him.” She folded her sweet fingers into a prayerful position.

  He closed his eyes and sighed, expecting a self-righteous lecture. When the upbraiding he expected did not come, he opened his eyes. She had vanished. A slight, empty spot widened in his heart.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Early the next morning, as the sun rose in the east, Margaret stood on the deck, clutching a few silk flowers tied together with a ribbon. Mrs. Rook had donated them for the occasion.

  “A wedding must have flowers,” the married woman insisted. “Those are a poor substitute, but they’ll do.”

  Cecelia chose Margaret to be her witness for the wedding. Oliver chose Derrick.

  Cecelia wore an elegant, green silk gown with ivory lace spilling from the sleeves and a matching petticoat. Oliver donned his best uniform. His wild hair was slicked down and braided into a short, neat tail.

  The captain opened his prayer book and intoned the marriage vows.

  “…in sickness and in health, till death do you part.” Captain Long’s brow furrowed. He spoke with a marked gravity, which surprised Margaret. After all, for Louisa’s funeral, he had kept his remarks as brief and concise as possible.

  “I do,” Cecelia whispered.

  Derrick dug a ring out of his pocket. He handed it to the carpenter. Margaret peered at the small object as Oliver slipped it onto Cecelia’s finger. The gold band, set with a sapphire, looked suspiciously like one of Mrs. Ulery’s rings—for she had several.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” The captain shut his prayer book with a snap.

  Loud whoops and shouts came from the other passengers.

  Margaret handed the silk flowers to Cecelia and wished her the best of luck for the future.

  “Oliver is a wonderful man,” Cecelia gushed. She looked radiant in the bright glow of the morning. “I know we will be very happy together.”

  The cook prepared a huge quantity of oatcakes for the celebration. Madeira flowed as well. Margaret thought the combination a rather strange wedding breakfast, but the oatcakes had an appealing flavor. She broke hers in half and chewed a small portion thoroughly. The savory taste of bacon fat came through. Perhaps she had misjudged the cook’s ability. She would ask for his receipt.

  “A toast!” Derrick announced as he held up his leather mug.

  “Hear, hear!” Other men shouted.

  “May the fate that brought you together continue to bind you in the music which whirls in the love of your souls,” Derrick boomed.

  Margaret blinked. Was that it? Despite his considerable persuasive powers, Derrick’s brief toast left her wanting. His oratory had convinced ordinary men to climb high into the rigging and sail a great ship. Why didn’t he offer an impassioned speech for the newly married couple?

  Given the opportunity, Margaret would have recited the entire thirteenth chapter of Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians, which she had memorized.

  The rest of the passengers did not appear to mind the short toast. They gobbled up the oatcakes and quaffed down the Madeira with gusto, except for Cecelia and Oliver who went below.

  Wandering over to her favorite spot, Margaret sat on the truck of the cannon under the stairs leading to the poop deck. Her throat tightened. Should she let go of her devoted fidelity to Frances? Could she? Did the future hold the hope of another love for her? The velvet warmth of the kiss Derrick had bestowed upon her left her weak with sweetness.

  She clenched her teeth. Why had she allowed it to happen? She should have shoved him away. However, it did happen…and she enjoyed it. Nevertheless, their embrace did not change the circumstances. She would go her way, while he had another path to travel.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  She glanced up. Derrick stood at the entrance of her small haven, munching on an oatcake. A sad swirl of sorrow gathered around her heart. She moved over and he squeezed himself into the tiny space.

  “My toast was terrible,” he murmured as he chewed.

  “It was short, though no one seemed to mind.” She reminded herself it was best to be charitable at all times.

  “Yes, I was fortunate. The oatcakes and the Madeira made the toast a mere formality. I pondered what to say for hours. I’ve never toasted a bride and groom until now.” He pulled another oatcake out of his pocket. “Would you like one?”

  “No, thank you, though I do intend to ask the cook for the receipt for them.”

  “They are good.” Derrick bit into the cake. “Much better than the ones we made in camp...” His face clouded as his words faded away.

  Since he had said nothing about his experience in the army—except his great speed in sawing through a bone—she assumed a bad memory had intruded upon his mind. In her opinion, the best way to rid oneself of painful thoughts and sad recollections was to replace them by recalling brighter occasions. However, coming up with something cheerful to say proved difficult, for it had been a long, challenging journey, fraught with terrifying incidents. Their time together on the Prosperity had ended, and a sad swirl twisted in her heart. Lost momentarily in her reveries, she realized how the trip had changed her.


  The silence between them was shattered by the ship’s bell.

  “The lookout sighted land,” Derrick said. He hurried away, leaving behind a scattering of crumbs.

  Inward questions besieged her. Had he come merely to offer her another oatcake? Did he intend to steal one more kiss before the end of the journey? Did he wish to offer his thanks?

  She huddled in her small space and brushed the crumbs off the cannon’s truck while admitting she would miss him more than she ever thought possible.

  * * *

  Hours later, Margaret stood at the rail with Hannah Ulery at her side and watched the men wrap the sturdy ropes around the piling at the dock in London. The scene on the wharf appeared chaotic. The noise reached a crescendo as shouts came from people on the pier, waving to their loved ones, seeking to catch their attention.

  The breath hitched up in Margaret’s throat. She drew the solicitor’s letter out of her pocket and studied the instructions. She was instructed to hire a coach to travel to Broadcraft Hall. The name of a trustworthy coachman was listed.

  “I wondered if I would ever see London again.” Mrs. Ulery laughed. “Yet here I am. The Lord has granted me an opportunity, and I could not be more grateful.”

  Margaret smiled at the older woman. Her doubts and worries concerning her traveling companion had waned. Mrs. Ulery had remained sober for several days and her arm had nearly healed, since the trip had taken five weeks. Derrick reminded her she would gradually need to strengthen it over the next month by using it for her daily chores. Still, he had warned her to be careful and not strain it. In the meantime, she continued to carry her arm encased in the wooden splints and held in a sling. She needed assistance in dressing every morning, too.

  Derrick was nowhere about. Margaret told herself it was better this way. Their paths would never cross again. He planned to become a renowned surgeon, and she hoped to return to her life in little Leedsville.

  The gangplank slid into place and the passengers rushed to stand on dry land once more.

  Sighing, she turned for one last look at the ship—the huge spars, the tarred lines, and the gleaming brass. Though she had been fearful when she came aboard, the Prosperity had weathered storms, enemies, and icebergs. With the exception of the lost sailors as well as the sad and unhappy Louisa, it had proved a safe haven. Now Margaret and Mrs. Ulery were to be cast into the teeming throng on the wharf.