A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2)

by Danielle Thorne

  His smile melted into a curious line, and Phoebe didn't miss his light exhale of relief. "You're quite right, Miss Applewaite. That does fill me with great anxiety." He smiled at her in appreciation and strode from the room. Flickering candles made streaks of brass shine in his dark blond hair as he passed through the door.

  No one seemed to have noticed their exchange, Phoebe thought with relief. It was a horrible, ungracious thing to do, but surely he had not minded it.

  She watched dancers sashay down the line, some with their heads thrown back with glee. Really, what was there to be so exuberant about? A ball was just noises and smells with little space to move around and even less opportunity to think. Bah! She'd rather be at home hemming another handkerchief as tired as she was of stitching all hours of the day.

  She glanced at the far end of the room where Mama and her gaggle of friends had settled. To Phoebe's horror, they were peering at her with grim lines around their mouths. She averted her gaze, but her throat tightened with questions. Had they seen? Did they know? Was Phoebe Applewaite so far gone at twenty-six that she'd rudely refuse a wealthy gentleman a dance?

  James Hathaway was older now than when he'd flirted with all of the young girls at her coming out. He still looked dashing and was very much marriageable. Even more importantly, he was heir to the Sandy Bank plantation across the river near Mount Pleasant.

  She peeked at Mama again. She glowered, and Phoebe's cheeks heated with shame. What did Mama care if she danced with silly and forever single Mr. Hathaway? He was a ridiculous, irresponsible rake who'd suddenly decided to take notice of her.

  The rest of the night dragged by until she could bear it no longer. Rounding up her family by claiming a headache, they ended Twelfth Night a few hours before sunup at the tall, narrow house on Beaufain Street.

  Winnifred and Daniel rushed upstairs. Phoebe followed Mama into the dim parlor. It was lit only by orange swaying flames in the fireplace. Roused by their clattering noises, Charity stuck her head into the room. A few years older and still single, the Applewaite's most trusted housekeeper and maid warmed them cups of chamomile tea.

  Phoebe thanked Charity as she collapsed into her favorite tufted chair by the bright fire and then urged her to go back to bed. It was almost dawn, but Phoebe was too tired to do any sewing. Just the thought of it made her eyes ache. There were other things on her mind, what with the flirtatious Mr. Hathaway bowing and scraping at her knee at the party.

  Mama, she noticed, said little on the carriage ride home, even with Daniel and Winnifred in their company. Her dark-haired little sister had only spoken to ask Phoebe with a giggle why she never danced. Daniel stared then chuckled, too. Phoebe had to clench her teeth to keep from scolding the young married couple for imbibing too much punch and wine on top of trash heaps of food.

  She stared into the parlor's fire and tried to relax the knot between her shoulders. Phoebe had no tolerance for bad habits, not when peace and calm were the order of the day. One could not rise to any better station in life by drinking and dancing the nights away. Her great grandparents' aristocratic blood meant nothing anymore along the rich, sandy shores of South Carolina, especially since the war. Hard work and ingenuity, if not the right connections, mattered most now. It was a new country, a new government, and a new society, where almost anyone could make their dreams come true just like Papa had imagined.

  Mama shifted in the chair across from her. Phoebe chided herself for staying too long and endangering her mother's health. "You are not to bed yet? Are you well?"

  "Well enough I suppose." Mama's tone sounded unusually crisp.

  "Did you not enjoy the ball? I'm sorry we stayed late. I should have urged Daniel to leave sooner or made him find an old nag to see his way home while we took the carriage back earlier with Winnifred."

  Mama set down her teacup with a clink on the table beside her. "I am not quite so old that I cannot stay late at a ball," she insisted. "I am only in a mood because I believe you refused to dance with a gentleman tonight after sitting so long without a partner."

  "I'm sorry if I upset you, Mama," returned Phoebe. "I did not wish to dance, and you know there were younger and more eager women there than me."

  "Yes," Mama agreed in a beleaguered voice, "but you are so handsome when you try, Phoebe dear. Why do you refuse to make any effort?"

  Phoebe kept her gaze on the fire. Mama would not stop now; she had her undivided attention.

  "You are not plain by any means and have a beautiful mind. I did not educate you for nothing, but see," Mama's tired voice cracked, "you are too overly confident in yourself and have these ridiculous ambitions that are unseemly."

  "Why is it so dreadful that I wish to make my own living? To have a shop like Papa?"

  "You are not your father," retorted Mama, "or a gentleman. And you certainly are not so poor you need to scrabble for a living. The only thing you need to worry about is making someone comfortable and happy."

  "A pudding and a bottle of port can do that," Phoebe countered.

  Mama lowered her brows the way she did when Phoebe was a girl. "I have never been more ashamed," she confessed, "to see you refuse Mr. Hathaway after all of the maneuvering I did to encourage him to invite you to dance."

  Humiliation drizzled over Phoebe in an unpleasant shower. "Please tell me you did not beg Mrs. Hathaway that her son should ask me to dance again."

  "Again? I only encouraged it."

  "Mama!" Phoebe's teacup wobbled, and a splash of chamomile wet her best gown. "Their pity ruined my coming out the first time he was forced to dance with me. I don't need you or the Hathaways meddling in my affairs."

  "Who else will do it?" Mama protested. "Is your papa here? No. And Daniel is too preoccupied with starting a plantation although he's never planted an indigo seed in his life." She slapped the arms of her chair not caring if Charity heard. "I am the only one who cares about your prospects! If you do not marry soon, you'll be a burden to your brother-in-law as I already am. Meanwhile, our house is crumbling into ruin. Do you not see the curtains? The furnishings? They're fading like..."

  The firelight reflecting off of Mama's over-excited cheeks made her look a bit mad. "They're almost as old as you, Phoebe. The carriage house leaks and smells ungodly, and in my chambers, the floor is sagging worse than my chin!" She fell back in her chair spent from the outburst.

  Phoebe did not smile at Mama's exaggerations. She simply wanted the most comfort and security she could attain for both her and her daughters, but she couldn't see past the old traditions and ways of how to get them.

  "I am sorry, Mama." Rather than meet her eye, Phoebe studied the shadows lurking in the parlor's corners. They seemed to mock her ambitions. Was she foolish? Should she consider a preposterous bachelor or mayhap a wealthy widower if Mama would not?

  No. The thought of it made her stomach fold in halves. She was sewing like mad to help make ends meet. Wasn't that enough? She would not ransom herself to escape spinsterhood or even to finance a shop.

  CHAPTER TWO

  James rented quarters from a widow who'd moved across the water to Mount Pleasant to live with her son. It was a good, sturdy house with windows that overlooked the harbor. Although his family had a home in town, he'd taken up residence in the widow's fine place as soon as he was old enough to leave Sandy Bank. There was no reason to stay. His mammy had died and there was no one left to shield him from Mama's suffocating attention.

  From the upstairs windows, he could see the water. Two wide rivers wrapped around each side of Charleston: on one, the Cooper River skirted inland splitting off into smaller tributaries, and to the south, the Ashley did the same. Their gray-brown waters mingled in the bay with the ocean shoving white broken shells onto light brown shores.

  A summons from Papa came Wednesday, less than four days after the Twelfth Night festivities, and James clutched his head as he tipped the messenger a coin. He shuffled back to the thick cushion of the widow's best chaise lounge and threw
himself down in his banyan.

  Last night's visit to Benjamin had started with drinks in his room above the tavern then leaked out into the street before ending at a club where they'd argued politics, which did not interest James except for the new tariff laws. Next came stronger drink and bets, and he lost his grandfather's gold-trimmed snuff box, of all things.

  James rubbed his forehead then broke open his father's seal. As his eyes scanned the page, he groaned aloud and flopped back onto the cushions. Not again. Word had got out. How did a man so obsessed with pinching extra coin manage to concern himself with the gossip around town? Didn't his parents understand that without James and his connections, the Hathaways would not be doing nearly so well?

  The family did not operate a large agricultural plantation anymore, not like in his grandfather's day. Papa had turned to brick-making when he inherited the property and then invested in shipbuilding. The Hathaways were part-owners of two vessels with another on the way.

  Almost three ships! And he was not aboard any of them. His heart wilted. All his life he'd explored the creeks and rivers whenever he could escape the house. He'd paddled his pirogue up and down the waterways around Charleston for years with Benjamin at his side until his friend outgrew the taste for salty, wet adventure. Later, Papa allowed him to take several voyages alongside him on the Magnolia. James had practically grown into manhood aboard the family's wooden vessels, and like the pirogue, they'd carried him far from mothers and mammies and blasted physicians, and his health bloomed. The sun and the sea cured him. He believed that with all his heart.

  With a sigh, James crawled to his feet. He took his time dressing, waiting for his hired valet to slink upstairs to help him shave. Afterward and feeling rather handsome, he checked his jaw in the looking glass and found himself in good looks despite the previous night's raucousness. He hummed a little ditty he'd heard on the docks as he trotted down the stairs to wish the widow's old housekeeper a good day before taking the gig across town to his parents' house.

  The day felt cold even for a late January day. Thin streaks of lead-colored clouds raced across the horizon. Whitecaps rippled the water in the harbor, and fishermen's boats heaved to and fro. It looked like fun to James, and what was the worst that could happen? Overturn and swim for shore? He'd catch a chill in the freezing water and frighten his parents to death.

  "That's not a bad idea," he mused aloud.

  Papa kept an office near the port although Mama felt sailors, with their baggy breeches and earrings, were too rough for his company, and James's, too. Pity, she did not understand his time aboard the Magnolia with Papa had been spent in their company where he'd been taught the ropes. He did love the order and activity of a vessel where every man knew his duty, his shift, and his hammock. There was nothing to hold one back but the weather gauge.

  With growing courage, James stopped the gig along the docks and leaped to the ground determined to defend himself. He was doing nothing in the evenings less important than running communiques. He made connections in the card rooms, encouraged merchants to consider renting space on his family's ships, and made sure everyone knew the Hathaways and their partners did business above the board. Quality handling and safe deliveries were their primary aim.

  He strode in with his chin up, expecting to find Papa waiting. His private secretary was in and motioned toward the Hathaway's office. With a grin, James straightened his coat and touched his cravat, and then gave a brisk knock.

  "Yes," came Papa's patient voice.

  James smiled at his serious, friendly tone, and let himself in. "Good morning."

  "It's afternoon, James, and we expected you earlier."

  James flopped down onto a narrow chair across from the small desk. He gave a flippant wave of his gloved hand. "I only just received your message, and here I am though I'd planned to ride out to the Quintons with Benjamin today. Did you know they are tilling up the indigo fields to try their hand at cotton this year?"

  Hugh Hathaway glanced up from his ledgers. Like James, he was not exceptionally large but solidly built with a fine head of dark hair just beginning to gray at the temples. James admired the look. Bright, intelligent eyes hinted at the ability to carry on fascinating conversations. James envied that, too. A sensible man, his papa was patient and genteel in every way and loved for it. Especially by James.

  "Cotton grows well enough but there is the labor to consider."

  James nodded in agreement.

  "But that is not why I asked you here." Mr. Hathaway removed a wiry pair of spectacles from his face. "I saw Mr. Whitely yesterday and understand you were at Shepheard's tavern until late."

  Even as his stomach clenched, James shrugged. "Benji and I had drinks there and stayed for cards."

  "You lost a great deal." Mr. Hathaway gave him a tired, disappointed stare, and James looked away. How could he possibly know about Grandfather's snuff box? "It was only a bit of fun, Papa, and yes, there was that unfortunate outcome."

  "And the marching up and down the cobblestones chanting like deckhands until the authorities were called?"

  James felt his cheeks color. "I drank a bit in excess."

  Papa exhaled and dropped his gaze to the papers before him.

  "I'm sorry, Papa. One must keep his companions entertained, and I did all but convince Mr. Whitely to consider us this year when the rice is harvested."

  "Yes, we spoke," said Papa, but it sounded tinged with mild sarcasm. He folded his arms in front of him, and James met his steady gaze. It would be the same old scolding, although this time he probably deserved it.

  "I want you to attend a dinner party this Saturday next. Your mother and I, as well as you, have been invited."

  James gaped. He wasn't expecting this sort of punishment. "I did not receive an invitation to a dinner that I remember."

  "Perhaps it's best that yours came to the house. Mrs. Hathaway has become very good friends with Mrs. McClellan, as you know, and I find the husband good company and an outstanding businessman."

  "The merchant McClellans," mused James. Mr. McClellan was a great deal of boisterous fun in the card room. "That's it then?" It seemed a mild punishment for having his way about town, but his antics were nothing new. Heaven knew he meant no harm by it.

  "The Applewaites will be there as well, I am told."

  "Oh? And Mr. Cadwell—the son-in-law? We played a few rounds on Twelfth Night."

  "So I hear." Mr. Hathaway took another breath. "No, it is only Mrs. Applewaite and her daughter who will be there, the unmarried one. They are special friends of Mrs. McClellan, and of course, your mama is fond of the widow."

  "Hmm, yes, they seem to have become very good friends of late."

  Papa had once done business with the late Mr. Applewaite. Their wives had remained friendly. James pictured the daughter—the very bold woman who about told him to take a dunk in the harbor when he'd asked her to dance. He grinned. "I know the daughter a little. She's not an eager conversationalist."

  "Well," said Papa with a dip of his chin, "I expect you to remedy that and make her feel comfortable."

  James inclined his head. "Me? It's not my party, but—"

  Papa's meaningful look tripped him up.

  "You want me to..."

  Papa clasped his hands over the desk in a tight grip. "James, your mother and I are long past lecturing you. She is exhausted, and I am quite done. You are our only child, and our expectations haven't changed."

  James blinked, quite unsure of what he meant.

  "Your mama and I have decided it is time for you to settle whether you feel prepared for it or not."

  James felt his jaw slacken. He'd heard this threat before, but this time it sounded weightier. Papa surprised him further by saying, "You cannot take on the family business until you are settled, and Mrs. Applewaite has a handsome daughter who is in need of a husband. You should start there."

  A laugh coughed out before James could stop it. "Says who? Certainly not Miss Applewaite." />
  "Mrs. Applewaite has had many long talks with your Mama about her anxieties over her daughter's future. I've had a word with her brother-in-law as well."

  "Cadwell?"

  Papa nodded. "He is pursuing the idea of starting a plantation upriver on land passed to him from his wife's family."

  "Yes, indigo, I know." James's mind buzzed with the implications of his parents' wishes.

  "We spoke briefly of handling his indigo cakes and then his sister-in-law. I am of the opinion it would be wise for you to consider pursuing Miss Applewaite. She has a small dowry of land up the Ashley River as well, and she is—"

  "I have no interest in marriage," interrupted James, "or land upriver." His hands jerked on reigns that did not exist until he remembered he was not in the gig.

  "Yes, I know," said Papa, "and that's why I called you here. It's time. If you cannot make your own choice, then as your father, I must encourage you to listen to your mama's advice."

  "Nonsense," said James in a weak laugh.

  Papa's razor-like stare did not look nonsensical.

  "I mean no disrespect," James amended.

  "You will soon be twenty-nine and then thirty by and by. I've decided you may partner with me here in the shipping company since you do not like the brickyard, but first, you must find a wife and start a family. It's time. You've let too many eligible ladies slip through your fingers."

  "But Miss Applewaite?" sniped James.

  "Anyone of good character and family will do. It's time to settle down."

  "I don't want to work in an office or spend my life in a study," James reminded him. It was an old and rather tiring discussion. "Please, Papa. Give me a chance aboard a ship. You know I would make a better captain than a board member. Let me go to sea."

  "James," said Papa in a tired voice. "I cannot trust you with a month's allowance, and you want to sail one of our ships?"

  "I know I can do it." Feeling a surge of hope that maybe this time he would listen, James leaned forward in his chair. "I have more time on the books than any of the other investors, yet I always sail as a guest or advisor if I'm allowed aboard at all. I don't need to guard cargo or observe the crew. Let me lead them. You know I can sail."