Enjoying the unnaturally warm day, James pulled back the cocked hat Mr. Albermarle had given him when he was a boy. His father's manager at the shipyard had been kind to him once upon a time. Besides shipbuilding, he'd taught him his knots, how to roll canvas, and most importantly, how to read the sky and interpret the wind. Things changed as James grew and moved on to other interests and responsibilities. The man hardly noticed him at all anymore.
A swallow-tailed hawk screeched overhead, and James looked up with a faint smile. It'd wandered too far from its inland pine tree, no doubt, and was anxious to return home. "Mr. Hathaway," called a family acquaintance from horseback, and James answered with a sweeping bow and then a salute. He was rather giddy to have business at the shipyard rather than business in town.
He sighed with pleasure as he looked out over the river. The Magnolia was out, but the Regina was in. He was blessed, he knew, to have this life, family, and the means he was endowed with, but there was still one thing that eluded his grasp and made him feel lost: he wanted a ship of his own. At this point, he would jig with joy to have a fishing boat, but he was poor at saving his allowance, a terrible spendthrift.
"Young Mr. Hathaway," croaked a sailor leaning over a barrel on the quay. James gave Pitty Joe a proper nod while secretly admiring the embroidered ribbon flapping in the breeze from his cap. It read Regina, and knowing he was one of his father's men, he tried to act serious.
As a man prone to friendliness and pleasing others, James knew it would be an obstacle in commanding a ship, but he just knew he could manage a crew. He would not be a cold or insufferable captain. The men would love him.
A few more familiar faces called halloo, and James hurried down to the yard to see Mr. Albermarle with whom he had an appointment. Albermarle oversaw the yard and much of the shipbuilding.
"Mr. Albermarle," he greeted him. "You asked to see me?"
Albermarle stood with his boot on a pile of thick, twisted rope. His fists rested on his hips. The generous room in his breeches billowed in the breeze making him look fat. A red and white striped kerchief around his neck was smudged with pitch and sweat. He glanced at James with an impatient look then back to the workers putting the final finishes on Lily's beams amidships.
"I did receive your message day before last."
Albermarle pointed a finger at one of the carpenters and shouted, "On the level, you donkey's backside! You ain't building a crab boat, ye know!"
James cringed and waited for the supervisor to finish his glaring and huffing then said, "Albermarle. You asked me to come down."
"Yes, why, thankee Mr. Hathaway for making time to visit," Albermarle drawled as if he had not sent a harried messenger to James that morning who looked in fear of his life. "My shipment of nails did not come in. I sent for them when the order come due, but they don't have no record of you asking after 'em."
James wrinkled his forehead. Mr. Albermarle had asked him some time ago about seeing to an order of nails. His mind raced to remember the exact day in his ledger but all he could recall was the very fine sketch where he'd drawn the Regina's stern leaving the harbor.
"You did order the nails, didn't you?"
"Of course, I did," James fired back. "I remember speaking with Mr. Bledsoe implicitly."
Albermarle growled, "He ain't bothered to come around here or reply to my messages, so if it ain't too much trouble..."
"It's no trouble at all," said James with gnawing worry in his gut. He'd spoken to Mr. Bledsoe many times, but had he about nails?
"I don't want to bring your papa into this." Albermarle gave James another sideways scowl, and he wondered when it was the man had taken a turn and decided to dislike him so.
"I'll see right to it," said James with as much respect as he would show Papa.
Albermarle was the backbone of the company. James owed him that much, and he knew he best find out what had happened to the nails he'd been asked to order for the yard. He hurried back toward the office, nearly diverting when he saw Papa at the door.
With a sinking heart, he strode up to greet him. "Papa."
"You are just in time," said Papa, dragging him inside. "I have two items of business I need you to see to, James."
James followed him inside the room, his feet echoing off the wood boards.
"Mr. Whitely is at Swallows. I was to meet him this afternoon to discuss the rates exchange for his rice, but I have a new customer, a man from England, who is interested in investing in our services. He has goods to distribute from Cornwall and needs a merchantman to carry them to Barbados."
"That's a voyage," remarked James, and his heart flickered with hope. "I've been to Barbados several times. I know the harbor well."
"Yes," conceded Papa, brushing him off, "but I'll take care of this. It will be a new route for the Lily when she's finished, and I must assure him of our safety record and other satisfied customers."
James forced a soft chuckle. Begging for a place aboard the Lily would do him no good. "I could do it."
"I need you to see Mr. Whitely," Papa encouraged him. "He likes you, and you know the rates of the tariff increases."
"Yes," mumbled James, of course he did, because he was the one who had to share bad news with clients when Papa felt a missive would not do.
Papa put a light hand on his shoulder. "You enjoy a good drink at Swallows and company more than I. Meet with Mr. Whitely for me and give him my apologies."
A few drinks at Swallows and some conversation did not sound so bad now that James had made his obligatory visit to the yard. "We'll get the exchanges all sorted out until Whitely is satisfied," James promised. It was better than seeing Albermarle's disgruntled face.
After a pat of gratitude from his father, James hurried back into the city where he quickly changed, grabbed his deck of cards, and called for his gig to be brought around. His horse, Dogberry, was a pretty gelding he'd won in a canoe race down Rathall Creek. He spoiled the horse, silly he knew, but he felt much like Mama when he did so and a part of him understood the pleasure of loving a thing to the point of insensibility. Together, they pranced back to Broad Street where James left him with a stable boy behind the tavern.
A few pleasant drinks and a smoke with Mr. Whitely ended too soon, and pleased with the man's understanding of the company's increased charges, James wandered into the card room downstairs not surprised to find Benjamin there.
"Don't you have a plantation to run? Supplies to purchase? Why am I always the one put to work?" James pretended to complain.
"That's what overseers are for, young Hathaway," joked Benjamin. "Besides," he grumbled, "I didn't ask for it. If my father would have minded the reigns better, he wouldn't have left me with the business to manage and a shrew of a stepmother."
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," said James, although he knew Benjamin's many sisters loved the stepmother, and he was one less now with Alice married.
Poor Benji. He had a great deal of money and land but preferred to travel or hunt. The only girl who'd ever caught his heart was never accessible to him, and his parents had quickly sold the dark beauty back to the Indies. Rice, indigo, and corn—whatever could be grown along the Ashley, did nothing for Benjamin but disgust him.
"You should have been a fisherman," mused James, shuffling his cards. "You paddle as fast as me, and you're not too bad on the tide."
"I prefer fishing from shore where the ladies are, thank you," said Benjamin with a pipe between his teeth. "Speaking of fishing and shrews, how did you fare at the Scot's party? Are they still trying to match you with the Applewaite girl?"
"Ah, yes, Miss Applewaite." James thumped down the cards and leaned back into the leather club chair. Thinking of her filled him with a strange mix of amusement and dread. "It wasn't as bad as you said it'd be. She didn't snarl or stab me with her scissors—she's always toting that sewing basket around with her."
"An old seamstress in the making," snorted Benjamin.
"Yes," but James shook his head, "and
no. She even mentioned she did not enjoy decorating pillows. It's a means to an end, I think, with Mr. Applewaite long gone and Cadwell living out on their land. Applewaite was a successful merchant and had a shop, too, so I think she has this inkling she would do just as well."
"I hardly remember him," admitted Benjamin, "though I must say they've a fine, old house on Beaufain. Did you know I asked her to dance once when she was a young miss, and she stumbled all over my feet and blamed it on me."
"Perhaps that's why she hates dancing. It's your fault."
"Oh, no." Benjamin picked up his hand and examined the cards. "She just dislikes people in general. Besides, aren't you the one who tripped her up her first dance at Drayton Hall so badly she fell and her petticoats flew over her head?"
James burst into laughter at the very idea until it became a picture and then a memory in his mind. His cheeks warmed a little, and he put his fist under his chin to distract himself. "Why, yes, I think you're right. That was me, and that was her, the poor red-headed thing. I'd completely forgotten." He made a show of wincing. "Are you sure it was her first dance?"
Benjamin nodded. "And probably her last besides a later dance with me. I only remember it because Alice found it amusing and still talks about it."
"It is us," joked James. "We are why she hates all men." Benjamin guffawed, and James decided not to tell him that he'd had a rather friendly conversation with her by the drawing room window. That is until Mama began showering down cannonades of personal questions upon her. It all became very unnatural and awkward then, and Miss Applewaite had snapped shut like a shy marsh oyster.
PHOEBE TOOK CAREFUL steps to avoid water puddles as she shielded herself from the chilly mist. Gray clouds hung low in the sky as if about to drop. Mama would be distressed when she learned Phoebe had not dragged out the old carriage and driver, but it was only three blocks to Mr. Payne's shop, and it wasn't freezing out, just damp.
She did not want to miss her weekly appointment with the tailor. Sometimes he made a large purchase of handkerchiefs, sometimes he did not. Phoebe always gave him a simple, curt nod, letting him know it made no difference. As far as he knew, she sewed for the pleasure of it and was happy to provide him with inventory if he fancied it.
A pair of horses cantered by, and Phoebe stepped back to avoid being run down. Across the street, the coffeehouse glowed from lanterns in the windows. It looked warm and cozy inside. She and Mama rarely visited the coffeehouses unless they were invited. Instead, they kept busy at home and made calls to old friends and neighbors. Socializing in some situations was a luxury they could not afford anymore.
Most of the citizens of Charleston did not know how close to destitute the Applewaites were, else they did not care. What was left of the family income was enough to feed them, and thank heavens the properties were owned outright. Phoebe's sewing made enough difference to fill in the cracks, and she saved whatever extra she could toward the shop she would open one day.
What a struggle it was, she thought to herself. Daniel had offered to buy her land upriver from Mama when he had the money, and she liked the idea. Phoebe had no interest in living anywhere besides Charleston, and the money along with her savings would be enough for her to rent a building and get started. It was only a matter of time.
Humming as she twirled her oil-cloth umbrella in the mist, Phoebe skipped over a mucky puddle that smelled suspiciously like horse manure then turned into the doorway of a green and gold-trimmed shop. Mr. Payne was not busy but leaned over an open book. The air smelled like cotton and wool with faint whiffs of wood polish. Smoky tendrils of burning oak drifted in from the warming stove in the back.
Phoebe examined the neat shelves behind the counter filled with inventory and a nearly-finished riding jacket displayed on a brass hook in the wall.
"Oh, Miss Applewaite," said Mr. Payne when he noticed her. "Why are you out in this poor weather?"
Mr. Payne was an eccentric sort, a ruddy-cheeked man who wore a turban wrapped around his head in the most charming way. Perhaps it was a fashion she might adopt someday.
"Why, it's cleared up a bit, and I needed to stretch my legs, so I brought you a selection of handkerchiefs and a lovely fichu my mother has finished this Friday last." Phoebe set her basket of wares on the counter and lifted the piece of oilcloth that protected her goods from the rain. "See here," she said and held it up.
Mr. Payne's eyes brightened, and he picked up the fichu to touch the delicate white embroidery. "She does have a fine hand," said the tailor, "and great skill." Then the pleasure on his face collapsed, and he set it down. "I'm sorry, Miss Applewaite, but I must tell you, I have a supplier from Richmond who has sent me two dozen of the same along with a roll of Irish lace."
As Phoebe's heart sank, he rummaged through his shelves until he found what he was looking for and held up the beautiful lace. "Between this and your kerchiefs, of which I still have a half-dozen, I am beautifully set for trimmings and the like. I don't need any more of your mama's fichus, right now, although she does them up beautifully."
Phoebe's throat tightened, and she did not trust herself to speak.
"Therefore," Mr. Payne informed her with a wistful smile, "I will let you know when I run short, but for now, we are well-stocked."
She swallowed the disappointment so she could answer. "That's wonderful news. I'm glad you are doing so well."
When the tailor's gaze lingered over her, Phoebe forced herself to look mischievous. "Truly, I am, Mr. Payne. And how does your striped silk do? Was I right? Was it better for waistcoats as I suspected?"
He gave her a guilty grin. "It was indeed, and whenever I am in need of a new assistant, I must warn you I may come a-begging to your door."
Phoebe knew he assumed an Applewaite lady would not lower herself to work as a tailor's assistant. How wrong he was. She did not mind what others would say although Mama and Daniel would be unhappy. No, she admitted, as she let herself back into the wet street after saying good-bye, Mama would be ashamed and appalled.
She sniffed in disdain. How fast people adapted from digging desperately for oysters to survive a war to behaving like helpless aristocrats as soon as they had a few new gowns. A sudden gust caught up her umbrella, and lost in her thoughts, Phoebe's slight grip did not hold. She gasped in dismay as the wind carried it off over the treetops just as the rain began to sprinkle.
"Oh," she cried, biting her tongue to stop from using unladylike words. A carriage rolled by in a hurry, and the wheel splashed into the smelly puddle she'd avoided on her way in. A spatter of mud sheared off and washed over her like an ocean wave. It doused her from shoulders to hems, smearing her face and stinging her eyes.
"Oh! Dash it all!" She dropped her basket in dismay then lost her hat in another draft as the rain decided to pour. "Upon my word!" she sputtered. She used the sleeve of her cloak to wipe her cheeks and bent to the ground, finding that her things had spilled from the basket.
Mama's fichu lay sprawled over the dirty, wet cobblestones turning brown. Phoebe nearly cried at the sight of it, but picked it up with a groan and carried it limply in her hands in the hammering rain to protect the other handkerchiefs in the basket. Another horse trotted by, and she heard a laugh. The gentleman, if he could be called that, gave her a nod of sympathy but did not stop and offer to help. What did she expect? She was wet and covered in filth while lingering unchaperoned in the street like a mudlark. He probably took her for a lady's maid.
She heard voices across the road and glanced up to see the Leonards departing the coffeehouse. Their shiny black carriage pulled up to the door while an onyx-skinned servant held up an unsuitable silk parasol to keep them dry. Mrs. Alice Leonard spied her through the carriage window, and her dark eyes widened in surprise. Instead of pity, her petite mouth curled into a smirk. She raised a brow at Phoebe before looking away to face forward in the carriage.
Phoebe bit down on her lip. Fighting back tears, she slapped her wet hat back onto her soaked tresses and
marched home in the downpour with her ruined goods, and without any extra money for the market or her savings.
LATER THAT WEEK WHEN James arrived at the family's town house, Mama wore a slight frown on her otherwise adoring face, and he thought he detected a warning in her eyes. Papa came in a few minutes later to join them before dinner, and the tense look of his usually placid expression filled James with consternation. He was grateful he hadn't interrupted him in the study. Their local clergyman, Mr. Riley, had joined them for their Sunday meal together, an appointment that Mama zealously guarded on her schedule as if she could not get to heaven without it.
Riley asked after them, and Mama told a rather terse story about a Mrs. M. and her candle-buying habits that left the Hathaways short of their usual order. She was a Catholic, Mama reminded them all, which made James's jaw tick as he did not understand the criticism between members of the different Christian sects any more than he did animosity between the French, German, and old English citizens.
Papa remained quiet. He did not laugh when James told them about the first mate of the Wilhelmina falling straight over the harbor wall on Friday eve, nor did he seem pleased when James mentioned that the Whitelys had decided to send all of their shipments through the Hathaways' merchantmen. He'd had a rather productive week, he thought, only slipping into the gaming rooms three times and had not lost much overall but come out on top.
James surrendered his attempts at gaiety and let Mama and the vicar chatter about Sunday services. He had seen Miss Applewaite. Of course she would have been there, they were Protestants, too, but he had actually noticed her today which was a new occurrence. He usually did not take much notice of anyone on Sundays, only the time and the weather.
A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2) Page 4