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

by Danielle Thorne

  "Gentlemen." Mama thanked them with a knowing smile, and James pulled himself out of the thinking cloud where he'd stored pictures of Miss Applewaite's smooth chin and the curve of her slender neck. Her hair... Was it brown? Red? Brick? Cinnamon, he decided.

  Chairs scraped back, and James grinned at Mama as she excused herself and then tried to follow Mr. Riley who droned on to Papa about something that could have been settled before supper. To James's relief, the man didn't stay long, and as soon as the door closed behind him, James leaned back and clutched his forehead. "Really," he said with an exasperated chuckle, "must we entertain him every Sabbath? Shouldn't we share him with the rest of the flock?"

  Papa stared across his crystal goblet now empty of port. His eyes looked heavy with disappointment—an expression James knew well. His heart did its usual shrinking as he folded his arms over himself. "I mean, I know he does not come every week, but we feed the man so often. If he would marry, he would have someone at home to dine with and not rely so much upon the good members of the congregation."

  Papa's brows bent slightly. "It is a kindly effort and well-meant service on your mother's part."

  "Yes, of course," James agreed.

  Papa's gaze lingered on him, so feeling uncomfortable and confused, James turned to the first piece of conversation he could think of. "I saw Miss Applewaite at the church meeting today. I even tipped my hat when they rode off in their little wagon, er or carriage, of sorts." When papa remained indifferent, James added, "She didn't look irritated at all. In fact, I think she even smiled a little, although it may have been a grimace." His own joke amused him, and he smirked.

  "Good Miss Applewaite? I almost regret recommending her to you," Papa muttered.

  James's eyes widened in surprise.

  Papa took a quiet breath then stood behind the table and stared at the rather good painting of the Magnolia on her maiden voyage. She was an old girl now.

  "We had a problem at the shipyard this week," said Papa with his back turned. "A problem that has held up progress on the new ship and cost us money."

  Sensing the seriousness of the situation, James asked in a low whisper, "What happened?"

  His father spun and leaned his upper back against the mantle. He crossed his arms over his barrel-shaped chest. "Why, we ran out of nails, James. Nails, of all things."

  James blinked.

  "Albemarle warned me weeks ago, and if my memory and ledgers are not mistaken, you were tasked with making sure the blacksmith received the order."

  The foggy recollection of intending to leave the shipyard to check his ledgers and call on the blacksmith about the nails rose in James's mind. He tried to pick up the loose ends of that day, but it faded into a swirl of confusion. Yes, he had talked with Albermarle but... He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Yes, he was supposed to check his books. Had he ordered them after all? He had not checked back with the blacksmith, had he? He strained his mind to remember some worthwhile detail.

  "Ah," he said looking up with relief when it came to him, "and then you asked me to meet with Mr. Whitely at Swallows. Do you recall?" He met Papa's gaze hoping for forgiveness.

  Mr. Hathaway looked grim. "I sent a courier to the blacksmith yesterday and heard back before nightfall. You never made the order at all, nor did you follow up, but you assured Albermarle that you'd fulfilled his request."

  Anxiety tossed a barrel of stones into James's chest, making his supper feel like flint in his gut. "I'm sure I did," he stammered. "I mean, I intended to check to make sure I hadn't forgotten, but—"

  "Let me refresh your memory." Papa pulled his chair out and took a seat again. He clasped his hands in front of him on the polished mahogany table. "You beat Mr. Quinton in a horserace, I recall, the day you were sent to make the order. Let us presume that you were sidetracked from your duty and never wrote it down. Then, last week when you were advised to examine your books and check on the order, you visited with Mr. Whitely for a bit before spending the remaining evening in the tavern playing cards with Mr. Quinton until you made your way over to the docks to make bets on cockfights."

  James tried to look sheepish. When it was put this way he sounded like an irresponsible idiot. "I did what you asked me to do, Papa, but yes, the evenings I like to think of as mine, and I did throw a few notes down."

  Papa's cheeks became rather pale, and anger flickered in his gray eyes like lightning in a storm cloud. "I've warned you about your gambling and debts, and worse, the betting on dockside cockfighting. Your mama would faint with disgust."

  James dropped in his chair. Animal fighting actually turned his stomach so much he hung back in the crowd, but other people accepted it as a gentlemanly pursuit, and he couldn't resist a bet.

  Papa held him prisoner with a cold gaze. "While you've done us no real shame, you continue to embarrass your Mama with your excess and exploits around town, and now you've put the Lily behind schedule."

  "I'm sorry, Papa," said James, mortified that he'd lost an order and put work on the Lily on hold. Papa and the brick and shipping businesses lived and died by schedules.

  His father exhaled with great patience then gave James a grim look. "Your irresponsibility has cost us several weeks' delay and pay for our men. The Lily's christening will be postponed, and if we are affected by any more poor weather, we could miss the maiden voyage and let down other investors and clients." He gave James a deep frown that burned like a branding iron.

  James swallowed as his chest stung with pain. He might as well be tarred and feathered. He couldn't think of anything encouraging or cheerful to say; there were certainly no jokes to tell. Forcing himself to offer some excuse, he said, "It slipped my mind. You're right. Twice. I've been distracted, more than ever I suppose, but I—"

  "No more excuses, James." Papa breathed heavily now. His disappointment felt so palpable it made James want to run from the room. "I'm afraid I must let you go and hire someone else to represent us in town and at the Exchange. There will be a cut in your allowance."

  The cut was painful, but being let go from his own family's shipping company felt humiliating. "Papa." James straightened and gave him a serious stare. "You know I am a good card when it comes to advertising the company. I can entertain and make a deal—discreetly. I'm very convincing."

  "It's not your convincing that's the problem," said Mr. Hathaway. "It's your accountability and your behavior after hours."

  The room became hot. James put his hands down and gripped the seat of his chair. He would never sail a ship now. He couldn't be trusted to carry an order from the shipyard to the other side of town. His jaw tightened.

  "If you wish to stay on you may join Albermarle in the shipyard."

  "What?"

  "As his assistant."

  "Assistant?" James realized he would get dirty and work with his hands, which he rather enjoyed, but no more fine waistcoats or breeches. Then there was Albermarle's grumpy face. "I was tasked with that by the time I was twelve and mastered it by fourteen. Why, I—"

  "That's your only option, I'm afraid," Papa informed him in a low tone. "It's that or the brickyard."

  James detested making bricks, or rather, watching his father's "people" make them. That also meant being back home under Mama's wing. "What about..." James could not bring himself to say ship. "I can sail. Hire me as a deckhand, or—"

  "No," interrupted Papa. "You'd be given special treatment whether you looked for it or not, and God knows how you'd represent us in the ports."

  James sat back, stung.

  "For the time being, you will assist Mr. Albermarle in the shipyard. Perhaps in time, should you develop a more professional and serious air, you can transfer to the office and work under me. Byers is close to retirement."

  A private secretary? "Papa, I—"

  "I refuse to discuss this any further. Your mama and Albermarle are in agreement."

  They sat in silence until James looked away unable to bear any more condemnation. "Well, then," he
said rising from his chair, "I will be in the yard first thing in the morning."

  "See you're on time," warned Papa.

  James's head buzzed with indignation. How had he messed up so badly this time? It was just a horserace that day, and smart, handsome Dogberry had won it.

  "And James?"

  He turned at the open door of the dining room and gave Papa one last look.

  "If I had it my way, you wouldn't work for the company at all, but be shipped back to your room at Sandy Bank and put under lock and key."

  AFTER A WEEK FETCHING like a dog for Mr. Albermarle, James rode Dogberry south several miles along the shoreline until he reached the streets of Charleston and the solitude of his rented house. He'd washed up in the back of the shipyard office, but his wrists and boots were still dotted with sticky, black pitch. He didn't mind his wind-chafed face or even the splinters, but his muscles ached and his backbone felt like there were pieces out of place.

  He slipped upstairs after a quick greeting to the housekeeper in the petite drawing room overlooking the street. Deciding to leave his rather unreliable valet out of it, he packed his things. There was not enough money with a cut in his allowance to stay in this luxurious abode. He could rent a room over one of the taverns, which he preferred, or return home to his wing of the house. It would be better for Dogberry, but he hesitated to give up.

  Of course, Mama had suggested he return to Sandy Bank with her, although it was hours across the river from the shipyard depending on the tide. She'd also mentioned how it'd please their Mount Pleasant visitors who would come to call once she returned from Charleston. He knew she meant her friends, especially the ones with marriageable daughters. He flopped down in his chaise by the window and looked out over the water as far as he could see. The ocean view would be missed.

  A message came to the door: Benjamin wanted to meet him at McCrady's tavern to share a pint. He bit his lip, knowing a pint could easily turn into a cask's worth in Benji's company, but he felt thirsty and dull. It was too quiet after hearing the wind and the hammering at the yard, not to mention Albermarle's loud, disgusted shouts.

  After washing up again, James re-dressed himself, struggling with the cravat until it looked passable then hurried out to his fatigued mount. There would be no gig tonight; he did not have the desire or patience. Together under the fading sun, horse and master cantered back up East Bay from whence they'd come with a cold February sea gust chilling them to the bone.

  As James rounded the corner to McCrady's busy street, he spied Daniel Cadwell and his sister-in-law. They came out of one of the shops, and a rather poorly-conditioned carriage seemed to be their destination.

  He watched the lady. Most of the women he knew would sit down on the cobblestones before riding in such an antique around town, but Miss Applewaite didn't seem to mind. A boy from the stable took his reigns and led Dogberry off, but instead of walking down the tavern steps, James found himself striding across the street toward the brother and sister.

  "Mr. Hathaway," bowed Cadwell.

  James smiled. The sister-in-law dropped back behind them, watching from under the brim of a felt riding hat. He doffed his own and bent slightly. "Miss Applewaite. How do you do this chilly afternoon?"

  Her dark brows raised, and James noticed her eyelashes were quite long, fanning across her brow bones as her pretty round eyes widened. "I'm quite well, Mr. Hathaway, and I don't mind a little cool weather."

  He chuckled and admired her cloak. "If I had a cloak as fine as that, I'm sure I'd be less inclined to complain."

  The corner of her mouth contracted. He wondered if she was making fun of him for attempting to make polite conversation even though he should not force her to stand and talk in the streets. He turned back to Cadwell, who watched his sister with a curious expression. "Are you coming in," James wondered, motioning toward the tavern with a tilt of his chin.

  The man glanced at Miss Applewaite then shook his head. "No, not tonight."

  Oh yes, he was married, James recalled. The poor dupe. Cadwell motioned back toward the storefront. "I was inquiring about seed, and Phoebe came with me to... Well, she had business of her own."

  "Indeed?" James raised his brows to tease her a little although he remembered her interest in such affairs. He noticed she wore an attractive but sensible gown under her cloak, dark blue and rather loose. It looked heavy and warm and was probably pleated nicely between her shoulders. He blinked to clear his head when he caught himself thinking about her back.

  She met his gaze without wavering. "I sell embroidered handkerchiefs to some of the shopkeepers in town on occasion."

  "How very industrious." James wasn't teasing now. With his reduced income, he suddenly felt for her situation and admired her pride in her skills.

  "Yes, well," said Cadwell with an awkward chuckle, "she likes to keep busy."

  Miss Applewaite glanced at her brother-in-law as if his words annoyed her then returned to James's examination. "I see you will be joining the festivities at McCrady's."

  He grinned at her attempted censure. "There is going to be a little play tonight."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, I thought you had come to see it with your brother."

  "No, we have business to finish as he said, and we're trying to get home by twilight." The horse harnessed to their carriage pitched around as if calling them to hurry. Cadwell excused himself and rushed over to see to it. Alone with James, Miss Applewaite didn't look certain what to do next.

  "I hope your day was productive then." He offered a gloved hand, relieved that he'd worn them.

  "Well enough," said Miss Applewaite.

  She was so serious, so business-like. How could he ever win her over enough to satisfy his parents? Surely a proposal from him would be refused faster than a runaway horse. He could not even seem to make her like him as an acquaintance. "Tell me," James said on a whim, "do you ever sell them to single individuals?"

  Her mouth pinched again like she was fighting a smile. "Are you in need of a pretty handkerchief, Mr. Hathaway? Or perhaps a lace-trimmed fichu would do?"

  He laughed, impressed at her wit, and to his delight, her full lips widened into a broad smile that rounded the apples of her cheeks. James put a hand on his hip. "I dare say my trunks are heaping with fichus, but I was thinking about my Mama. I will see her in the morning to say good-bye, for she is returning to Sandy Bank soon, and it would make her quite happy to have something dainty and new to take along."

  "I imagine so," Miss Applewaite agreed. Her eyes looked almost ebony in the fading daylight, but they still glinted with good humor. Torches lit up and down the street did not dance half so much.

  After a small hesitation, the woman slid the basket off her arm and pulled back a coverlet. Her mitts stirred around in its depths until she pulled out a square piece of neatly folded linen with her fingertips. "This one has a lovely block flowered print that I've embroidered with curling vines. I daresay she'll admire the colors."

  He took it from her and pretended to examine it although his mind was already made up. "And how much do you charge?" he asked, curious as to how savvy a vendor she would be.

  "Three shillings," she said meeting his eye. "It's fine quality as you can see and a new cut of cloth, not a remnant that has been redone." A soft smile touched her lips, and he realized this was her attempt at humor—subtle with a point.

  "That will do." He reached into his coat pocket, and they exchanged coin and kerchief. She seemed pleased, but he wasn't certain. As for himself, James felt curiously satisfied. "My mother will be delighted," he promised her, and she granted him another smile.

  "She's complimented me on my embroidery, so I hope she is happy with it."

  "You are an extraordinary artisan," said James then he realized he must not overdo it. She wasn't the sort that appreciated half-hearted compliments. "What I mean is..."

  "I know what you meant," she said, her mouth sinking into its usual serious line, "and thank you."


  "I was just trying to say that I admire your industry and ambition with something you enjoy."

  "Oh," she said, with a small shake of her head, "I don't enjoy it."

  "You don't?"

  "Small and tedious detail? No. Sewing gives me headaches, painful ones. Really I find it difficult, although the final product pleases me. It's just a means to an end..." she said, fading off.

  He'd been right after all. Almost word for word. "You intend to be a shopkeeper—to sell pretty hats and pretty silks and trimmings."

  "You've heard?"

  "I believe your brother-in-law once mentioned it." James appraised the felt hat she wore with its cheerful cluster of curled ribbons pinned to the crown. It framed her face which looked rather handsome flushed from the cold.

  She eyed him for his examination.

  "You do wear the most cheerful hats," he stammered and touched his own which was not quite warm enough for the weather. Then Cadwell approached, much to James's regret, for he was rather enjoying the chat with Miss Applewaite. He'd never known her to speak intimately to anyone of his close acquaintance. She preferred to hide behind warming stoves or in drawing room corners.

  "We must go now, Phoebe, before your Mama thinks we are lost."

  "Yes, and the cold is coming on," James agreed with a shiver. He looked around. Dusk had fallen over them and brightened the street torches' flickering flames.

  "Enjoy your play, Mr. Hathaway," said Miss Applewaite in a pleasant tone as her brother led her to the carriage.

  James quickly bowed then crossed the street with his mother's new handkerchief clutched in his fingers. "Good evening then, Applewaites," he called with enthusiasm he had not felt since facing Papa's quiet wrath in the dining room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was something pleasing about sunshine on a cool day, Phoebe mused, as she climbed the narrow stairs to her bed chambers. She found it necessary to stop at every window and press her forehead to the glass. White tufted clouds rolled across the blue sky, and birdsong made her realize it would not be long until the weather stayed decidedly warm and springtime chasséd in. Down in the narrow courtyard, cabbages in the vegetable patch were sprouting.