Phoebe tried to ignore the flaws. She knew if she looked hard enough she'd see white paint peeling in the corners of the eaves and under the windows. The iron railing on the upstairs porch leaned a little to the left.
She sighed, thankful that winter's blusters could soon be forgotten. It would make conducting business in the market easier, and of course, the parlor would be brighter for her sewing. She'd only managed two new handkerchiefs in the last week with her mind distracted by the dwindling food in the cellar and the household inventory lists. Thank goodness for their recent sales since Mr. Payne had declined the latest offerings.
She appreciated Mr. Hathaway's small purchase but had felt mortified at the time, certain he'd only bought it out of pity. She must have looked like an urchin standing in the street with her basket of delicate wares.
Not to be outdone, Mrs. Hathaway called on Mama just after her son bought the handkerchief from Phoebe. She bit her lip and thought with gratitude of Mrs. Hathaway's request for a fichu with the same embroidery, and Mama quickly agreed. As they were friends, Mrs. Hathaway gently suggested that she trade them two crocks of muscadine jam which was just as good as a few coins. As far as heaping Phoebe with praise, she only asked once if Phoebe enjoyed her brief visit with her son. She told her yes.
A door shut, and Phoebe jumped and grinned at Charity who hurried past her down the stairs. Phoebe slipped inside her room. Outside, a bird cooed, and she wondered if mourning doves were nesting in the eaves again. They were her favorite neighbors during the summer months. With a contented sigh, she turned to the bed where Charity had laid out her gown for Mr. Whitely's birthday party. His wife was throwing an extravagant gathering, and despite Phoebe's dread of singing and dancing, she looked forward to the dinner service.
Perhaps Mr. Hathaway would be there. She did not mind him so much now that he'd showed her a rather friendly and thoughtful side. Still, she suspected he would burst into gales of laughter and tease her relentlessly if she confided in him that she'd once been besotted by his bright smile and emerald eyes. With a nibble on her bottom lip, she worried that it might happen again.
Phoebe slid her fingers across the luxurious fabric of the gown. Daniel had bought a bolt of it for his bride, and Winnifred had cut Phoebe just enough to make a lovely robe and stomacher. An older underskirt and petticoat had been dyed a soft pink, and with some lace and ruffles from an older gown, she and Mama made a lovely set of clothes that looked perfect for a dance around the Maypole. She wouldn't wait that long to wear it though.
"I do declare," said Mama that evening as the rickety carriage rattled toward the Whitely home, "your hair is as lovely as ever."
Self-conscious, Phoebe patted the curls pinned up under her hat. She knew herself to have been a homely child because of all of the teasing over her orange, curly hair, but thank the good Lord, it'd darkened to an acceptable burnished brown now that looked scarlet in the sunshine.
Phoebe smiled. "It hardly coils anymore, not that I miss having it stick out in all directions like a lion." They had a good giggle until Mama complained hers was thinning at the crown, but before she could talk herself into hysterics, they were helped down from the carriage and into the house.
All of their friends were there. Those who would not attend dinner would crowd into the rooms later for dancing and punch. Phoebe listened to the words lofted around her as she concentrated on the turtle soup, oysters, and trout, and she answered all of her companion's questions—the young Miss Whitely, who had just come out—in-between delectable bites of steamed sweet potato and stewed corn. Just when she thought she'd have to loosen her stays, the ladies stood to retire to Mrs. Whitely's private parlor.
Phoebe stood at the small parlor window and watched the street swell with horses, carriages, and people who'd walked to the party. She could almost feel the house groaning to fit in all of the Whitelys' company. Even without anyone touching her, she felt crushed against the window panes, separated from all of the buzzing conversations like she was trapped alone in a glass jar.
As the party progressed, merchants and shopkeepers, officers and plantation owners, laughed and called loudly one to another from room to room. When the music began to play, the mass of friends drifted upstairs toward the drawing room's dancing, and Phoebe sighed with relief that she could take a chair now and just breathe. Forcing her mind to concentrate on the hordes of people around her drained her like a canal.
She scooted down into a soft velvet chair pushed against the wall and sat back to watch the candles flicker as guests tramped in and out the front door. Her full stomach and the warmth of the room tempted her to close her eyes, so she tried to concentrate on a beautiful walnut clock on the mantel. A jocular laugh from the hall stole her attention. Almost annoyed at the distraction, she caught herself gaping when James Hathaway trotted into the room.
"Mrs. Applewaite!" he said in delight, and Phoebe braced herself before she realized he was addressing Mama in the opposite corner.
Mama snuck a peek across the room at Phoebe. Oh, no. Mama had rattled on for days, glorifying Mr. Hathaway with ridiculous amounts of praise for purchasing the handkerchief until Phoebe wanted to walk out of the room every time she heard his name.
Mama's companion, Mrs. McClellan, looked up with a flattered smile and conversed with Mr. Hathaway for a few minutes while Phoebe returned to the window, or at least as much of it as she could see while sitting in her low chair.
She hoped he would not notice her gown or her attempts to fashion her hair prettily. He was so inclined to be delighted and loud over every little thing he would draw the attention of everyone in the house to her appearance. Several moments went by without hearing his booming tone in her ear, and her shoulders relaxed. She looked back at Mama with relief, but Mama was whispering to Mrs. McClellan again from behind an open fan.
On the other side of the fire, just a few feet away from them, Mr. Hathaway leaned against the mantel with a hand on his hip staring at Phoebe like he was in a trance. It was so pointed and obvious it made her blush, and the others in the room who noticed burst into guffaws at her surprise.
Phoebe forced herself to smile so she did not look grumpy. He laughed suddenly, clapped his hands, and strode across the room. "Miss Applewaite, I am only teasing," he said with his charming grin. He gave her a bow, and she resisted the urge to groan. He was so friendly it was exhausting, and he was exhausting because he was so...
She looked up into his pleasant face. His green eyes glowed with some unconfessed thought. She wasn't sure, but they looked somewhat hesitant instead of flashing with obliged charm and enthusiasm. It made her warm and calmed her nerves in some odd way.
She widened her smile. "Mr. Hathaway, I'm sorry, I did not mean to stare. You caught me off my guard."
"Oh, I entirely meant to stare," he laughed, and she caught her lips twitching. "But I'm only joking," he added, moving near the window to lean against it. "I'm surprised to see you here, although I know you are friends with the Whitelys."
"Yes," said Phoebe. "My father and Mr. Whitely were friends. He did business with them."
"Your shop, you mean?"
"My papa's dry goods store."
"That explains why I seldom see your mother without Mrs. Whitely or Mrs. McClellan at her side—besides yourself."
"Well, it's just Mama and me now since Daniel and Winnifred have returned to the house upriver, not that I mind it."
He pursed his lips. "What a good situation that you enjoy each other's company so."
"Yes, I suppose..." Phoebe could not explain exactly how they'd become close as mother and daughter since Papa's death, nor how their friendship had become strained with Daniel and Winnifred staying often at the house.
"She says you do not ship your lovely handkerchiefs out," added Mr. Hathaway with a curious look. "I just assumed since your papa shipped with the McClellans once upon a time, they sold your goods for you as well."
"What? Oh no." Phoebe smiled at his erroneous t
hinking. "We do not make enough handkerchiefs to export out of Charleston. It is just Mama and me. Our little hobby." She wondered if this was a lie. It wasn't a very good one. "Besides, anyone can hem a handkerchief. I'm sure there's no great demand in other cities."
"Oh, I see. Pity then." Mr. Hathaway lifted his brows. "But you are not thinking outside of our waters. The West Indies is in want of anything and everything from the colonies."
He folded his arms, and Phoebe watched with interest as his rather social expression shifted into the more intimate and serious countenance she had begun to notice with him. "We ship to the Indies, you know," he said dipping his head when their eyes met. Phoebe glanced away. It was too difficult not to admire him standing so close because there was little to dislike on the outside.
"Why, even if you only had a dozen, one of our ships could carry them down for you. They'd be easy to sell off and at twice the price you ask here."
"Really?" Phoebe sat up taller in her chair. "Don't most textiles and trimmings come from England and France or the East Indies? What would they want from Charleston besides cotton and livestock?"
"Well," said Mr. Hathaway looking very serious, "they make their own indigo, of course, but are happy to take in linen, wool, and yes, cotton. A few pretty aprons and handkerchiefs wouldn't be as costly as East Indian silk or muslin, and besides, they hold up better if you ask me."
She wondered how he knew, usually dressed in such fine breeches and waistcoats. As if hearing her thoughts, he leaned closer and grinned. "I don't always wear silk and damask."
"Do you not?" she wondered. He glanced around the room. She thought he might sit down across from her, but instead he stepped closer.
"Did you not hear?" he asked with a reluctant shake of his head. "I am assigned to the shipyard these days. I work under the shipyard master, I'm not even a lowly secretary." He pretended to look depressed before breaking into a smirk.
"I did not know," confessed Phoebe with some surprise. She didn't listen to gossip, and Mama had said nothing although Phoebe suspected she might know something of it.
"Yes," said Mr. Hathaway. "I no longer represent Magnolia Shipbuilders, especially not in the smoking room or at the game tables. I have been lowered to hard and filthy labor—which I do not mind, to be honest."
"A good day's work," Phoebe approved, although it was rather common work for a man who fancied himself an English sort of dandy.
"My papa put in his time before taking over. Of course, he never sailed like Grandfather did, but... it's just he prefers the office and his study, you see. Figures and the like. Much like you, I understand."
Phoebe raised a brow. "And what is wrong with the efficient organization of one's business?"
"Nothing at all," soothed Mr. Hathaway. "I've also heard not only are you an artist with a needle, you have a talent for figures. Your brother insists that you manage the house and family income, if you'll forgive me, better than he and an accountant combined."
"Yes, well, there's something to be said for building a ship. Do you miss your gig and lap blanket?" teased Phoebe.
"No." He chuckled under his breath. "I'd prefer to be on the water. I did my duty and learned the craft when I was a boy, though I still love seeing a vessel come together just so—water tight and able to catch the wind. I always fancied myself aboard a ship someday."
"As a captain?" Phoebe guessed.
"Why, yes, exactly that," he said, and the tops of his cheeks flushed.
"Why not then? You have several ships, don't you?" Phoebe was amazed at his genuine enthusiasm and plain speaking.
"We mostly repair or build vessels for the local fisherman and such; but yes, we have two merchantmen of our own, the Magnolia and the Regina, and this winter we are building our third.
"That you hope to sail."
"Oh, it is obvious?" said Mr. Hathaway, and his jocular smile turned upside down. "I'm afraid my father doesn't believe one can run a company from a captain's cabin. My lot is working from land, whether I'm in the office or warehouse or courting business in town."
"That's an admirable occupation, managing a shipping company." Phoebe didn't know what else to say. Why shouldn't Mr. Hathaway sail one of his own ships if he wanted? A career was a career no matter what it entailed as far as she was concerned. "Some people enjoy letters and numbers," she declared, "and others hammers and awls. I daresay it shouldn't matter one way or the other as long as there's food to eat and a roof over your head."
"Well said." He met her eyes as if trying to see inside of her mind. Feeling Mama's gaze from across the room, Phoebe turned back to the window realizing she'd been leaning forward in earnest.
Mr. Hathaway glanced over his shoulder. "Ah," he said in a low tone. "I see I have forgotten my manners. We should have a dance, Miss Applewaite."
"You do not have to ask," she murmured as heat rose to her cheeks.
"Oh, no, my new friend," Mr. Hathaway insisted, "you have refused me once already, and I am in a great deal of trouble with my mama for loitering around town instead of making any useful attachments. I am practically cut off!"
The thought of dancing with everyone's eyes upon her filled Phoebe with dread. "Mr. Hathaway," she murmured, catching his eye to show she was most sincere, "I cannot bear for you to feel obligated to dance, and besides, performing in that way does not come easy to me."
He completely ignored her excuses. "Yes, I know you are the serious sort, stoic even, when brought to anyone's attention, but everyone's dancing, they won't even notice. Besides, Miss Applewaite, I want to dance with you."
Phoebe felt the stone wall around her vanity crumble, but said, "I'm sure they have not forgotten the last time we danced."
He smiled, making her cringe at the realization that he remembered it. "My goodness, you must have been what? Fifteen? I was only doing my duty when I asked you to take the floor, and I certainly did not mean to pull you around so violently that you fell."
Phoebe felt her face blaze just imagining the view he must have had of her flailing ankles and underthings."
"Come now," he said, patting her arm, "I'd forgotten it completely until you rebuked me on Twelfth Night. I'm sure we are much better dancers now." His touch abated her resolve further and sent imaginary sparrows fluttering across her belly. "Everyone else here is either ten years my junior or twice as old—babies and crones."
A giggle gurgled up in Phoebe's throat.
"They are!" Mr. Hathaway exclaimed, and a laugh escaped even as Phoebe shushed him.
"Shh! Really, you can't make such a scene. Surely you know by now I abhor such a thing."
Persistent Mr. Hathaway stepped up to her chair, bowed, and held out a hand. "Do come dance with me, and we will talk about sending small shipments of your pretty things to the Indies aboard one of our vessels for a modest fee."
Phoebe found herself up on her feet before she could think it through. She knew she was blushing but did not care. If there was an offer to ship her handkerchiefs, she told herself, then she wanted to take Mr. Hathaway's arm and talk with him more. He was quite tolerable when it was one on one, and besides, the surprise on the faces of the other ladies in the room when she stood amused her and made her feel tingly and bold all at the same time.
JAMES LED MISS APPLEWAITE through a crowded hall and upstairs into the large drawing room vacant of furniture except for a few spindled chairs. Pine wood planks on the floor shined in the candlelight. Damask curtains hung from the windows, blocking the stealthy cold air from seeping in although the dancers made enough heat to warm up the room.
The formalities of the evening were slipping away. A musician announced a reel that made the chatter in the room increase to a dull roar as eager young women tried to contain their excitement.
James pulled Miss Applewaite to the center of the room and noticed her face flooded with color. Her eyes were downcast, staring at his pumps, and he realized at once that her rather iron exterior protected a soft, shy shell. He clapped his ha
nds together as the dance began, deciding to make the best of it. He did love a reel, and she was very pretty. All of the gentlemen knew it, although she was no great temptation to anyone looking to climb the social ladders in Charleston since her father's demise. Her rather cross demeanor at dinner parties and ballrooms, not to mention her age, dissuaded the attentions of most gentlemen. She would not inherit a working plantation, and she wasn't exactly silly or fun. Or was she?
Her chin went up and with it a lock of hair escaped, snaking down her neck in a delicate spiral. She raised her brows and gave him a small smile like she was actually enjoying herself as they sashayed down the line together. Her lovely gown whipped to and fro.
James spun on his heel, his mind whirling at the picture her dark eyes made against her dusky peach complexion. She reminded him of a young deer; intelligent, watchful, on guard, and very beauti—
James snapped his head back and pushed that thought away. There was a handsome girl around every corner in Charleston, girls of all colors and in a rainbow of temperaments. He laughed as he skipped by Mr. McClellan, who shouted with joy in his strange accent while the bright thatch of red hair on top of his head glistened with his enthusiasm.
James turned to find Phoebe again right where she should be, and without fumbling to catch her hands, their fingers met, and he winked at her with approval. She glowed now, with a natural, unexpected grin beaming from her cheeks. She looked like she was having a good time, and he realized she was quite a proficient dancer since she wasn't worrying about it so much.
He glanced away after a pause when their eyes met, not wanting to let his gaze linger less she see inside his head. James suddenly felt very aware of himself, an odd sensation, and wondered if Benji was about or even Mama, watching him admire Miss Applewaite while he danced with her.
A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2) Page 6