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

by Danielle Thorne

  He felt nearly breathless when he clicked his heels together and gave the woman across from him an exaggerated bow. Rather than roll her eyes as she usually did at his antics, she laughed and shook her head in surrender. His heart warmed in a queer, pinching way. Her approval and pleasure made him feel rather lightheaded and pleased. Before she could escape, he reached for her hands and drew her close. They felt warm and familiar in his grip.

  "Come with me to the dining room," he begged. "Did you see it? There's petit fours and macaroons and cider if you wish, and I heard there is syllabub if you know the right person to ask."

  Her smile stiffened, and she pulled at the lock of hair that had come undone. "Come," James urged, wondering what kind of fun he could get her into now that her guard was down. They moved into the hall and traipsed downstairs and through another sitting room crowded with mamas and grandmothers and a few young wallflowers. Two-double doors opened into the room with the punch table.

  Mrs. Leonard was standing near the door in an expensive-looking gown the shade of claret. Now wed, Benjamin's sister belonged to one of the biggest plantations near Sandy Bank, and she made sure everyone knew it was flourishing through her attire. Glistening earbobs sparkled from her ears.

  She gave James a wink, and he chuckled under his breath as he slipped by. The silly wench was a year or so his junior, and she had married young—and well. He'd ignored her flirtations growing up; he would never cross his best friend in that way. Her shrill voice caused him to halt as his shoes hit the swathe of carpet leading down the hall.

  "Mr. Hathaway," she called after them, and he brought Miss Applewaite to a stop behind him. "What are you playing at? Do you not know there is dancing upstairs?"

  "Why, yes," he said, nearly breathless from his former exertion. "See, we have just finished a reel and are looking for refreshment."

  Her eyes, which had been examining his arm linked with Miss Applewaite's, snapped up to her and widened in astonishment. As if caught off guard, Mrs. Leonard stuttered, "Oh, I see. How very, very kind of you." Her tone sounded charitable, and he laughed lightly, not knowing what else to do, since everyone would know Miss Applewaite did not care to dance. As he turned back, she added, "I do hope you didn't trip this time."

  Miss Applewaite froze. Her smile dropped from her face. He closed his hand around hers like a protective shell around a hermit crab, but he felt her fingers go limp.

  "Come along," he said forcing himself to sound more cheerful than he felt. A strange unseen current shot through the hall. He almost looked up to see if a wave had washed over them.

  Miss Applewaite dropped his hand and hurried forward until she disappeared, and James followed her into a lovely room painted the brightest green with large, long windows and a set of louvered doors that opened out into a courtyard. Even in the dripping candlelight, the room looked fresh and cheerful as happy guests chattered over their punch cups.

  She hesitated, and he drew her over to a small tea table. "Let me get you some cider," he coaxed, hoping whatever had crossed between Mrs. Leonard and herself had passed. Perhaps Mrs. Leonard's comments had been too kind, or perhaps sensitive Miss Applewaite had misinterpreted her words.

  She gave him a jerky nod and looked down at her hands. James hurried over to the punch table to fetch her something wet and cool. A small stack of dishes offered cheese and dried figs and dried apples that were not too far gone for the season.

  "For you, he said, setting the treats before her. She glanced up at him with a grateful look.

  "May I?"

  She nodded.

  James took the chair beside her, so close their knees almost touched. He felt a draft from a nearby window. "Are you cold? Should we move?"

  She swallowed and set down her cup. "No, it feels lovely with all of the heat in this place."

  "It will grow warmer yet with springtime on the horizon."

  "Let us hope," she said with a faint smile.

  He studied her quizzically. "You like a walk along the shore, don't you? I mean, I see you on occasion walking near Fort Wilkin beyond the port."

  Her lips allowed a half-smile tinged with sheepishness. "I spend a great deal of the day in the parlor sewing with Mama. Even if I do not have a good reason to wander down to the market, I'm often tempted by the fresh air. It's nice there since it's quiet."

  "Yes," he said, understanding completely. "Do you ever go upriver to your family's house?"

  "I have on the barges on occasion, and that's nice enough, but sometimes we take a wagon across the low country and ferry over although it takes much longer."

  "Yes. Upriver is much easier when the tide is right."

  "I get a little jumpy," Miss Applewaite admitted. "I worry more about the alligators than I do the currents."

  James laughed. "I can understand that. They wander upriver into the shipyard on occasion. That always gives one a shock."

  She shuddered. "Do they have alligators in the Indies?"

  "A type, I believe. Although I can't say that I've seen them. They have turtles, enormous and beautiful things, more than I see here, and of course, porpoises and whiprays and the like."

  "So, it's not too different than here, I suppose." She took a nibble of cheese. "How often do you go?"

  "Me?" James almost felt ashamed for some reason, but he realized it was regret. "Why, I've been at least a half dozen times, and I'd be happy to go more often, but..." He hesitated. "My work is in the shipyard for now, perhaps the offices later."

  Her eyes widened slightly with sympathy. "That's a shame. You mentioned before you'd prefer to be aboard one of your ships."

  "It's not forever," he blustered while managing to hold back his bitterness. After all, she seemed to prefer the same things his father enjoyed—the business end of things.

  "How much do you think a dozen handkerchiefs would go for in the Indies?"

  "Hmm." James put a fist to his chin. "Well, I'm sure the milliner in Bridgetown would be happy to take them off our hands."

  "Oh," said Miss Applewaite, sounding pleased. She bit down on her lip like she wanted to say more, but glanced away with a flush instead. James realized she felt indelicate discussing business with him here on this occasion.

  "Perhaps I should call on you this week next, and we could discuss it. I'd be happy to if..." He left the question dangling in the air.

  "Why, yes," she said and gave him a grateful nod. "And thank you, also," she added, "for dancing with me because you did not have to."

  "Miss Applewaite," he chided, "you act as if you aren't a worthy partner, and you were quite enjoyable."

  "Enjoyable? Really? I would think you would have both been quite nervous," interjected a jarring voice.

  James looked up to find Mrs. Leonard peering down at them. She was quite tall, but of course he was seated. He jumped to his feet, and she tittered, as did the group of women trailing behind her.

  "Ladies," he said, giving them a quick bow, "have you come to steal my chair and take over Miss Applewaite's table?"

  Mrs. Leonard's face seemed to harden. Her eyes shined, but her mouth was no longer smiling. "No, Miss Applewaite is not interested in the tiresome affairs of us poor married things with our husbands and households." She glanced down at Miss Applewaite's gown. "Or tasteful gowns and trimmings and the like."

  James blinked, sensing a line had just been crossed. "Well, then, I shall keep her all to myself then, and your chair, too," he retorted with a strained grin. She smirked at him and pushed by with her friends following like ducks in a row. James let a breath of relief escape, but when he glanced at Miss Applewaite, she was staring at the table with her cheeks a shade of pink he'd never seen before.

  She cleared her throat and looked at him with a tight smile. "I think I'll return to the parlor," she blurted.

  James could not agree before she jumped to her feet. He rushed to offer his arm, and they bumped into one another making the table rattle and spill her punch. It left a trail across the tabletop,
and she gasped, reaching for the cup, but it slid from her hand. The remnants of it made an ugly splash down her gown.

  "Oh, no!" she cried, and James tamped down a chuckle, but the room did not. A few snickers escaped from those seated around them. Across the room, surrounded by her confidants, Mrs. Leonard and her ladies broke into sympathetic laughter. At least he assumed that's what it was, but it only multiplied and became louder as Phoebe made a few angry swipes over the stomacher of her elegant flowered gown.

  Mrs. Leonard's voice echoed across the room. "Why, Miss Applewaite, I do believe you've had far too much dancing and more than sufficient refreshment." Her friends chortled with delight.

  Rather than laugh with them, Miss Applewaite's neck and cheeks deepened to a lobster's shade of red. "Come now, it's only cider," said James, aghast at her embarrassment. He handed her a napkin, afraid it would be unseemly to help her dry her bodice. She took it in her fist, stumbled back against the chair behind her, and fled the room.

  James looked at Mrs. Leonard in confusion. She was nearly doubled over with amusement. Someone had surely had too much spirits, and it wasn't Miss Applewaite.

  He relented to their amusement with a small smile, wishing that it had been he who'd had the accident for he could laugh with the best of them. Then he hurried out after his companion. Her rose-streaked hair bobbed through the crowd as he tried to follow it, but it disappeared, and he did not find her in her corner. Whirling around, he did not see her mama either, so he slipped back upstairs to the drawing room. Miss Applewaite was not in there, either.

  "Hathaway!" someone called, and James saw Benjamin leaning from a doorway. He jerked his head toward the room behind him, and James realized he was missing cards. He could suddenly use a stronger drink than cider.

  With a sigh of surrender, he scanned the upper and lower halls one more time, then assuming Miss Applewaite had retired to one of the private rooms set aside for the ladies, strode into a card room to escape the wild and loud festivities.

  PHOEBE STRODE SEVERAL blocks home in the cold darkness, stomping across the uneven cobblestones and dirty patches of road that were unpaved. She had not informed Mama that she was retiring early, but perhaps nasty Mrs. Leonard would be happy to share the news. Phoebe realized her eyes were damp and not from the sting of the bitter cold. They seeped with humiliation and wrath.

  She had stumbled at her first ball in her first dance, and Alice Leonard had been there to laugh and remind everyone about it again and again. Ever since, her antagonist managed to find flaws in Phoebe's deportment, clothes, and even her family.

  Alice Quinton Leonard was nothing more than a bully; it was all she'd ever been, and at this rate, all she'd ever be. No one had the nerve to stand up to her. Phoebe caught herself about to wish the homeliest and stupidest of all progeny upon her, but that would be unfair to the children. She sniffled, her nose tingling in the cold as she looked ahead for anyone loitering suspiciously in the street.

  Really, where had it all began? Long before balls, the snobbish Alice Leonard had ruled over all of the girls their age. She'd never liked Phoebe. Mama had always said to pay her no mind; that she was only jealous because Phoebe was not easily swayed and that she was pretty, prettier than Alice, although she was sure she was not. Phoebe been teased for so many years for her hair that when it finally darkened and matured she still saw only orange when she looked into the mirror. That and the few scattered freckles here and there on her face like constellations in the night sky.

  She reached the steps in front of the house but strode past them to the tall iron gate that led to the back courtyard. Finding it unlocked, she clanked it shut behind her and hurried down the narrow passage missing the scent of curling honeysuckle blooms. Summer seemed so far away. When she turned the corner, she saw lamps lit in the brick kitchen house, so she skipped the privy, slipped inside the back door, and rushed up the flight of stairs to her bedroom.

  It wasn't long before Charity rapped on the door, and Phoebe slid off of the ticked feather bed and rearranged the frown on her face. The housekeeper held a tea tray. "I kept the water hot for when you returned," she said with a hesitant smile on her face. Her walnut-colored hair was pulled back under her cap, and her porcelain complexion made Phoebe envious.

  "Thank you," Phoebe breathed. She widened the door and let her in. "You do so much for us, Charity, I don't know how you manage." Between cleaning and meal service and even helping Mama and her dress, Phoebe was amazed at how the Irish girl managed all she had to do. They simply could not afford any extra help besides Matildy in the kitchen who eased Charity's load.

  "You came without the carriage?" Lines of concern crinkled across Charity's forehead.

  "Yes. I walked."

  "Alone?"

  "It was quite safe. Mama will be home soon, I imagine."

  Phoebe remembered with a pang that she had not told anyone she was leaving. Perhaps she should send a message, but with who at this late hour?

  Charity set down the tray, and seeing what Phoebe suspected were her red cheeks and wet eyes, said, "Is anything wrong, Miss Applewaite?"

  Phoebe turned her head to hide the truth. "No, I'm well enough, and thank you for the herb tea."

  "Should I help you undress?"

  Phoebe allowed Charity to help her slip off the stained gown as she explained the accident. After waiting for the woman to loosen her stays, she collapsed into a soft chaise in front of the small hearth, and drank her tea in her shift covered only by Papa's silk blue banyan that she'd pilfered from his trunks before Daniel could find it.

  What must Mr. Hathaway think?

  The thought came unbidden into her head, and she widened her eyes at her vanity as she stared into the low, burning fire. What did it matter? He only thought about himself. He adored attention in any form; he had not minded her accident at all, in fact, he'd practically made light of it.

  And then of course there was Mrs. Leonard. Mean thing. She looked for opportunities to make fun of anyone. But if only he had not seen. Phoebe was not clumsy by nature, but when she was the center of attention she became as stiff as the bones in her stays.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Mr. Hathaway had not seemed to think anything of it. If not for Mrs. Leonard's insult, Phoebe could have quietly excused herself to clean up the mess. Flying out of the room must have looked awkward and silly. What had he thought of her dashing out like a frightened cat? Did he think anything at all? Probably not.

  Phoebe stretched her neck and forced herself to shrug. What did it matter? He'd been as polite and attentive as perhaps his mother—and her's—had encouraged him to be. Her departure probably gave him a good excuse to find his friends and play his games or whatever nonsensical things he entertained himself with.

  Perhaps they might become good friends if other people stayed out of it, but not at a ball, no. She shouldn't have danced with him. Everyone had stared. Perhaps there were whispers, too. He would laugh at such a thing and never understand how she could not bear it.

  Phoebe rubbed her lips to taste the sweet tang of the honey stirred into the tea. Mr. Hathaway had mentioned shipping handkerchiefs for her. If she could sew faster and encourage Mama to increase her fichus by the month, perhaps they might make enough embroidered goods to send to the Indies on one of the Hathaway ships.

  It could be a first step, she mused, a way to open her own millinery shop with hats and trimmings. With Daniel's connections, she also could import hosiery and shoes and maybe even trade with a jeweler. Really, it could be so much more. She smiled to herself.

  A door slammed far below, and Phoebe tensed. Mama was home. Yes, she heard her mother's trilling worried tones. Setting down the small tea cup, Phoebe jumped to her slippered feet, tied Papa's banyan around herself, and scurried down the stairs careful not to fall.

  Mama marched through the arch in the middle of the hall, ignoring the parlor in her beeline for the stairs. Phoebe met her at the bottom while Charity struggled to help her out of her
fur wraps.

  "Phoebe Applewaite, I do declare!" scolded Mama while flapping her arms, "you almost made me faint, leaving the party like that without a word. Why, if Mr. Hathaway had not seen me looking for you on the stairs, I'm sure I would have never known."

  "I'm sorry, Mama," said Phoebe. "There was an accident. I soaked my gown and felt I should leave immediately."

  "You could have come to me or gone upstairs." Mama hesitated as her brows lowered with concern. "How bad was it?"

  "Just a spill."

  "But..."

  "I'm sure that Charity and I can get it out. The gown isn't ruined, I don't think."

  Charity murmured her reassurance as she passed them to climb the stairs with her arms heaped in muffs and capes and beaver hats.

  "But how did you get home?" Mama's earbobs swayed as she shook her head in disbelief. Phoebe took her hand. "Come, let's go upstairs to your room and settle you in."

  Mama dug her heels into the boards of the floor. "Phoebe? Who escorted you home?" Her face brightened. "Was it Mr. Benjamin Quinton? Did he leave early? Or did... well, I don't suppose Mr. Hathaway helped you back for we met on the stairs."

  "No, Mama, but we did have a dance, and he sat with me and drank a bit of cider."

  "Yes, I heard." Before she could say more, Phoebe encouraged her to walk up the stairs.

  Later in her bed, Phoebe stared up at the worn ruffles drooping between the bed posts. Sleep hovered in the wings, but the party still whirled around in her mind. She'd enjoyed the dance and the conversation with Mr. Hathaway. If she was honest with herself, she liked him very much, again, but she wasn't a silly young thing anymore. He had changed some, at least when he wasn't worrying about making everyone else smile and laugh.

  Phoebe squinted her eyes in the dim light and turned toward the glowing fire. She could not bear to shut the curtains around her bed, even in the winter, because she felt like she couldn't breathe. Besides, she liked to watch the flames wriggle and writhe.