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

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A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2) Page 9

by Danielle Thorne


  "A fine day," he remarked, and Phoebe snuck a glance at his profile before returning to her examination of the Atlantic.

  "Quite fine," she agreed. "It almost feels like spring will stay, but I'm certain it's a jest. It will be raining by Thursday and frigid by the Sabbath."

  "That is the way of things, but we do have the most delicious season once it settles in."

  "Yes," she murmured. "I'm eager to see the tulips and azaleas bloom, but of course the vegetable patch would be even better."

  "I miss a good ripe melon from the farm," bemoaned Mr. Hathaway. "We have a small hot house at Sandy Bank, and they have a few good ones at the port, but it's all fish and rice until I'm sick of it."

  "Captain Russell has returned from the Indies," Phoebe informed him. "Did you know? Mama said he stuck a pineapple on his front gate—speared it right through and what a shame for the birds were at it."

  "Yes, well, I suppose he has some to spare."

  Phoebe caught herself licking her lip just thinking of the sweetness. He nudged her lightly. "Do you like a rare pineapple, Miss Applewaite? It's not apples then, is it?"

  "Really, Mr. Hathaway, there is not an apple joke you can tell I have not heard, and yes," she admitted, "I do love pineapple very much although they are expensive and hard to come by. It's almost enough to tempt me to hop aboard one of these ships heading out."

  "Now that would be a sight," teased the man beside her.

  Phoebe noticed he wore plain breeches and a loose shirt with only a dark waistcoat over billowing sleeves. "Aren't you cold? It's pleasant but not that warm."

  "I get overheated in the yard, and it is a pleasant day as you said. I'm afraid my coat is at the warehouse."

  "Have you come to the fort?" Phoebe looked around.

  "Not exactly," Mr. Hathaway smiled. "I was hurrying home for a document I forgot, and I spied you ahead and thus bypassed my intended destination."

  "Oh, dear," admonished Phoebe, knowing his tendency to become distracted, "I'm flattered you would walk all the way down Bay Street just to follow me, but do not let me distract you."

  "Why not?" he returned without hesitation. "This is a much prettier view."

  His flippant words struck Phoebe's heart like an arrow. She grit her teeth to keep from showing that she'd felt them. When had she become so susceptible to such things?

  "I mean the bay," Mr. Hathaway stammered, clearing his throat. "Tell me," he added as her cheeks flushed at his clarification, "would you like to walk a bit? Just through the neighborhood?"

  Phoebe glanced up the street. "I could," she admitted, "but I don't want to pull you further away from your address."

  "Ah," he scoffed, "it's just an apartment across from the wharves. I have plenty of time, and in all seriousness, I think they breathe a sigh of relief in the yard when I leave."

  "Yes," retorted Phoebe, "I'm sure you're a cruel taskmaster."

  He laughed but not as heartily as she expected. Again, she surprised herself. When did she grow so comfortable with James Hathaway that she would tease him and make jokes?

  Taking her elbow, he scooped up her basket and led her back up to the street. They walked arm in arm discussing the new houses being built in the outlying village and the brick floated downriver from his plantation.

  "I presume it's a great deal of weight for shipping," mused Phoebe as they walked along.

  "Yes," he agreed, "not like your pretty handkerchiefs."

  "I'm anxious for the Regina to return to see the outcome although I understand it will be some time."

  "Oh," said Mr. Hathaway, "do you need an advance?"

  Phoebe's cheeks smarted. "No, Mr. Hathaway, I'm just curious to see if your merchantman will be able to sell my trifles is all."

  "You must not worry. I'm surprised that all of the milliners and tailors in town aren't scrambling for your goods."

  "There is competition," she insisted, although his compliments were gratifying. "It's an easy enough endeavor for anyone to do herself."

  The man beside her raised a gloved finger into the air. "Not everyone enjoys working a needle." It was as if he actually recalled her mentioning her headaches.

  "I can't imagine not bothering at all," admitted Phoebe, meaning that she could not imagine being so rich and lazy that even a little needlepoint was too much a task. "Although you must know our embroidery is favored by a great many gentlemen around town."

  "I'm sure it is," he replied. "You and your mama are very skilled although she makes light of it. I don't wonder that you prefer to open your own shop."

  Phoebe raised a shoulder. "Mama is peculiar about what is appropriate for my situation."

  "Bah!" Mr. Hathaway exclaimed. "Look at me! The heir of Sandy Bank, reared with a mammy, schooled by the finest tutors, and civilized by the most popular dance masters. Yet, I am working in the shipyard like a carpenter and the warehouse office like a secretary, not to mention, running up and down the docks like an errand boy."

  Phoebe tightened her arm against his. "It may be your most valuable education yet."

  He smirked. "My mama is aghast, and Papa has no shame. But I believe you're right. Anyway, I have no desire to waste my days away doing near to nothing back at home. That's why I prefer town. I've always loved it." He scrunched his lips while nodding to himself. "I like the activity—the sights and sounds and smell of it—the bakery especially, but the harbor view is preferable to the brickyard."

  "I like the creeks and marshes upriver," mused Phoebe. "They're peaceful, but yes, I must agree the quiet would puzzle me after a time, or perhaps I would grow to love it, I don't know."

  "Well, there are no shops in the low country," he warned.

  She sniffed to cover a chuckle. His mama probably ordered most of her things from across the sea.

  "Speaking of marshes and creeks," Mr. Hathaway continued, "you do intend to come to Sandy Bank for the ball in a fortnight, don't you? My mama received a letter from yours."

  "Yes," relented Phoebe, "and of course we meant to stay in Mount Pleasant, but they have contrived together that we will have one of your rooms saved for company."

  "Then I can give you the grand tour of the place," said Mr. Hathaway, and Phoebe thought he sounded rather eager. "Especially if you love the marsh. We're set right along Rathall Creek, you recall, where even the alligators crawl into our freshwater pond."

  Phoebe shivered. "Now those do not interest me."

  He laughed at her shudder. They turned a corner, and she gazed ahead at her aging home that would probably fit three times inside his manor at Sandy Bank.

  "Alligators or not," he continued, "you must promise me a dance, and I promise to keep the cider far from your gown."

  Phoebe managed to chuckle while hoping Mrs. Leonard would not be there.

  "I'll scrub the tar from my fingernails."

  "Well then," she said finding herself in a playful mood and not dreading the ball so much despite the outcome of the Whitely party, "I suppose I can risk a dance if you'll go as far as to do all that."

  His gaze met hers, and the impish grin on his face loosened into a faint smile while his eyes lowered to her mouth then dropped further to scrutinize her neck. Phoebe felt herself blush and looked away. What was the man thinking? He was such a puzzle—one moment flirting and the next pondering his worth and future.

  "Here we are," he declared, and Phoebe stopped at the stoop, unsure if she should invite him in. He tapped his hat back down on his head like he meant to be off. "I should hurry back I suppose and find the papers I've misplaced."

  She understood that he probably tended to misplace things since his thoughts seemed to ricochet from one thing to the next. "Thank you for the escort."

  "I know you could find your way from the fort and back wearing a blindfold, but thank you for the stroll and conversation. I'm much less worried about the celebrations at Sandy Bank now."

  "I'm sure a ball at your family home is the last thing that would ever give you cause for c
oncern, Mr. Hathaway," chuckled Phoebe. "You'll be in your element."

  He broke into peals of laughter, resting his hands on his hips. "Now, Miss Applewaite, why do we put off our parents' encouragements when you know me so well?"

  This abrupt change of subject caught Phoebe off guard. Her teasing spirit withdrew, and she felt her face tighten. Did he know he had reignited a flame in her heart that must never burn down her walls?

  Her throat tangled into knots as her mind frantically searched for something to say. Feeling her cheeks grow hot as he waited, she could only shrug her shoulders and murmur, "Good day, Mr. Hathaway. Do let me know when the Regina returns." And then she dashed inside.

  TWO DAYS LATER, WITH his mind flitting about with thoughts of the charming Miss Applewaite, James met Papa at the Exchange to discuss business with a rice merchant connected to some of the old families upriver. He later accompanied him and his cronies to Swallows.

  Benjamin was not about, so James forced himself to focus on the discussion of market prices and new government tariffs, understanding that these things would be an important part of shipping goods—or running a plantation if it came to that. The latter thought made him forlorn.

  Papa lingered at the table and reclined in his seat. "Your mama is anxious for you to return to Sandy Bank in time for her party."

  James spun a tankard in front of him in a circle, admiring the gleam of light against the German silver. "Yes," he said, somewhat hesitant to reveal his intentions. "I have promised Mrs. Applewaite and her daughter I will accompany them across on the ferry and ride with them to the house."

  "I can send a carriage."

  "That will do."

  "Your mother will be pleased you've agreed to accompany them. You were quite attentive at the Whitely's party before we left town."

  If they were happy with the improvements in his conduct, it was difficult to tell. He did not remind Papa that he'd rented the family town house out to someone else rather than let James move in. Not that he really minded. His little apartment over the wharf was cheap and closer to business. With all of the work and distraction, he'd had little time to gamble, and his savings had increased. James was proud of that but still confused.

  What was the purpose of it all if he was to be an heir? Especially when the common folk in the warehouses and at the docks struggled for every last pence while the rest of Charleston pranced around in luxury. It was a wealthy city, but not for everyone.

  As if curious about his son's silence, Mr. Hathaway continued: "I meant Miss Applewaite. Such a handsome girl. And you danced?"

  James looked over the rim of his ale then straightened in his chair. The business talk had shifted to a personal interview. "Yes, and I called on her not long ago. We took a turn about town and then a promenade through her neighborhood." James forgot the importance of impressing Papa and began to muse aloud: "She's pretty to be sure and has the land inheritance upriver, but she's also clever and industrious. She has a quiet mind and appreciates simple things, even the harbor view—I know—because I find her there frequently."

  He bent his elbow and put his chin in his hand. "She doesn't shy away from discussing commerce with the shopkeepers, and she has the most wry sense of humor that amuses me." He gazed off at nothing over Papa's shoulder. "You can't put anything past that one. Slick smiles and oily compliments only push her shoulders back and make her jerk her chin."

  James realized he'd quite prattled on and met Papa's gaze sheepishly. A lazy smile spread across his father's face, as did a light of approval in his eyes. "I see your weeks in the yard have slowed you down and helped you think more clearly."

  "It's only been just over a month, I know, but yes. If you mean the gaming tables though, why, I don't have the time. Was that your plan?"

  Papa's grin widened. "I only meant to keep you busy and hoped to inspire you to reflect on more serious things. Besides, if you want to commandeer a ship, you must know how things work between the warehouse and the wardroom."

  James doubted that Papa was ready to give him a ship or a small position for he was no closer to settling down with anyone. Miss Applewaite had brushed off his subtle hint about their parents' wishes. Still, Papa seemed pleased with his progress. He might as well try his hand.

  "So you would consider it now? A ship's command? Even if I don't find anyone to marry right away?"

  His father studied him. "I may. We launch in a few weeks. Considering your improvement, I'm convinced you are not a lost cause, just a little off course."

  "Thank you, I think."

  Papa chuckled. "I only wanted to get your attention before you ended up meandering listlessly through life like Mr. Quinton."

  James would not speak ill of his friend, but he understood Papa's meaning. Papa leaned forward. "Now then, I'm delighted you find Miss Applewaite amiable, and I hope you'll continue to explore those possibilities. Meanwhile, I will try to find you a ship's position if you do come to Sandy Bank for the ball and please your mama."

  James blinked. It was impossible. Incredible. A teasing possibility dangled in his mind. "And if I were to convince Miss Applewaite to marry me, perhaps... you would consider me for the captain's command?"

  Mr. Hathaway straightened in his chair. "Jamie, if you marry that lovely girl with the land tract along the Ashley, I will promise you a first mate's post on the Lily and heartily fight for you to commandeer her—in time."

  James felt himself grow lightheaded. It was the possibility of being an officer and sailing his own ship someday, he told himself, not the idea of wedding the rosy-haired Phoebe Applewaite. Why, snuck a sudden thought into his head, she could run the warehouse on her very own...

  The muddled clouds of his future swept away. It looked like a bright star now, shining across the dark sea of his impenetrable hopes and dreams. A life in Charleston right along the bay, not sequestered in a hollow plantation house upriver. And with a girl, a handsome, smart girl who enjoyed town as much as he—and business—which he did not. James jumped to his feet and leaned across the table resisting the urge to plant a kiss on his father's forehead. "Papa, you have a bargain!"

  CHAPTER SIX

  The waters of the Cooper River looked choppy even though snowy white clouds hung calmly overhead. Phoebe waited beside Mama as Mr. Hathaway made certain their trunks were loaded onto Watson's ferry. Mama had a satisfied smirk on her face every time Phoebe addressed their escort, who'd generously made the arrangements for them to travel to Sandy Bank for his family's spring ball. He'd even paid the toll.

  As the ladies were helped onto the ferry, Phoebe felt her stomach revolt against the rocking motion that only made her nerves worse. She disliked balls, although not as much lately. At least there would be an extravagant meal with a music concert.

  Mama leaned over to whisper in her ear once Mr. Hathaway made sure they were comfortable. "Did you see? Mr. Quinton is along, too. He will not be too much of a distraction, I hope."

  Phoebe held her gaze straight ahead. "They are very good friends, Mama. Why should they not enjoy their time together?" She glanced at his dark, curly-haired friend. His long face was rather attractive, but it was widely known he was an even worse rake than Mr. Hathaway.

  Mr. Quinton caught her studying him and smirked. She tried to make her cheeks dimple into a pert smile before looking away. One curious, charming flirt of a man was enough, and thanks to Mrs. Leonard, she knew she was not rich or connected enough to ever interest a Quinton. She certainly didn't need their pity.

  Phoebe found herself taking sniffs off Mama's smelling salts to calm her stomach before the ferry slid into its moorings at the causeway of the large isthmus of Mount Pleasant. The docking made the ferry rock more violently than ever.

  "Whoa, there!" called Mr. Hathaway as Mama let out a small cry. Phoebe staggered onto her feet and reached for her mother's arm. Together, the men helped Mama out, and before Phoebe could take the hand of the ferryman, Mr. Quinton appeared and offered his hand. He gave her a wink as h
er boots hit solid earth, and she hesitated, uncertain of how to react. If was as if Mr. Quinton knew her opinion of his friend had changed, and he wanted to change her mind, too.

  The fine carriage with the Hathaway family crest on the door rolled through the parish as Phoebe tried to act unruffled. The covered windows and the close quarters made her feel tense. To be stuffed in a cozy compartment with two handsome fellows and her mama was a unique type of torture.

  "Have you been to Sandy Bank before?" Mr. Quinton jerked her attention back to the conversation.

  "Twice with my father when I was little," answered Phoebe in a pleasant tone. "Once up the Wando River and once across the Cooper like today."

  "You have been up Rathall Creek?"

  "Such an unpleasant name," interjected Mama.

  Mr. Quinton laughed, but Mr. Hathaway said, "Yes, but it has the most beautiful salt marshes.

  "And the trees—the pines," Phoebe added, "how thick and lush they grow."

  "Yes." Mr. Hathaway seemed pleased with her observations. "Palmettos and magnolias grow thick on our property, and I must boast that we have an orchard of fine pecan trees in very neat rows."

  Phoebe listened with interest, her heart tingling every time Mr. Hathaway looked her way while speaking. She wasn't certain if it was to include her in the conversation or for an entirely different reason. She'd received such looks before, but not from anyone who turned her head. Her head was turned now, she admitted to herself, and it didn't turn easily.

  Mr. Quinton startled her by tugging on the drawstring of her shade. It curled up into a neat roll as they made a wide turn onto a pitted road lined with luscious scarlet azaleas. Phoebe had a glimpse of a great house in the distance. It stood tall like its city counterparts but wider. Stacked three stories high with wooden eaves, it had two large porticos, both up and down, and was painted a cheerful mustard shade of yellow that stood out against the deep red bricks. A smoother dirt drive for carriages circled the front with budding gardens on either side of the house.

 

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