The carriage rattled and rolled, nearly twisting in half as the gentlemen laughed, and Phoebe hung on for life. Cool afternoon breezes gusted through the window, and she drew her wrap around herself with one hand. She knew they were near their final destination when they passed a neat row of small houses made of mismatched brick with faded planked doors. A few small children lingered in the yards, and she heard the distant rhythmic murmurs of the Africans enslaved there.
The voices were at once beautiful and melancholy, and her stomach returned to the unsettled feeling she'd endured crossing the water. Phoebe tried to look past them as she had been taught and studied the distant marsh lying on the other side of their cabins. The homes were separated from the marsh by the swift-moving currents of Rathall Creek.
The team of horses jingled to a stop, and the door beside Mama swung open onto the carriage stoop. Mr. Hathaway and Mr. Quinton climbed out, helped Mama, and when Phoebe reached the door, she found Mr. Hathaway waiting with an outstretched glove as his friend escorted Mama inside.
"Thank you," Phoebe murmured, surprised he had not helped Mama and left Mr. Quinton to assist her. It felt strangely formal like she was a special guest. He smiled at her, his real smile, not his flirty, silly grin, and motioned toward the open door where a servant in white linen waited.
"Welcome to Sandy Bank. Again," he added with a quiet laugh, "although I'm sure I don't recall having you here before."
She took his arm as he led her into a wide, open room flanked on either side by an open library and an enormous dining room. In a circular grand hall, an impressive, round staircase floated in the air as it climbed up to the next level. Phoebe gazed around the familiar Prussian blue-painted walls.
"It's as lovely as ever," she confessed then realized their arms were still linked. She dropped her hand, and he hurried to help her from her cloak, a red wool piece lined in silk with a charming hood that Mama insisted she wear. As he handed it to the waiting housekeeper, she heard him say in a low tone behind her ear, "What a fetching color to wear with your ruddy locks."
The apples of her cheeks warmed, but she reminded herself this was nothing but a polite welcome from the heir of Sandy Bank.
Mr. Hathaway took her into the front parlor, a room clearly used for visitors with its impressive book collection, great hearth at the south end, and a harpsicord positioned between two windows that reached floor to ceiling. The room was sprinkled with early guests, some still wearing their traveling clothes.
"Do come in," said Mrs. Hathaway, and Mr. Hathaway led Phoebe across the room like a footman.
Mama was seated along a tufted bench beneath the books within reach of conversation with Mrs. Hathaway. She beamed at Phoebe as if today was the most exciting day of their lives. Phoebe pasted a polite smile on her face as soft conversations around her dwindled into silence. She swallowed as she made a curtsey to Mrs. Hathaway.
"You have arrived safe and sound, I see. Did my son keep you safe on your passage over? He's such a comfort to me when I take the ferry."
"Yes, quite," Phoebe assured her.
The lady gave Mr. Hathaway a nod of approval. "I congratulate you on delivering two of my favorite friends safely to Sandy Bank. I knew we could count on you."
Phoebe never felt worthy of this woman's notice before. The changes in her social position since being asked by Mr. Hathaway to dance at the Twelfth Night ball were curious. What had she been thinking refusing him when he was really so charming?
She refocused on Mrs. Hathaway's thin lips as the hostess explained the schedule for the evening. Afterward, when Phoebe joined Mama on the bench, she realized Mr. Hathaway had walked away to converse with another man in front of the windows.
She felt lost. Occasionally her gaze swept back over to Mr. Hathaway, and once she found him looking her way. Their eyes met, and as if sensing her discomfort, he gave her a small nod that made her inhale deeply.
Phoebe dipped her chin back in acknowledgement and forced herself to relax. She turned her attention back to Mrs. Hathaway's story about her worst party ever and joined in the sympathetic gasps, although she was certain Lily Hathaway had never thrown a terrible ball in her entire life.
THE NEXT EVENING, JAMES grabbed Benjamin's arm and hurried him upstairs. The time to relax would be short with the concert Mama had planned. Since St. Cecilia Society's concert season was over, she'd invited a popular English violinist in town to travel to Mount Pleasant to play. Four local girls, rather young to come out, would be singing, except for Miss Whitely, who was clearly more gifted at the spinet than conversation or dancing. Unlike Miss Applewaite, James thought to himself as he climbed the steps.
Benjamin let out a satisfied sigh when they slipped into the near-empty room. Most of the other gentlemen had returned downstairs to the ballroom for the concert on the arms of their companions. Patting his stomach, he groaned, "I thought we would never get away from the table," and James chuckled.
They took two yellow chairs pushed together on one side of the flickering fire that cheered the dark green walls. Benjamin draped his long arms over the chair's rosewood arms. "Miss Applewaite is in good looks tonight."
James rubbed his chin, surprised he would bring her up so soon. Did Benjamin sense she was constantly on his mind; either floating around in the back of it with dark eyes and bright locks or at the forefront as he sorted through the possible scenarios of becoming a "tenant for life."
"Did you see her lovely gown? I do love the colors so bright and flowered like summertime."
"It isn't the attire I admired, no," chuckled Benjamin. "If one can get past her persistent frown and distant gazes, she's a lovely thing."
"I always thought so," admitted James. He could do much worse than Phoebe Applewaite, and not much better when it came to her true disposition.
"And you did not mind being asked to accompany them here?" Benjamin arched a brow. "Your mama does not ask for things unless she has a motive, you know."
"You've puzzled her out." James realized it was probably time to admit there was a plan brewing in his head, too. He accepted a cigar from the case passed around and then scooted back to watch the fire glow. "I was happy to do it, you see, as I've already called on her a time or two. We've walked and talked."
Benjamin looked at him in surprise.
"I see her on East Bay on occasion when she's wandering through the market."
"She should not be out without a chaperone," remarked Benjamin.
"Well, yes, but she's nearly our age, and everyone knows the family. Plus, as you've mentioned, she's rather independent and too careful of a person to let some rogue lead her off down an alley."
Benjamin clamped his teeth around his cigar. "Then you enjoy her company although she refused you on Twelfth Night."
"It was only a dance," James dismissed, wishing he had not confided that, "and do you blame her?"
"No." They laughed at themselves, and James took a deep breath. "To be honest," he whispered as he glanced around the room, "Papa is champing at the bit to get a piece of land on the other side of Charleston, and the Applewaites have a tract right up the Ashley not far from Duck Point.
"Yes, but Daniel Cadwell has that piece and is living out there with his little lawful blanket," Benjamin reminded him.
"Not all of it. There are a couple hundred acres in reserve for Miss Applewaite. A dowry, I believe."
"And you know this how?" Benjamin looked interested, if not concerned.
"I suppose it's something Papa knew through her father. They don't have a great deal of income since the war and Mr. Applewaite's untimely death, but—"
"Who can be poor in Charleston?" shrugged Benjamin. "One can buy anything the heart desires."
James hesitated. From his lofty position lording over the enormous Quinton estate, Benjamin did not rub shoulders with those who had little to their names. James returned to Miss Applewaite. "She is, as you have heard, more interested in becoming a professional than a wife."
; "A milliner or something?" snorted Benjamin. "There's dozens of those."
"Yes, but she has connections with Cadwell's modest attempt to carry on the family merchant business, and besides cutting and sewing like a mantua-maker, she knows how to acquire and move inventory."
"Ah, yes," Benjamin drawled, "her little kerchiefs? I admit she has skill with her embroideries and such. I purchased a handkerchief from Mr. Payne last time I was in, and he told me it was her work, but..." He licked his lip. "Jamie, is that why you asked me to dissuade old Leonard from bringing my sister out? You know she has concerns about your interest in the Applewaites."
"Your sister is rather unkind to Miss Applewaite. I see no reason for it."
"You don't really want a woman who manages a shop, do you? It's a step down for you Hathaways."
"There are dozens of highly respected women managing their own enterprises in Charleston," James reminded him, "I think it's rather modern of them. Besides, if I'm at sea it would keep her occupied."
Benjamin's eyes widened in alarm. "Are you seriously considering chaining yourself down?" He skimmed the room, leaned forward, and whispered, "Then the old master has made up his mind, has he? Is he still dangling a ship? Let me guess, he will let you go to sea if you submit yourself to the altar."
James resisted the urge to pat his friend's hand. "Listen, you old rogue elephant, if I don't find something to do beside play cards and drink you under the table every night, I will never be anything more than a pathetic dependent, and I don't want to end up back at this place." He shot a look around for emphasis. "She's handsome, you know, in good health, and strong. I know I amuse her although she'll never admit it. And look, when I have a ship under my command someday, people will take me seriously and then she will, too." He sat back and cleared his throat.
Benjamin stared at him like he was mad. "What do you care what people think?"
James shrugged to hide the fact that he did care, a little bit. Thinking about Miss Applewaite and the rather pleasant benefits of marriage, not to mention his very own ship, made his chest burn inside in a queer way, like the first time he'd ever noticed a pretty girl.
He shook off the silly, boyish sensation. "It's like this," he said in a hushed tone turning back to the fire, "if I marry Miss Applewaite, my mama is pleased to see me settled, my papa sees the family acquire land up the other river, and I..." he leaned over and said with emphasis, "will get an officer's post and someday captain the Lily!"
DINNER DID NOT FEEL too much like torture, admitted Phoebe. She sipped a cup of punch while standing on the fringes of the modest-sized ballroom dripping with elaborate ivory chandeliers. Servants moved chairs against the walls. A harpsicord was tugged back into a corner since the musical performances of Mrs. Hathaway's guests were complete. Shy Miss Whitely had sang in her beautiful falsetto and rippled chills down Phoebe's arms. It'd been a good distraction since Mr. Hathaway had not reappeared.
Standing just inside the door, Phoebe studied the contrast of the blues and greens of the upholstered furniture against the white walls. Soon, the dancing would start, and the smiles and painted fans would flick and flutter as the evening flirtations began—if they had not already. She hadn't noticed.
The first dance was announced, and Phoebe felt herself sink against the wall behind her as if she could melt into it like a ghost and pass through to the other side. Mama and other ladies sat in circles around Mrs. Hathaway's empty chair near a window that overlooked the back lawn. Partners lined up in descending order of rank, and the strings scratched out sounds of preparation.
Phoebe noted with an odd sense of satisfaction that Mr. Hathaway had not taken the floor beside his parents as flames danced up and down on their wicks. She wasn't sure how she'd feel seeing him partnered with someone else, and that was ridiculous. He had not claimed her. She had not claimed him. Besides, he was such a flirt, he'd probably begged a dance from every single woman there.
With a sudden jerk, two doors flush with the long wall to her left pulled apart, and a few older gentlemen slunk into the room. Next was Mr. Hathaway in his bright spring fineries, and then the sophisticated and very rich Mr. Quinton with his dark hair and eyes.
She watched the handsome pair shoulder their way through the crowd. Unfortunately, Mr. Quinton seized her attention with his searching gaze first. There was something sly about the upward stroke of his sharp smile.
When she looked back, he was no longer beside Mr. Hathaway but weaving through the crowd. Her stomach lurched with suspicion as he came closer. With her back against the wall, she felt trapped behind the throng of guests on both sides. He probably had a question regarding something she'd mentioned to Mr. Hathaway or perhaps Daniel. Surely, there were no other intentions.
"I said, 'Good evening, Miss Applewaite.'"
He smelled of pungent tobacco and was quite tall. Phoebe looked up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Quinton, my mind was elsewhere."
"Even though you saw me from across the room? Or were you looking for someone else? Mr. Hathaway, perhaps?"
His words stung. "I beg your pardon?"
He chuckled. "I apologize, I'm only teasing. You must not mind it, for see they are ready to start dancing, and I have no partner whilst my friend has many."
Phoebe jerked her gaze back to Mr. Hathaway. Two women hovered on either side of him, smiling, chatting, and flapping their fans like they'd forgotten how to use them. He laughed, not the least bit concerned about where she might be. Something heavy plunked into the pit of Phoebe's stomach. A hot ripple of nausea followed. She felt her back teeth come together and swallowed to keep from locking her jaw—her usual response. It would not do to look jealous. Jealous?
Mr. Quinton made a shallow bow then waved toward the center of the room. "I know you are not fond of dancing, for it is widely known, but I did see you dancing last month at the McClellan's and I can assure you, I've had my share of hours with the dance master. There will be no tripping or falling tonight."
Appalled at his reference to her accident in the past, Phoebe forced herself not to glare. He grinned like she imagined a dark warlock might and stretched out a beckoning hand. With a sharp inhale, she took it. His brown eyes flickered in surprise.
"Well then," she murmured, her heart shrinking, "I suppose you deserve a partner of some sort." She could not wait for Mr. Hathaway to ask her. She must at least pretend to enjoy herself—for Mama and Mrs. Hathaway's sake. Mr. Quinton made a noise that sounded like a snicker as he led her to the floor.
Phoebe found it hard not to watch Mr. Hathaway as she was maneuvered past others waiting for a partner. When she took her position across from Mr. Quinton, she glanced toward Mr. Hathaway and saw him watching the line take shape while the women around him chattered on like chickens.
His gaze met hers and lightning struck. Phoebe caught her breath and wondered at the jolt she felt when they connected. Mr. Hathaway's eyes widened when he saw her on the floor with his friend but then he looked away. She wasn't sure if it was in question or surprise. Moments later, she watched him cross the floor leading one of the women by the elbow to the front of the room. He beamed like it was the best night of his life.
Phoebe's damp hands began to tremble. She felt a frown escape. Glancing at Mr. Quinton, she saw he'd noticed the entire event and an amused grin spread across his face.
Chiding herself for being distracted by her fickle friend, she turned her attention back to Mr. Quinton and gave him a pretty opening curtsy. The music then proceeded to blur in her ears as she moved through the steps.
"You dance well, Miss Applewaite," murmured Mr. Quinton as he circled around her, "and not often enough."
She raised a brow, not certain if he was trying to be friendly or flirtatious. She moved around him, careful to keep her balance and tried not to notice Mr. Hathaway and his pretty partner smiling at each other.
A shadow fluttered over her heart like a dark crow and another scowl sank into her face. What business did young women seething in flattery
have to do here at Sandy Bank anyway? This was a celebration of spring—of music and the planting season—not a coming out.
Her shoulders slumped as she realized her thoughts sounded vain and presumptuous. Most of the guests were from the upper ranks of Charleston society—plantation owners, bankers, and politicians. Then there were the wealthy or affluent merchants, and some of the older and respected families like her own.
It was, Phoebe knew, a privilege to be a week-long guest at Sandy Bank. She took another breath to keep dizziness at bay and wished her stays were not so tight. She'd allowed a lady's maid to help her dress quite fancifully tonight: a new gown remade from a silk frock of Mama's in the softest shade of shell-pink with a darker petticoat. She'd let down a thick lock at the nape of her neck and split it into two neat curls that draped over her shoulder and around her throat.
Mr. Quinton caught her eye and gave her another quick wink. It disconcerted her so much that she nearly tripped over her toes. Phoebe caught herself and managed a final pirouette before her curtsy to her partner and then the gaping onlookers. With a pounding heart, she searched the room for Alice Leonard, then recalled she had not come and let out a sigh of relief. Hopefully, no one had seen her stumble. Across the room, women sitting in Mama's corner leaned into one another and whispered behind their fans.
"It looks like people are talking," mused Mr. Quinton as he took her elbow. She could not run away, so she let him lead her toward a small punch table across the room.
"People are always talking," returned Phoebe in a quiet tone.
"Yes, they are," he agreed but did not set her loose.
She waited for him to pass her a crystal glass brimming with refreshment.
"You do not seem the sort to mind it."
"I do not," she pretended and took a sip of the delicious tangy citrus and spiced drink.
Mr. Quinton put a hand on his hip and examined her rather rudely. "I suppose that is what earned you your reputation. You're quite respected and independent they say."
A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2) Page 10