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

by Danielle Thorne

  "Who says?" wondered Phoebe. Had Mr. Hathaway spoken about her?

  "I've heard," said Mr. Quinton with a brittle smile, "that you have some useless ambition to be a mantua-maker or something of the sort. Or to dress hats."

  "Most ladies dress hats," Phoebe informed him, "and do a great deal of sewing. There is nothing low about it."

  "Ah," he said as if she did not understand his meaning, but she did.

  "I happen to know there are a great many ladies in Charleston who do not have the time or skill to sew silk or damask gowns, and the mantua-makers can't keep up."

  "So you are thinking of going into business for yourself although you have a fine home already in town and land up the Ashley?"

  His voice sounded disdainful, and how did he know Papa had left land for her in Mama's hands? Phoebe slanted her head and managed to stand taller in her bow-laden heeled shoes. "Tell me, Mr. Quinton, what is it that you find low about a person's ambition to be industrious?"

  He was silent for a heartbeat then said with flashing eyes, "I meant no offense, Miss Applewaite. It is only I believe birth to be a privilege and an honor and do not know many ladies of your rank with their eyes on business affairs."

  "Well," said Phoebe in a biting tone, quite tired of Mr. Quinton now, "I've often found that privilege comes without any effort and requires little character."

  He looked stung for a moment then his face widened into a grin. "Aren't you wild, Miss Applewaite? And what will be next? Your own indigo farm? Or a new crop that has never been grown in Carolina soil?"

  "If you imply I'm to be compared to Mrs. Eliza Pinckney, God rest her soul, because I have a mind and abilities suited to commerce, then for that I thank you, Mr. Quinton."

  Phoebe raised her empty goblet into the air and let it hang, and as soon as he took it, brushed past him like he was a servant. She nearly collided into Mr. Hathaway who had just approached them. His eyes looked quizzical as if he'd seen the private tête-à-tête between her and his friend.

  "Miss Applewaite – Mr. Hathaway," they said at the same time, but Phoebe did not stop less she berate him for telling his friends all about her. Probably they had laughed over it earlier as the port was passed around the table. It seemed she was an amusing topic of conversation Mr. Hathaway used to entertain his companions. He did it so well.

  She whisked through the door and into the hall, ignoring the looks of surprise at her hurry and most likely flushed face. Storming down a back passage to a garden room, she hurried out a set of open doors into the back courtyard and chilly March night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  James only needed seconds to see that Benjamin had stirred up Miss Applewaite into some kind of tempest. He balked when Benjamin broke into laughter after she fled. "What did you say?" he demanded in disbelief.

  "I questioned her about her little shop that you mentioned, and she took offense at my opinion that ladies of her class bring themselves no honor engaging in business."

  A few women glanced at them from behind their fans, and James felt a chill in the air. "I'm sure you have forgotten the household accounts upon which no gentleman could better manage."

  He said this loud and with a grin, knowing it was true in most cases. A few smiles shot his way, and he gave Benjamin a shake of his head. "And now look," he added, feeling devilish, "there is Miss Whitely, and she has heard you insult her most reliable and capable sex."

  James escaped as Benjamin turned his head to find Miss Whitely watching them from a narrow side chair where she sat alone. James felt a little guilty drawing everyone's attention to the quiet girl, but she needed a partner or at least a kind word. Though Benjamin Quinton might be a rake, he would not insult a lady by seeing her addressed and then ignored.

  James trotted out to the front hall nodding hello to his neighbors and his parents' friends. Daniel Cadwell stood across the room and raised a glass in acknowledgment. James hurried over.

  "I say there, Cadwell. Have you seen your sister about?"

  Mr. Cadwell shook his head, but an unmistakable spark of interest flickered in his eye.

  A man beside him motioned toward the back door of the hall. "I believe I saw her just moments ago. She seemed in a hurry. Is that the ladies' room?" he asked himself.

  "Perhaps, but I think my wife said there was a lounge upstairs," replied Cadwell.

  "Yes," agreed James, "on the top floor and very private," he told them before leaving with a pat on Cadwell's shoulder as if he hated to go.

  He did not, in fact, hate to go. His mind wasn't interested in conversations about crops and exports but concerned for Miss Applewaite's comfort. He'd planned to ask her for the first dance. It would set the tone for his intentions, he thought, for the rest of the week. People would catch on if they were observant, and perhaps all this nonsense talk that he was spoiled and unaccountable and acting like a London dandy would cease. No one, in his memory, had ever softened bristly Phoebe Applewaite. She liked him, he believed. Surely he had a chance to convince her to marry him. His future depended on it.

  Mama thought she was brilliant and beautiful. Papa liked her temperament—and her land. Best of all, James liked her most for a myriad of reasons. She was pretty and serious and clever and...

  Why had Benjamin asked her first, dash it all? He did not like the idea of James settling down, that was much clear, although he still cared for his mother, younger brother, and a gaggle of sisters. Odd that a man of his responsibilities was never censured for galloping up and down the coast letting his house and land run to ruin.

  Benjamin really had very little else to do. Rice and cotton were like silver and gold in South Carolina, and with his property and assets managed by others, poor Benjamin wandered around a wealthy and free man. No wonder he was bored.

  The thought struck James his friend might have insulted Miss Applewaite as he hurried into his mother's conservatory and saw the open doors leading out onto the brick-paved courtyard. Gardens flanked the sides of the house and stretched around the corners to the back where Mama's flowerbeds made a lovely oval with walking paths and statuettes. A few roses hearty enough to flower early perfumed the air along with the salted breeze blowing through the oaks and willows across the creek.

  James wondered if Miss Applewaite had come outside after all. She wasn't afraid to walk to the market or the shore on her own. He squinted. The moon hung full in the sky, and candles and lanterns shining from the windows aided his ability to search through the darkness. He strode down the narrow paths, familiar with their confusing abrupt turns and passed the occasional sheepish couple, alone, arm and arm, and lost in conversation.

  Ah. There she was, poised on a narrow bench beneath an unfurled tulip tree with her back to him. He crept up behind her, noticing how her neck looked with her hair pulled up. A dark lock of hair hung down past her neck, and he resisted the urge to slip his finger under it and curl it around his hand.

  She sat motionlessly, but he could see her breathing. Her gaze was on the egret-white moon dappled with silver scars. Unable to resist, he leaned down to her ear and found himself tempted to kiss it. Instead, he said, "Are you lost?"

  The contemplative woman jerked so hard he erupted into a fit of giggles. "I'm sorry," he gasped, covering his mouth and snickering at her violent stare. "May I?"

  There wasn't much room. It was narrow and short, his mother's seat when she came out to pick at her flowers. To his surprise, Miss Applewaite scooted over to one edge.

  He sat next to her and tried to ignore the awareness he felt so close to her shoulder, her arm, and her side. She angled her legs further away. He lowered his hand to rest it on the small space between them, but it landed on hers. She didn't move it away, but she jumped again.

  "I do not mean to disturb you. You look so peaceful sitting out here alone."

  "Not peaceful enough," she murmured and turned back to her study of the moon.

  "Shall I go? You look cross." His chest prickled, and James wondered what he would
feel like if she told him yes. Benjamin must have said something to her to make her quite upset.

  "No." She gave a curt shake of her head. "I needed some air. Do I look angry? This is how we're taught to sit, stiff and straight, and there's little choice with our... bindings."

  "Stays," mused James, not shocked in the least she would bring up such a thing. "Yes. I've had my share of bindings. Not in so many years, but when I was little."

  She looked at him in question. He shrugged in the dark.

  "They believed I had rickets when I was small. I was a sickly thing," he admitted. James twisted his neck to glance at the house behind them. "I was kept indoors most of my childhood and in bed."

  Miss Applewaite turned back to the moon, but her eyes looked alert as she listened.

  "You can see the marsh from my room—can look across the creek and almost all the way down to the river mouth. I used to stand at the window and watch the barges go down, laden with the indigo, bricks..." He fell silent, remembering the first time Mammy had let him go out with her son in one of the pirogues, while she hopped from one foot to the other in fear he would be harmed.

  "I didn't know that about you," Miss Applewaite admitted. "You look to be in full health these days."

  James felt himself smile. "Why, Phoebe—I mean—Miss Applewaite, I do believe you paid me a compliment."

  She made a noise of amusement. "Which surprises even me, Mr. Hathaway, and since you asked, I am a little angry after all, but perhaps I am too sensitive."

  James's heart wavered with concern. "About what?"

  "Mr. Quinton is an elegant dancer, but less than charming when he converses."

  "Good heavens, what has the dolt said now? And you're quite right. He possesses all of the manners and charms required of a gentleman but drives even me half-mad with his jests."

  She lifted her chin like she understood. "It seems my reputation has evolved, from one of sharp, bitter spinsterhood into avaricious, unladylike business ambitions." There was something earnest in the way she held her head, forward and tilted, her eyes looking intently into his as if the moonlight could reveal what was inside of his mind.

  "No one of my acquaintance has ever called you bitter," James assured her, "though perhaps your talents and abilities have been noticed a little more often of late. You do have a remarkable acquaintanceship with Mr. Payne and a few of the dry goods merchants in the market."

  "My little handkerchief business?" She bit her lip, eyes still focused on him. "How did Mr. Quinton know I intend to open my own shop in the future? He mentioned it as if I were a hoyden for wanting to make my own money rather than grovel at the feet of every single man of wealth in the low country."

  James blinked. "I'm sure that was not his meaning."

  "I'm sure it was," she replied. "Unless..."

  "What?"

  She remained silent and looked away.

  Her distress made James feel uneasy. "Please accept my apology," he said with sincerity. "I did mention your plans to Mr. Quinton, for he is my very good friend. But it was shared with the most ardent admiration, for I do, Miss Applewaite," James cleared his throat, "admire you."

  All at once, her expression became silvery and fairy-like in the moonlight although her jaw still looked tight. James went on. "I admire how hard you work and how confident you are in what you want and your aim to get it."

  Dash it all, he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. "You seem to have an enviable sort of contentment, not only with yourself but for the little things. I wish I was as comfortable with my mama as you are with yours, and I have no brothers or sisters to speak of, so..."

  He fell silent for a pause then Miss Applewaite said in a gentle tone, "I'm sorry you've had your own difficult circumstances, Mr. Hathaway. Please understand that I do appreciate your enthusiasm and support for my endeavors. Shipping our little trunk of kerchiefs to the Indies was very generous indeed."

  He'd forgotten all about that. "I'm sure your dividends will arrive soon. You are a pleasure to do business with, to converse with, and even..." He looked up toward the house again, listening for the echo of music, "to dance with."

  Their gazes met again, and James remembered they were quite alone. He could kiss her, but she did not seem the sort that would let him get away with it. He best not. It would lower him in her esteem, and for some reason, that mattered to him.

  "I quite intended to ask for your hand for the first dance," he admitted, "but Quinton beat me to it." Her dark eyes widened in the indigo night. "Do come inside and dance with me, Miss Applewaite, and we will set old Quinton straight."

  THEY DID DANCE, AND the following days for Phoebe became more enjoyable than any others she could remember. Under the watchful eyes of the mamas roosting at Sandy Bank, Mr. Hathaway took her riding to see land lush with green grass, dainty azaleas, and palmetto trees. There were also thickly-wooded pine forests and sprouting straight rows in the fields where the vegetables grew. They spoke of the futile attempts to raise silkworms by their ancestors, and Mr. Hathaway went on to explain the trade routes between the East and West Indies as they pertained to the Americas. Phoebe found it all very interesting.

  The next morning, the women of the party remaining at Sandy Bank attended the small parish church, jostling up and down on the rough roads in their Sunday best while the men rode their horses alongside the carriage. Mrs. Hathaway acted kindly, but Phoebe felt undeserving of it because she understood the lady's expectations. Mama fairly glowed. It was as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, and she was chattier and livelier than her usual self.

  On Monday, looking quite dapper in dark breeches and a woolen waistcoat with no cravat, Mr. Hathaway took Phoebe to the brickyard. They stood without speaking, watching the workers shape and carry bricks to line up in the sun to dry. They were turned every so often by little brown-skinned children who belonged in nurseries or at their mothers' knees.

  It soon began to drizzle, and Mr. Hathaway joined Phoebe in the library to read although he did not last for long. She saw him later walking the rutted road past the back of the house with his papa, who spoke while pointing across the marsh. His son watched the ground, only occasionally nodding in the wet, misty air. He was bound heavily in an overcoat—an effort, she suspected, to please his mama.

  After another fine dinner and good conversation in the drawing room thereafter, Phoebe decided she would walk down to the small dock in the morning to see where the bricks were loaded onto barges and moved down the creek into the Wando River. From there, she knew, they would merge with the Cooper and float down to Charleston's port.

  She'd seen Rathall Creek in the distance. It was confided to her that this was where Mr. Hathaway escaped to as a boy whenever he was let out of the house. He knew all of the fish, waterfowl, and plants by name—some the Gullah interpretation—but they were, he hinted, at one time his only friends that carried him down the waterways and protected him as he came and went in his mammy's son's little pirogue until he got his own.

  It was dry and surprisingly tepid the next day. Phoebe dressed the best she could without help so as not to wake Mama. The sky glimmered with lavender suggestions of dawn as birds nested around the house began to murmur. She walked down the carpeted grand staircase wrapped in her scarlet cloak, a simple morning dress, and the good boots she'd worn on the ferry, avoiding the household staff moving silently in and out of the rooms on the ground floor.

  Boldly, she let herself out the front door, took the side steps down to the lawn, and slipped into the garden, seeing that some of the flower buds looked about to burst. The morning air felt brittle, anxious for sun, so she pulled the hood over her head and lifted her petticoats to keep them dry in the damp grass.

  Down the drive lined with holly trees, she avoided the mud. Horses nodded across the road. A light mist slipped across the pasture and curled its fingers around the fence posts. Hearing the low murmurs of the enslaved people risen for another day, she continued until she reache
d the narrow road rutted with wagon wheels. It led to trees lining the creek. A large boarded structure with a slanted roof stood sentry over the wooden dock and its pilings.

  Hearing the rushing sound of water, Phoebe wandered over to the small dock as an enormous pelican glided by overhead. The narrow creek was rather high but looked like it might ebb soon. A few wobbly-looking boats were tied off at the last piling.

  Phoebe wrapped her arm around it and studied the western sky still draped in darkness. It was peaceful here, but different than her favorite shore where the mouth to the sea yawned opened in the distance. Here, she admitted, was a sense of comfort one couldn't find in the clattering streets of town.

  A distant splash made her look upstream. Turtles or fish were moving around with daybreak. She squinted through the lifting shadows and remembered the danger of creeping alligators. Her stomach dropped, but then she saw the figure of a man sitting on the grassy bank. It was probably still muddy, and she wondered that he did not take care to protect his breeches.

  Upon closer examination, she saw it was young Mr. Hathaway, her companion for most hours of the day at Sandy Bank, and though she had just seen him last night, her heart soared. The poor man must have felt obligated to see to her entertainment during the day when she wasn't with the other ladies in Mrs. Hathaway's private parlor, but how she enjoyed it. And him.

  She found herself crossing the dock and wading through the grass above the creek's muddy waterline. Mr. Hathaway stared over the creek into the distant marshland. His legs were bent and his arms wrapped around his knees. The rising sun had chased away the gloom around the creek, but with his eyes on the distant clouds still untouched by morning, he did not seem to notice her.

  She crept up beside him before he saw her from the corner of his eye, and his face bloomed into a brilliant, toothy grin. She only just turned up the corners of her mouth, and at her quiet composure, his grin melted into a more natural and relaxed smile. He moved to get up.