Phoebe stepped back into the shelf behind her, and the thread slipped from her weak grip. She could not take it anymore. The piercing words. The horrifying revelations.
Her mind swirled with smoking clouds that rumbled around in her skull like thunder. Lightning struck, and she snatched at her throat, pulling the clasp of her cloak undone. Balling the collar up in her fist, she managed to find the clarity to utter, "Good day, Mr. Quinton," before fleeing the shop. She could not speak to Mrs. Leonard; she would have struck her.
The storm outside had come, too. It threw down heavy curtains of rain from the sky. It flooded the streets, soaked her hat through, and blasted her heart to pieces.
PHOEBE SWITCHED BACK and forth between her bed and the shuttered window. Outside, a violent tempest had taken over the city. It pounded on the rooftops and seeped into the cracks of the Applewaites' home finding new weakened spots to leak through.
Her room was faring well, but Momma's at the back of the house was not. Phoebe heard her faint distraught cries now and then along with Charity's soothing tones. Their distress could not equal hers, she told herself. She'd been tricked into falling in love just so James could begin a career at sea.
That's what it was about then. She made herself accept it at last. He did not love me. But she could not bear to say it aloud. Not yet.
It became black as pitch in her chambers, much like it was outside—and in her heart. Earlier, she'd choked back tears until she reached the house, ignored everyone's concerns that she was wet and cold, and escaped beneath the quilt on her bed for the rest of the day. Charity snuck in with a bowl of broth littered with bits of colorful root vegetables, and though she was not ill, Phoebe played along. She could not hide her red, chapped face. It was braised and sore from salty tears. Mama did not notice. Charity did not ask.
Phoebe's eyes brimmed over again while she stood at the window watching the storm. What had she been thinking? Her destiny had been set, her path clear. Why had she let Mama's excitement over a flowering friendship with Mrs. Hathaway persuade her to listen to all of their encouragements? Although Mrs. Hathaway liked her—approved of her—despite the fact that she was not from a powerful family, it didn't mean she really wanted Phoebe for a daughter-in-law. James, or perhaps his father, had put that into her head.
Her heart dropped into another dark canyon. James had made quite the bargain with his father, she brooded. He would get a post on one of their ships if he quit gallivanting around Charleston like a fool and settle down. Phoebe had only been in the right place at the right time.
She swallowed a thick knot of pain and allowed thin tears to leak again. Her whole body throbbed with betrayal. She put a fist to her nose and sniffled. She'd had her heart bruised by disappointment before and yes, she'd shed a few tears for young men she fancied who'd overlooked her, but this man, this beau garçon, was nothing more than a pretty boy—one who saw an opportunity to get what he wanted and make everyone else around him happy, too. He hadn't changed at all.
She wiped her face long and hard then dried her damp palms on her robe. Sighing, she slipped into the seat of the ladder-backed chair at her small writing table. There was the tiniest glow from embers in the hearth. She laid her head on her arms and tried not to feel sick.
Had he really thought that she was so desperate to be married that she'd accept just anyone? She stirred around inside her heart trying to feel angry. There were embers in there, too, hot and glowing. Well, she had not wanted to be married at all, or desired his attention, until she found in him a friend. And what about his kindnesses and secret longings? Had it all been a remarkable charade to make her believe he actually had more depth than a thimble?
Phoebe sat back in her chair with a soft thump. He'd practically admitted the whole thing, she realized. She locked her arms across her stomach. James had told her he wanted to be a ship's captain. He'd joked about his parents' enthusiasm over their blossoming friendship. He never, she realized, said that he loved her although he'd hinted at it.
She sniffed back another round of tears. There would be no water left in her at this rate. Thank heavens she hadn't confessed to him how much she loved him. She'd been carried away by the secret yearnings of her heart. The romantic in her kept strictly under control had escaped, and she'd forgotten that she'd accepted a life without a partner or children.
Handsome, playful James Hathaway had changed her mind. He was the kind of boy every girl wanted but the sort of gentleman she would have never been avaricious enough to pursue without encouragement. And here she was. He'd hypnotized her like a Hindu snake charmer, and she'd fallen for it.
Phoebe let out a heavy, tired sigh. Tomorrow she would be angry. Tonight, she must keep from slipping into a deep hole of self-pity. The poor Applewaite spinster, she imagined everyone would say, humiliated by that rake at Sandy Hall. Doesn't she know better at her age? Mrs. Leonard would be happy to spread the news around.
"Silly, spoiled James Hathaway," Phoebe whispered with a scowl. Why, she wouldn't spend another day with that deceitful man much less an entire lifetime. Lightning struck the heavens and lit up the room. Phoebe saw the half-hemmed gown for her wedding folded neatly by the wardrobe. She set her jaw and straightened in the chair.
With luck, this storm would pass, and the Lily would return to Charleston soon. She couldn't wait to tell him. She must speak to him at once before she lost her nerve. The glowing embers inside of her burst into raging flames, and she lit a tall candle and pulled out her writing set.
IT WAS THE FIRST TIME in James's life that the Carolina coast looked unwelcoming. He felt exhausted to his very core. He wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. The deck of the Regina felt crowded. He moved to a vacant end, and the men around him stepped aside. No one spoke to him. His stomach rolled as the ship swayed, dipping in the white-washed sunlight.
After abandoning the burning Lily, James had swum beside the skiff holding onto the edge, while his captain and bosun bobbed along on the single cask Howe had thrown overboard. Ogden panicked every time Howe splashed and screamed about sharks, but the nightmares in James's head didn't appear. His breath froze in his chest every time he allowed himself to think of them, and he'd become too afraid to kick his legs and just held on.
Eventually, the men crowded one on top of the other, and a kind sailor took pity on him and pulled him from the water. The boat had groaned and sank lower. Complaints rumbled through some of the exhausted men, but no one threw him back. A Spanish privateer fished them out of the sea a few hours after dawn, and just in time, for a violent storm later blew in.
"Mr. Hathaway?" interrupted a small voice, and he looked down. Zachariah stood at his elbow. His trembling had stopped, but he looked like a sick cat. The boy offered him a broken piece of ship's biscuit.
"You eat it," James insisted even as his stomach complained. The boy looked reluctant for only a moment before closing his eyes and biting down. James let out a hoarse chuckle. They had not slept at all since leaving St. Augustine. He and the crew took shelter in a few rooms over a ramshackle inn at the quay. The swaying palm trees there reminded him of the islands they'd left behind, but the Atlantic surf looked different and darker, like his future.
James groaned under his breath and squinted to see if he could see a lighthouse to mark their progress. Every now and then, young Albermarle peered up at him with a pensive look. The boy had been inconsolable aboard the Spanish ship and then in the rented room he'd laid beside James and sobbed.
It wasn't hard to put together: the boy disappearing to the hold then returning with a roll of gnawed tobacco. He hadn't looked surprised when the men screamed Fire! Only horrified. Smoking was not allowed at sea. It was a foolish thing; something only a thoughtless boy would do. James could not bring himself to ask, but when he searched Zachariah's face the next morning, he could tell the child knew that he knew.
A bell sounded followed by stamping feet and shouted orders. The Regina prepared to enter the harbor mouth which ca
me closer as the minutes rolled by. Zachariah stared again. James squeezed the rail. There were so many things on his mind. The ship. The fire. His papa's face and the reaction of the other investors when they learned about what happened. Why must it bring down a boy, too?
James thought of Mr. Albermarle should he learn his son had burned and sank the Lily. No, it would ruin the family. It would taint the boy forever. He exhaled heavily through his nose. "You mustn't say a word, Zachariah, if you had anything to do with the fire." He continued looking straight ahead so he could not read the boy's face. Zachariah became motionless.
"Tell the truth," James admonished him, "always tell the truth, but if you lit a pipe while down in the hold, you must leave that part out. You only checked on the cargo, chased a few rats, and then made your way back up topside."
The boy beside him remained stiff, but after a few seconds he said in a high pitched tone, "Yes, Mr. Hathaway."
James swallowed. Ogden had not come along on Regina, which had conveniently been in St. Augustine's port when they arrived. Perhaps the old captain was stowed away in some admiral's house on an impressive street, writing letters to Charleston to clear himself of the blame. He had, after all, been asleep in his quarters.
The distant outline of Fort Moultrie on Sullivan's Island came into view, and he peered further into the bay at the distant city of Charleston. Perhaps Phoebe stood on the shore, watching and waiting. The Regina had her money from her first shipment to the Indies, but had the news reached town? Did she know the Lily had sunk on her maiden voyage? He'd lost the pineapple he purchased for her in the fire.
Cursed fire, and what had he done? He'd been in command—daydreaming at the con and plotting ways to make the men adore him. Then he'd petrified to stone. He'd stood there like a little boy staring out his bed chamber's window, watching everyone else hurry and scurry below. There was no one to blame but himself.
Someone called his name, and he looked. One of the captain's officers waved a letter in the air for him. He raised a brow, curious. A mail packet ship had pulled alongside them in Savannah's waters. The crew had exchanged some cargo, and he'd stepped off for a short time to find a hot meal. He'd returned to his berth as soon as possible to keep an eye on Albermarle's boy.
"I'm sorry," apologized the officer. "This came for you in Savannah. You were off, and I forgot about it."
James gave him a reassuring nod. "It's no matter. Thank you." His stomach sank as he accepted it. Papa had wasted no time. Surely, he was furious with him. It would be the last straw. Even Mama could not save him now. It would be back to Sandy Bank or nothing.
James glanced down at the rather feminine handwriting with surprise. It didn't look familiar. Curious, he retired to his closet-sized quarters which had more space than anyone else's besides the captain and stood in the sunlight that radiated from the porthole. He opened his ivory pocket knife and slid it through the vermillion seal of a flourished capital A over the outline of a palmetto tree. Why, Applewaite, of course.
Feeling his heart surge with comfort that he should receive a personal missive from the one person in the world who would understand—and care—about what happened, he fumbled with the sheet of folded paper as he opened it as fast as he could.
Dear Mr. Hathaway,
I'm writing to inform you...
CHAPTER TEN
The sun returned pale and watery to the early April sky. Phoebe could not shake off the gloom that hovered over her wherever she went. News trickled into the harbor that the Lily had been lost although the crew had saved themselves. She could hardly believe it. The thought James could have died was gutting, and Phoebe refused to consider it. No word came from Sandy Bank. Surely, he was still alive.
She did not tell Mama her intentions until after the letter was sent breaking off the engagement with James. The agreement had been an impetuous decision, she decided. Her change of heart should have been kept between James and herself for as long as possible. Even though they didn't know if James had received the letter, Phoebe's decision shattered Mama into pieces of shock, disappointment, and blame.
The very sight of her sent Mama into fits, so Phoebe stayed in her room as much as possible. It seemed that her feelings were not as important as what Charleston society thought—or how it would look for poor Mrs. Hathaway and nearly-killed James. More than once, Mama declared that Phoebe should go to the low country house at Duck Point, and Winnifred should come and live at home with her husband in town. It would have pleased Winnifred, but it was impossible with Daniel working the land there.
Phoebe hurried down the street with Charity trailing behind her carrying their basket. She tried not to see the sideways glances toward her since the gossip had spread that she'd ended it with Mr. Hathaway like a fickle filly. She slowed as she approached the narrow brick storefront of what had been a leather shop. It'd sold pieces of cowhide, deer skins, and leather accessories. It would still have a smell, she imagined, but Daniel had already approached them about purchasing the building outright if not to rent. She only needed his money for her plot of land up the Ashley. No need to clarify it with James or his father now.
There was the expected income from the Indies, too, that James promised one of the company's representatives would bring while he was away. She had not heard a thing; but that income she intended to turn over to Mama. It would bring her such comfort and help with the household—now that there would be no sharing in the spoils of James's inheritance.
Of course, Mama had spent wildly, too, exchanging letters with Mrs. Hathaway still living at Sandy Bank. The wedding would have been at the Congregational Church.
Phoebe idled in front of the abandoned leather shop, peering into the dusty windows to see if it had been emptied out. She planned to have Daniel's family assist with the carpentry and then hire out for painters. Her mind wandered down a lane of hope as she pictured a block printed cotton valance across the top window. It needed a seat below and a shelf to display her prettiest things. That would be Mama's fichus and Phoebe's best-dressed hats in felt, straw, and silk.
Charity had continued walking a few doors down. Hearing the call for fresh catches from the market's fishmonger, Phoebe looked for her and their eyes met. Two, she mouthed, holding up two fingers, and before she looked away she caught sight of her brother-in-law striding toward her from East Bay.
She raised a gloved hand, and he gave a sharp nod. He did not smile at all which was not like him. How could it be such a beautiful spring day and no one felt like smiling? It was humiliating that he would frown at her so like Mama did from sun up to sundown. He must have heard even if Sandy Bank had not.
Daniel was not often in town with the planting season underway upriver. They'd begun the third week of February, almost two months ago, and she hoped he had good news. "Phoebe," he greeted her, stopping to look up at the second floor of the brick store. "I received your message. I've just left the Exchange."
"Have you found a buyer for your crop this September? They should not mind you are new at it or that it's a small farm right now."
He said nothing but looked at her with reluctance in his eyes.
"Are you alright? Is Winnifred here?"
"She is with my family today. We planned to come to dine tomorrow. I thought your mother would have told you."
Phoebe tried to smile although her mind clouded with confusion. "She did not tell me you were back."
"We are, yes," he stammered then gave a half-laugh. "I'm not certain you will want me at your table when you hear my news."
Her fear at his censure for breaking off such an advantageous engagement was forgotten, and Phoebe lifted her brows with concern.
"The storm," he said, his shoulders sinking.
"It took away a few shutters in town," Phoebe informed him, "but Mama said she received a note from Winnifred you made it through unscathed for the most part."
"The house withstood it. I feared for some hours it was a hurricane, but the waters receded at last."
Daniel hesitated then looked her in the eye. "The creek ran over. The rain came so hard and so fast and fell for so many hours and then there was the wind..." He shook his head in a defeated gesture.
"Oh no," said Phoebe with a gasp. "The crop!"
"Yes," he faltered. "It's gone. Everything was either washed away or blown off." A frown of disappointment smeared his cheeks. "The plants were too young, the soil too loose. I should have built up the creek bank, at least that's what my neighbor, Mr. Jackson, said, but he advised me of it after the fact."
Phoebe felt ill for him. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, resisting the urge to hug him though they stood in the street.
"Yes," he returned, "and I'm sorry, too. I might as well move back to town and join my father and brother again in the workshop."
She thought of her income; the sale from the portion of her land. "But you can replant," she insisted, "your field and maybe my land, too."
Daniel looked at Phoebe sadly and a chill ran down her spine. "That's it, you see. I cannot buy your land right now."
The air in her chest whooshed out. "But—" she gulped.
"I'm sorry, sister," said Daniel again, and he reached out to pat her clasped hands. "I had to buy more seed, and I hired an Irishman who's just worked off his indenture to come out and help us. He's going to live in the outbuilding behind the house."
Phoebe wagged her head back and forth in disbelief. It sounded like he had a solution for his problem but not hers. "So you can't buy my land?"
"Not right now, but I will," Daniel promised. "Someday." He glanced through the grimy window beside them. "There are other interested parties in this property, and I simply cannot come up with the money right now to help you buy it at this time."
Phoebe's bones, which had been aching for days, seemed to melt in her body. Her legs threatened to crumple to the ground. She did not breathe for so many seconds that it took a shaky gasp to force back the hysterical protests in her mind.
A Captain's Bride (Gentlemen of the Coast Book 2) Page 15