The Heart's Haven

by Jill Barnett

  “I wouldn’t have the Wanderer if Jan hadn’t helped me. I think I’d deal with the devil himself for Jan. Didn’t he bring you your first commission?”

  “My first, my second, and the third,” Kit answered.

  “We both owe him. Hell, if all those whalemen hadn’t run off to the gold hills, you’d probably own all of San Francisco. Lord knows it’s a damn sight easier to consign the load here than to spend weeks sailing back East, only to unload and have to sail back again.”

  Kit turned and emptied the remains of his pipe. “That’s why I came here. The Atlantic grounds were nearly empty when I was still whaling in ‘forty-six. Since the supply is here, I figured that’s where a new agent ought to be.” Out of habit, Kit put the pipe back in his mouth and chewed on it, as if the motion helped him think more clearly. After a few minutes of quiet, he removed it and looked directly at Lee. “You’re right about the mining, though—it has affected things. All you have to do is look out in the harbor. Eight hundred ships abandoned. What a waste.”

  “Some of us are still going strong. Give me the sea any day over a maggoty mule and a pickax.”

  “I wonder what Jan will do.”

  “Do when?”

  “He wants to retire, Lee, and he vowed he’d stay out as long as it took to find some gris. With all the upheaval across the Atlantic, the market’s switched to the Orient. I’ve had bids as high as four hundred dollars a pound.”

  Lee whistled. “Sweet Lord, that’s one helluva lot of money.”

  “Jan knows about it. This is his last voyage.”

  “The last batch of ambergris I found weighed over a thousand pounds but that was over three years ago . . . which doesn’t bode well for Jan’s chances of nabbing some, although I wish him luck.”

  Lee scratched his red beard. “So my friend, fate served you your revenge on a platter. Jan’s supply and the Tabers’ demand clicked right into place.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That’s a bit too convenient for me.”

  Kit pondered Lee’s comment as he watched his friend walk back to the helm. He’d thought he’d made the best deal for everyone concerned, but now Kit questioned his motives. Perhaps his decision had been all about sticking it to the Tabers. Maybe he had made a huge mistake.

  Chapter Five

  “Aye, mate, ya got till dark on Sat’rday ta have the quid. I warned ya wot happens ta them wot don’t pay. The blokes gets thumselves burnt out. Ya pay an’ ya like m’partna. The Ducks, they protect ya like. I’m ah mon o’ my word, mate.”

  The short, burly Aussie bared his riddled teeth into what might have passed for a bestial grin. Pulling his floppy-brimmed hat low over his pocked face, he turned, purposely running his filthy finger along the rich grain of Abner’s burl desk.

  “Be a right shame ta have this foine piece a pile o’ ashes. G’day ta ya,” he added before he skulked from the funeral parlor.

  Abner sagged back in his chair and willed his knotted fists to unclench. He hated this. Pushing his chair back, he rose and went to the window. Taking his handkerchief out of his pants pocket, he swiped the sweat from his forehead and then rubbed the damp haze from the windowpane. The burly man who’d just left was the current leader of the Sydney Ducks. Abner stood in silence, watching as he joined his fellow miscreants and they disappeared through the fog, leaving only the echo of their threatening laughter in their wake.

  This was Wednesday. He had barely three days to come up with the money they demanded for ‘protection.’ Protection against them and what they would do to him if he didn’t pay. He’d never been caught so short before.

  When he caught the older Fredriksen girl in his tree, he thought he’d found the perfect way to get that last bit of money. Her father captained a whaler. It was a lucrative business, and the captain got the largest share. With her only parent at sea, he’d assumed he could weasel the money out of her. He had no idea that someone like that Howland fellow would get involved.

  As Abner gazed about his richly appointed room, he tried to come up with a way to get that last five hundred dollars. The vases and sculptures alone were worth twice that amount, but San Francisco had no market for them. He couldn’t sell them, because the fools who could afford them didn’t have the class or refinement to know their true value. The only things that brought top dollar in this gold-mad town were chamois skins to bag the gold ore dust, food to feed the hordes, and whiskey and whores to feed another hunger. No one cared for the sustenance of art or beauty. Aesthetic value was unknown in a town that had been slapped together in a jumble of canvas and wood structures.

  He’d made a foolish choice. When newfangled metal caskets suddenly became available, he had to have them, despite that huge number the manufacturer forced him to order and pay for in cash. It was that prepayment that put him in this predicament. The cost had all but emptied his bank account. The coffin company had so many orders they had the power to demand cash payment up front. He’d planned on getting the money back quickly, knowing he could charge twice as much for a metal burial casket, though the actual cost was only about a quarter more than the wooden ones.

  He wouldn’t need a carpenter anymore, so he could get rid of Duncan. The man was an idiot, hardly ever spoke, though he did good work. But lately there’d been an insolence about Duncan that rubbed Abner wrong, and he’d just as soon rid himself of the huge oaf’s irritating presence. But he couldn’t now . . . not until that shipment arrived.

  Abner ran his finger across the wood of the windowsill. It was rough, although the mortuary building was considered one of the city’s best. Like the rare fine buildings in San Francisco, his place had been prefabricated in France, shipped to the West Coast, and thrown up in a single day. Although he’d paid for the elaborate moldings, it still was not a suitable encasement for what was left of his heritage. The Lowestoft urns and fine Chinese porcelains had once graced any number of rooms in the Moffat-Brown mansion.

  But he’d been allowed to keep so little in the settlement. His father had repeatedly challenged fate with his gambling, until he’d lost almost everything. Then he’d put a bullet through his cowardly head rather than face his only son. The only positive thing was that his mother had died two years earlier and hadn’t been alive to see all she loved and cherished sold off.

  Suddenly Abner’s gut cut with the sharp, burning, recurrent pain that had begun in his belly from the first moment he’d found out what his father had done. He sniffled . . . then wiped his dripping nose with the crumpled cloth still clutched in his tense fist.

  His nose was running again. What time was it? The clock told him only five hours had passed since his last laudanum dose. Lately, his runny nose served as a warning that the drug was wearing off, and the doses were lessening in effect. He’d increased his dosage repeatedly over the last half a year or so, but he wasn’t getting any better. The searing agony in his stomach came back along with excruciating headaches.

  He walked outside, then up the narrow stairs to his room, each step now reverberating through his pounding skull like a hatchet on wood. As he sat on the edge of his bed, his belly-burning twisted into a gripping cramp. He reached for the large, rusty-brown bottle on the bedtable and began to count the drops as they plopped into a small, water-filled glass. His hand shook. The strong scent of cloves and cinnamon permeated the air, and with each drop the water deepened to ruby red.

  By the time he reached the count of thirty, his usual dosage, the pain in his belly was so bad that he had rolled to his side and had drawn his knees to his chest, the glass in his hand. Recklessly, he counted ten more drops from his fetal position and poured the liquid past his cracked lips, draining the glass. He squeezed his watery eyes closed, feeling the moisture of his tear escape his lids as it trailed across his clammy skin to pool onto the already damp pillow. Then he cried for a long time, and as the sharp cr
amping grew even worse, he rolled from side to side, his pain not allowing him to lie still.

  As he writhed atop the bed, his mind screamed for the laudanum numbness to set in, for it was then that life changes and he regained euphoria and strength . . . wrapped in the soothing, but addictive arms of his opiate.

  Hallie stared at the ceiling and she played a mental game—the one where the burnished knots in the wooden ceiling took other forms. The cocoa-brown splotch right above her head looked exactly like a peanut, or a pear, or maybe, she turned her head to the side, a footprint.

  Like the muddy imprint on your pink dress.

  “Humph,” she said too loudly. She held her breath, listening for her sisters’ breathing, which stayed smooth and even. At least someone in this family could sleep. Of course they didn’t worry through the night like she did. The entire evening had been nothing but a joke, at least to Kit, who she desperately wished would take her seriously. Instead she played the court jester, fumbling, mumbling and tumbling, right in front of her prince.

  Every time she looked at Kit, he had appeared to be fighting his laughter.

  After Millie’d served the chowder, Hallie had waited, then took a look at the men. Kit ate but Captain Prescott sent her a kind smile. She understood he was trying to make her feel better, but knowing that he was aware of her embarrassment just made her feel more embarrassed.

  Instead of gaining Kit’s respect, instead of impressing him, she had most likely sunk to the level of childishness. So much for changing her image. Captain Prescott must have felt sorry for her. Kit was no doubt laughing all the way to Sausalito—laughing, and relieved to be rid of Jan Fredriksen’s mad family.

  “Hallie?”

  “Duggie? What are you doing still awake?”

  “I’m worried.”

  “About what?”

  “Da. Do you think he’ll be home soon?”

  Hallie turned over, cradling her head on one bent arm. She watched her sister. The same concern and fear she heard in Dagny’s voice furrowed her sister’s face. It was like looking in an emotional mirror, for whenever Hallie thought of their father she felt the same way. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

  “He’s never been gone this long before. You don’t think something awful’s happened, do you?”

  There it was. The unspoken question that lurked around those who waited for the return of an overdue whaler. The clawing thoughts of what might have happened flashed through Hallie’s mind, then she knew she had to reassure her sister. “Da’s been at this for too many years to make any mistakes now. He knows we need him, and he’ll be careful. Let’s not go expecting trouble. He’s probably found one of those famed whale-filled inlets we’re always hearing tales about. I’d bet he’s so busy flensing all those whales that he doesn’t realize how long he’s been gone. Remember, Duggie. He made those arrangements at the bank, so he must have known this might be a longer voyage. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. Da will bring the Sea Haven in before you know it. Just go to sleep. Everything will be fine,” Hallie repeated, also trying to convince herself.

  “You’re right about the bank. I guess I’m being silly.” Dagny turned away from Hallie and pulled the covers high over her narrow shoulder. “G’night, Hallie.”

  Within minutes Dagny was safely back to sleep. And Hallie, who had been intimidated, angered, embarrassed, kissed, spanked, discouraged, humiliated, and now frightened right down to her supposedly strong, Nordic bones, closed her eyes to lessen the stinging burn of her sudden tears.

  Crammed along the sloping streets, the flat-roofed buildings sat choking one another. Identical in silhouette, like the planks along a clapboard fence, each structure melted into the next, with only their hastily scribbled signs giving an inkling as to what lay inside. To try to read those signs at night was almost impossible.

  As Abner passed each hitching post, he squinted, searching and trying to read the letters in the faint flicker of an occasional oil lantern. He rounded the corner and was relieved to see that at least this section was better lit. The drifting sounds of laughter against the tinny twang of a piano filled the air. He must be getting closer. He crossed the street and made his way down a narrow alley.

  It was like walking from a cemetery into a circus. Activity teemed from every square foot, and clusters of men blocked the walks and doorways of each building. From the low-slung eaves, lights hung every few feet and he could hear the distant sizzle of whale oil dripping from the swaying lanterns onto the fog-soaked ground. His nose tingled from the native smells. The strong stench of sweat and whiskey fought for supremacy with that of horse dung and the briny odor of the nearby wharf.

  For Abner Brown, the decadence of the city’s seedy side was foreign—and stimulating. He found an empty stoop and leaned in its corner. His breath came in exhilarated pants, sending his blood coursing to his galloping heart. His hands shook. The pain in his head and gut was gone, all but forgotten in the drug-supplanted confidence that replaced it. In the past, fear bred from his father’s downfall had forced him to avoid anything that remotely resembled a gambling hell. But now he was here, and he would win.

  A nearby door splintered as a huge, red-shirted body catapulted through it. The miner hit the walk, tumbled under the hitching rail and onto the mucky, horse-filled street. Another man suddenly loomed in the broken jamb.

  “You dirty, cheating son of a bitch! Stand up so’s I can knock that shit-filled mouth of yours clean out to the privy!”

  With a meaty paw, he shoved Abner aside and dove after the other man.

  “Fight! Fight!” The call echoed through the tight stoop, and a sudden swarm of men poured outside from the buildings and shanties nearby, elbowing and pushing until Abner had to squeeze inside to escape. The gambling saloon was still packed. Makeshift tables were thrown together out of splintered crates and old pine doors. Every size barrel, from nail to pickle, served as stools, and the noise was deafening.

  At the sound of more shattering glass and louder voices, Abner edged his way around the perimeter of the room to a broken crate sitting forgotten in a dank corner. He sat down, now as unnoticed as the damaged crate, and he watched the betting and the card games still going on inside, absorbing each move of the players, learning the only skill he thought might bail him out of his financial bind. While the table nearest him shuffled a new deck, Abner had seen enough. His mind flashed with the cynical thought that he could catch on to the game fast. After all, the techniques were surely inbred. They were a gift from his father—a genetic shortcoming of the Brown bloodline.

  Dagny awoke to a cold, empty bed. Sitting up sleep-startled, she eyed the dark room. Liv was asleep but Hallie was not in sight, so she listened quietly to try to hear if her older sister was downstairs.

  Probably went out to the privy, silly!

  So she waited.

  Finally she gave up and slid from the bed onto the chilly floor. She shrugged on her dressing gown while her foot scooted softly under the bed ruffle looking for her warm, knitted slippers. Finding them near the foot of the bed, she wedged them onto her half-frozen feet. She tiptoed to the door and pushed her free hand down on the swollen doorjamb to prevent it from creaking when she opened it.

  The hall was black, so she felt her way toward a narrow lamp table, picked up the tinder, and lit the oil lamp. She waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. The sound of muted voices drifted up from below.

  She walked down the first few stairs, ducking her head past the floor extension to where she had a clear view of the foyer. She could see Hallie’s back as she whispered to a man who stood in the shadow of the open door.

  Chilling fog slunk into the house, but its draft was not what caused the pop of gooseflesh on her skin. It was the man. He had a light-colored sea cap crushed in his nervous hands and he wore the heavy, woolen coat of a whaleman.
The top of his graying head barely reached her sister’s chin.

  Hallie stumbled back. “Oh, my God . . . no . . . pl-please, God . . . noooooo,” Hallie wailed, grabbing the newel post for support.

  Dagny continued down the stairs, and as she reached the bottom, the man spoke. “I’m sorry, miss.” He backed out the door, and before it closed she heard him repeat, “So sorry.”

  Hallie sagged backward, sobbing. “Da’s dead . . . Da’s dead . . .”

  Chapter Six

  “That looks fine, sir.” Hallie turned to her sister. “What do you think, Duggie?”

  Her somber sister stared at the epitaph suggested by the stonemason. She swallowed hard before replying in a dull whisper. “That looks fine,” she said quietly, then she drifted through the aisles of the dockside warehouse, seemingly oblivious to anything around her. Dagny wove her way through the stacks of fresh-cut lumber and slabs of granite and marble. The bright morning sun caught the sheen of her bonnet, casting her face in shadow as she wandered out onto the loading dock.

  Watching her was difficult. Hallie was terribly worried over Dagny’s reaction . . . or non-reaction to Da’s death. Hours of tears helped Hallie, thought she could still cry at the drop of a hat. But not Duggie—she shed not a single tear.

  As Hallie watched her sister sit on a barrel just outside the stonemason’s warehouse, despondency encircling Dagny like a shroud, she wondered if her young sister had the strength to deal with all that had happened to their family in recent years. Losing both parents, especially when the family had been so close-knit, was terribly difficult, and Hallie understood how much that kind of loss could change someone, especially someone who was wrestling with all those mad emotions and intense feelings that could overcome a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Life turned abysmal so quickly. The will to go on could become lost.

  The responsibility of the children had kept Da afloat after Mama’s death, just as her own role of substitute mother had filled the hollowness she felt when her mother died. For as long as she could remember, she had been told by everyone who knew them that she inherited her father’s stubborn Nordic determination. And she believed that her destiny was up to her, and to God.