by Raven, Sandy
"It's in your best interest to make sure the English captain stays just a client." The possessive undertone of his voice and the expression on his face when he said the words frightened her, though Mary-Michael refused to let him think she could be cowed.
"How dare you dictate my business to me? And the insinuations you're making... Why you, sir, are vulgar and offensive," she hissed. "Now, I am going to check on my godchild, then go home to my husband. Who is waiting for me, and for the news of how my day has been—which, up until now was going rather nicely." That said, she marched out of the room, forcing herself not to run so that Potts didn't think she feared him. Only after making sure Davy was resting comfortably, did she return to Victor and her waiting carriage.
Mary-Michael figured her friend had enough on her hands with getting Davy settled in bed, then going back down to the tavern's kitchens to finish preparing the menu for the evening ahead. She promised herself she'd come back the next day to talk with Becky.
She would seek her friend's advice tomorrow. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to tell Mr. Watkins about this latest confrontation with the constable. She wondered if what her husband told her once was true—that he could have Potts removed from his post if she so desired.
Well, she desired it now. As soon as possible. Especially if she wanted to have this weekend with the Captain. She had to have faith Mr. Watkins could make this happen for her, because she needed Potts gone.
Her husband was in his study when she entered the front door. He sat with his head over the desk as he read the newspaper through his magnifying glass. He looked up at her with his gray-whiskered face and sparsely-haired head and his smile faded quickly when he saw her mood.
"Where are your glasses, sir? Shall I get them for you?"
"I left them somewhere again and cannot find them." He set the magnifying glass down and leaned back in his chair, taking in her tense bearing. "Me not wearing my spectacles is not what has you in this mood. What happened? Did the Captain say something to upset you?"
"Not our client, but rather the constable."
Her husband sat straighter, and turned a serious gaze up to her. "Is he at it again?"
Mary-Michael shivered with tightly-wound frustration. "Yes, and his conduct toward me grows more menacing each time we cross paths. He threatened me just now, in Becky's tap room! He said it would be in my best interest not let the captain become anything more than just a client."
Mr. Watkins reached into his desk drawer and removed his spectacles. "That's where they were," he mumbled as he placed two sheets of vellum and a bottle of ink on the leather writing pad atop his wooden desk.
He began to scribble what appeared to be a letter, as Mary-Michael went on. "I wish his mother and aunt didn't live across the street. I wish he wasn't constable. More importantly, I wish he would just leave me alone! I have told him this countless times. You know I have never encouraged him. I have no feelings of amity toward him at all. None! Yet the man seems to think I would be interested in... in something lewd with... with... him!" A shiver of unease raced up her spine as she paced the length of Mr. Watkins' office. "The mere thought of it makes me ill."
He chuckled. "That's because you aren't attracted to him. If you were, I wouldn't have to call in this favor." He signed his name near the bottom of the page, his shaky hand causing his penmanship to appear messy. "This should take care of it," her husband said.
"What is that? Because if you've written him a letter asking him to leave me alone, I highly doubt—"
"This letter is to the General. He'll see to it that Potts and his two deputies are replaced. The man was reassigned here as a favor to his mother and aunt. But his heavy-handed tactics policing aren't welcome in our little village. And his obsessing insolence is the last straw. The moment he threatened you, he made an enemy out of me." He melted wax over a candle and let a few drops fall on the folded sheet of vellum, where he then pressed his seal into it.
"Now, let's change the subject then, shall we?" Her husband leaned back in his chair. He wiped the corners of his eyes, and asked her about her day with the captain.
"We're going to work on the interior appointments selections and the rigging and sail plans tomorrow." She slid the folder across the desk to him. "Here are the selections he made today on the hull, deck and all other exterior appointments. I came home to work on the drawing in the quiet of my room."
"I didn't ask you about the work you covered, but if your day was pleasant and if you have given any more thought to our idea. The captain is a prime candidate, Mrs. Watkins. You won't regret it."
"I think... I am... still thinking on it." Her face burned and she could just imagine the bright color on her cheeks, something close to matching her hair she was sure.
"Well, don't ponder the thing to death. You don't want to miss your opportunity this weekend. I'll take both Sally and Victor with me if that will aid you in your planning."
"I... I don't know what say... except... thank you sir," she placed a kiss on top of Mr. Watkins's gray and nearly-balding head. She wasn't sure exactly what she was thanking him for, the opportunity of having the house to herself this weekend, or the fact that he'd written that letter to help her be rid of Potts. Mary-Michael appreciated that he would step in and write the letter to his friend, General Smith, now the Mayor of Baltimore. She had no doubt that the mayor would soon have Potts and his two lackeys reassigned to the most remote corner of the state just to please Mr. Watkins, after all, their friendship goes back more years than she'd been alive.
"Now, if you will excuse me sir, I believe I shall work on my drawings until dinner. And while I do, I promise to give some extra thought to your suggestion."
Mary-Michael ran into Sally just as she was leaving the study, and nearly knocked the woman over in her eagerness to be away from any further discussion of bedding Captain Gualtiero—even if it was with her husband.
"I thought I heard you come in. Would you like a drink, Miz Watkins?"
"Yes, Sally. When you get a moment, if you could bring it up to my room please."
"Yes ma'am I will."
After closing the door to her room, she realized she had no idea how to seduce the captain or lure him to her bed. Granted, she knew the mechanics of lovemaking, and with the feelings she felt whenever she was with him, she assumed it was going to be a rather pleasurable endeavor.
But she would first have to get past this feeling of committing a mortal sin. The only tiny bit of relief came when she and the captain came to an understanding of sorts that they were going to become lovers at some point.
Mary-Michael got warm and molten in her belly and between her legs just thinking about it.
With the day's events leaving her exhausted, she returned to her room immediately after dinner to continue working. She couldn't wait until she saw her captain in the morning. At least there would be no more of the verbal sparring between them. Without saying it outright, they'd both agreed that they were going to become lovers before he sailed back to England. And hopefully, there would be no more of that constant feeling she needed to defend her decision to marry Mr. Watkins. She removed the snood from her hair and tossed it onto the dressing table and let her hair fall. A few minutes later, she was in her night gown and robe, alone for the night.
She sat at her drafting table in the corner of the room, so she wasn't visible from the road- or alley-facing windows. She chose this arrangement so that she could get up in the middle of the night and work without passers-by on the street looking in on her in her night gown. But at that moment she regretted the set up. The open windows did little to encourage any breeze into the cavernous room. It was still, humid and hot, almost as though there was a storm brewing nearby.
Pushing the thought of the weather aside, her mind returned to her dilemma. She didn't want burn in hell for eternity, and she was afraid she would if she did what she was considering. She was going to knowingly break a commandment, and her marriage vow she made before God, then take her s
in into the confessional and ask for forgiveness.
Was a child worth so high a price?
She wiped the tear before it spilled over from her eye. Only her dearest friends and her husband knew how desperately she wanted a baby. A child of her own. She never thought it a possibility. Until now. If she could just reconcile her deepest desire from the price she must pay, she might get to share in what her friends have all experienced—life begetting life. Her very own babe growing within her womb.
It hadn't always been a desire of hers though. When she married Mr. Watkins she'd been so young, and at that time she didn't think she'd ever want children. But now that he was growing increasingly weaker as he aged, they both realized that Mary-Michael was soon to be left alone. Likely forever. And being faced with a lifetime of loneliness made her think about children—and the agreement she and Mr. Watkins made before they married. He lived up to his end of the agreement, teaching her everything he knew. And Mary-Michael was living up to hers, doing her best to make him proud of her.
Though children hadn't been something she wanted earlier, her heart had changed. Now? Now she wanted children. She wasn't the same girl who made that original agreement. Now she yearned to feel life beneath her breast. She wanted children to raise, nurture, and love. And one day, God willing, she wanted to leave the legacy Mr. Watkins created to her offspring.
Once she dreamed of building the fastest clippers on the ocean. Today she dreamed of raising children. Her husband's fortune would give her the freedom to hire managers to oversee the day to day operations if she chose to step away from it. She could live on the farm near Frederick, and she would have the ability to design clippers and other cargo-carrying, ocean and river boats for the rest of her life. Her husband made sure of this, by teaching her everything he learned and making available to her all the courses and exams necessary for her to become certified as a Naval Architect.
It hadn't been an easy path when she chose an education and career over motherhood.
If she dwelt on the truth that she was missing out on what other girls had in their marriages she might feel envious. But that was what women did, wasn't it? They sacrificed one thing in order to have another. When she left the orphanage, she'd needed the protection and education Mr. Watkins could provide and George needed the sponsorship to the seminary.
A baby. She smiled when she thought of one. A healthy baby with brown hair and eyes. A son—tall as Captain Gualtiero and with his swarthy good looks. Or a daughter with her complexion and his dark hair and eyes.
She thought about their new client, Captain Gualtiero, and wondered what it would be like to be kissed by him the way she sometimes caught Becky kissing David. Her captain had only to look at her and she quivered inside. She sensed lying with him would be rather exciting. She found his rough-hewn good looks, the proud way he carried himself and his lack of concern for what others thought of him so very arousing. When she thought of his manners, his longish wavy, black hair, and that ever-present shadow of a beard, it triggered some sort of base, almost elemental longing in her.
Another sentiment the captain brought out in her was an innate desire to clean him up, to refine and perfect him. But she was so attracted to his rugged good looks, that she feared if she turned him into a proper gentleman, he might not remain as desirable as he was in this barely-civilized state which she believed was normal for him.
She set her pencil and gum eraser aside and stretched. Urgent as it was, Mary-Michael was exhausted, and the rest of the drawing would have to wait until tomorrow afternoon. Yawning, she closed her eyes and an image of Captain Gualtiero as he was in her office today rose in her mind. He was refined and civilized, yet raw and untamed at times. He also had an endearing smile that made her unable to finish a thought, some noble ideals that aligned with hers, and enough of a mischievous sparkle in his eye that would make any young woman weak for want of his affection. If ever there was a man who encompassed both tame, gentlemanly ideals and wild, untamed masculinity, it was this one.
She rolled over onto her belly, flipped, then punched her pillow and prayed for a breeze. Because it certainly was getting warmer in her room.
The next morning at eight sharp, Lucky hurried into the offices of Watkins Shipbuilding, trying to avoid the deluge of rain that was about to move on shore from across the bay. The heavy, dark curtain of rain moved slowly enough that he could see the first drops on the dry footpath as the rain closed in on him. He shut the door just in time, for the sound of the instant deluge on the roof was nearly as loud as a storm at sea, with the wind tossing the waves and driving the rain into your skin like tiny needles.
He made his way upstairs toward Mr. Watkins' office and saw the draftsman hard at work at his table. Beyond him, the accountant sat in his office behind a desk, his head bent over several open ledger books. Lucky greeted the men with a hello and before they could reply, even above the din of the rain on the roof, he heard Mrs. Watkins shouting. "Get off the property. Both of you. You're fired!"
The glass pane on the office door rattled when she yanked it open. "And if you try to help yourselves to Mr. Watkins' property again, we will turn you in to the constable."
Two men stood in the office with her, wearing expressions that were resentful and ashamed, both at once. They were taller than Mrs. Watkins but shorter than Lucky, about his same age, he figured. One slightly taller than the other, they looked to be brothers, both dressed in work trousers and rough cotton shirts. Mrs. Watkins displayed the bit of temper he'd discovered inherent in most redheads. Both men turned to leave and glanced at him before heading for the hallway.
"Mr. Temple," Mrs. Watkins called to the accountant, "could you give these men their final pay, please?"
Lucky thought she was beautiful when she got her temper up. Her cheeks blazed in a near perfect match to her auburn hair, which seemed to turn her eyes the darker brown he'd only seen once before, in the hallway yesterday. Lord knew she was angry enough at him then.
Andrew Nawton and another employee entered the antechamber to support their employer if she needed it. After Robert Temple handed each man a sealed packet, Mrs. Watkins followed the two former workers down the hall and steps, escorting them out of the building. Lucky trailed behind her, reluctant to interfere with the running of her business. Her and her husband's business. Lucky's presence might not be required, but he didn't care. He would back her up as well, and protect her if necessary. Once the two terminated men left the building, going into the rain, she leaned back against the closed door, visibly shaken.
Lucky wanted to touch her—her hand, her elbow, anything—just to offer support. "Anything I can do to help? Perhaps get you a glass of water?"
"No, thank you, I already have one." Mrs. Watkins pushed off the door and climbed the steps, returning to her husband's office where she propped the door open with a chair back. The quick burst of rain had let up and she opened the window the rest of the way to allow for more breeze to enter the room.
She appeared tired and fragile and it made him want to protect her. If she was his, he would. She wouldn't be working at all. Much less surrounded by the type of rough men who could so easily hurt her. Or worse. "May I ask what they did or said to make you so angry?"
"I'm sorry you had to see that. We knew we had a thief somewhere in the finish crew, but I didn't expect the two of them. Mr. Watkins will be disappointed. Their father worked here for many years before his death." She shook off the emotional moment and returned to her strictly-business persona. Lucky was sorry to see that wall of hers go back up. "We received the brass handles and knobs for the furnishings of the Ajax. I saw them in the box on the floor with my own eyes. The box came up missing the day after I saw it when Malcolm went to install them.
"These were special to the Ajax, custom-made in Philadelphia with the shipping company's insignia stamped into the brass. That's an expensive reverse-molding process."
"How do you know they were the ones who stole them?"
"They tried to use them to pay their tab at Cormack O'Meara's tavern." He watched her shake her head in dismay, and seeing her frustration with the situation she had with men she'd employed. "I saw Cormack on my walk to work this morning and he asked me if I've been missing some brass. I told him aye, but I thought they must've been misplaced. He led me to his bar and he showed me what he'd just taken off those two buffoons last night.
"It was my own brass." She shook her head, looking dumbfounded. "What hurts most is that they would steal from us. There has been a Slocum working here from day one."
Lucky unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt, the heat getting to him already. "Do you mind?" When she shook her head, he began to roll them up. "Ian told me about your summers here. It is certainly living up to its reputation." He finished one sleeve then started on the other. After the scene he'd just witnessed he thought it might be more than just the weather getting to him. He'd decided yesterday that seeing Mary Watkins in a high temper was more than a little arousing.
"Are you ready... to um... to work on the last list?" Her voice shook as she reached for her glass of water. It trembled in her hand as she clutched it and brought it to her mouth for a sip. He wondered if she was having a delayed reaction to the stressful scene with the thieves.
"You are obviously worked up over what just happened. Take a few minutes to catch your breath." He poured a glass for himself, and sat across from her. "I am in no hurry."
"I'll be fine." She managed a half-hearted smile. "It's just the stress of having to do something unpleasant." As she shuffled through the papers on her desk, Lucky heard her say, "It's times like this that I think I would rather just design. And leave the running of the business to...."
"So hand over the management of the shipyard to a manager. A man. Let men handle firing men. You shouldn't have to do it if you don't want to."
"I can't. I feel... responsible for... all of it." Mrs. Watkins' gaze again went to the open doorway. "My husband has trained me, and is still teaching me to this day how to run this business. Firing men is part of the job."