by Raven, Sandy
"I'd heard Captain McKim came in third," the old man cackled with laughter. "I didn't know you and Ian both had beat him!"
"Did my sister recognize you and Ian as the two who beat Captain McKim? You know that was her first hull design that Spenser let her build," her brother said. "She is very proud of that boat."
"She recognized the name right after I introduced myself."
"She's a smart cookie that Mary-Michael," said the older priest, Father Douglas.
Lucky then answered Watkins' questions regarding the retrofitting done to their clippers and after explaining it, he invited Watkins aboard to see for himself Ian's design.
"Mrs. Watkins will want to see that, too, I reckon. And these changes put you at an advantage, you think, even to the Ann McKim ?" asked Watkins.
"Without a doubt, sir," Lucky said. "We crossed the finish line moments apart sir, and Ian by one hour and ten minutes."
Talk then changed to another sport the older men favored, pugilism. Mr. Watkins and Father Douglas then began a heated debate of one Irish fighter over another. Mrs. Watkins' brother looked at Lucky and rolled his eyes very slightly. "I find the fights interesting only when I am winning a bet."
The conversation wound down and Mr. Watkins loosened his tie and collar, then told the group, "I've a trip planned to the farm tomorrow. This heat is unbearable."
"I wondered how long you could take this weather," the old priest said. "If I could get away for a few days, I'd come with ye."
"Will Mary-Michael go with you? I told her just a few hours ago that I thought she needed some time away." The young priest sounded concerned for his sister's welfare. "She's always worked too hard, and losing Rowan and Emily to their uncle wasn't easy on either of you."
Watkins seemed to fight his emotions. "Yes. We were... disappointed," the elderly man said. "Mrs. Watkins said she had to finish a few things pertaining to this new project and would take the next train. She can come up on Wednesday, as soon as she's finished with what she has left to do before turning it all over to Andrew Nawton."
Lucky hoped he appeared appropriately curious of the man's travel plans, even though he'd already been made aware of them. Mrs. Watkins had told him earlier of her husband's trip to his country home. With her husband out of the way, he was hoping to have some time alone with her before he sailed on Monday, and now it looked as though he definitely would. Inwardly, he smiled at the thought of the next several days.
"These past few years it's been more and more difficult to tolerate the heat, so I spend a few weeks at a time on my farm. Seems to me the air is fresher and the shade is cooler in the mountains."
Lucky sipped from his glass of port and listened.
"I may go away for three or four weeks, but Mary-Michael never stays away from work that long," Watkins said. "She'll likely return after only one week. It's just her way."
The two priests rose to leave, saying they had early services to officiate, leaving Lucky alone with Mr. Watkins. Mr. Watkins shut the door after the two men had gone, and poured himself another drink and lit another cigar. Lucky did the same.
"My errand yesterday morning had to do with your partner. My friend's son. I went to fetch something for him from my deposit box. It's from his father. I probably should have taken it to England myself when it kept coming back to me." He shook his gray head. "I didn't, but I'd be pleased if you'd take it to him now."
Watkins reached into his desk drawer and removed a thick package tied with string and sealed with wax. It had yellowed around the edges and the seal was cracking with age. He handed it to Lucky. It had Ian's name on it. He wondered what it was. If it were letters from his father, he wasn't so sure Ian would care to read them.
"When Hamish died, I didn't know where or how to find his son except through the old earl. I sent the lad word of his da's passing and I hoped he'd come one day to visit his father's grave, so I kept this for him."
"What is it?" Lucky held the thick package. It felt like papers or currency, he wasn't sure which.
"It's what Ian inherited when his father died. Hamish was a part owner of this yard. We had big dreams when we started this place. Its success was in no small part due to the skill of Hamish Ross. The man was a genius. The best naval architect I've ever met. Except for perhaps myself." Watkins smiled, obviously reminiscing.
"Anyhow, that package contains his portion, the value set at the time of Hamish's death by our accountant. It's been sitting in my bank's vault for nearly twelve years. I retrieved it yesterday."
"Do you mind if I ask how much it is?"
"There's a draft in there that is enough to pay for one of your clippers, and most of the second."
His jaw went slack, and he set the cigar down in the ash tray. All these years Ian had struggled to pay his fair share of the financial half of their partnership, when if he'd just made one trip to Baltimore, he never would have had to worry.
"My God. What would you have done had we not come to you?"
"Upon my death, it would have gone to the Children's Home."
"Did you ever try to find Ian?"
"Several times. You're holding every single letter I wrote him in care of his grandfather. At first, each one I sent the lad was returned. Gideon and I were never certain the letters actually made it to him, so the last time I tried, I hired a messenger to deliver it into his hand. The agent I hired sent the letter back, saying the lad had instructed his family that he wished for no contact with his father or any person affiliated with his father. I was told to stop sending letters. That he would never accept them."
Lucky was truly astounded. The fact that Ian had never mentioned it told Lucky that Ian had never learned of them. Then again, knowing Ian's grandfather as he did, he wouldn't put it past him to refuse the letters without ever informing Ian.
"Sir, it is my firm belief that Ian never knew of these letters."
"Well, take that packet to him. Each one is dated, along with that draft."
"I shall, sir. Thank you." With that, Lucky left the Watkins home, wondering about the odd evening, from the monetary windfall his business partner had just received to the questions from the priests and the odd behavior of Mrs. Watkins.
He knew without a doubt now that she was as nervous as he about the upcoming weekend. Also, it didn't appear as though Mrs. Watkins' remaining behind to work was out of the ordinary. She'd obviously done it before, which made his plan for the weekend easier to put into place.
Lucky smiled to himself in the dark as he walked back toward the ship with a spring in his step.
Chapter Six
The following morning, Mr. Watkins, Victor and Sally left Mary-Michael at the office on their way to the farm. Sally fretted the entire five minute carriage ride to the office, saying "It ain't proper for a lady to stay home alone for that long."
"Bah!" Mr. Watkins waved his hand across his face as though shooing a fly. "You heard her. She's coming up on the Wednesday train, as soon as she's done with her drawings."
"Then I should stay here and come up with her then," Sally insisted. "Ain't right to leave the Missus unattended."
"I need you and Victor with me, more than Mrs. Watkins needs you to worry over her these next few days. You heard her say she's going to work and take her meals at Becky's."
"I ain't worried over her eatin' because I know when she's hungry she's goin' to eat. It's the fact it ain't right for a lady to be home alone." The older black woman huffed as Mary-Michael stepped out of the carriage. Sally gave her a look with her big, expressive eyes full of censure. "Think o' what the neighbors gonna say when they find out."
"It's only a few days," Mary-Michael replied. "I'll be there before you know it." She met her husband's gaze, and hoped he couldn't hear the nerves causing her voice to tremble a bit. "I have a project to start, and when I get to the farm I promise to take some time off and relax."
As Victor drove the carriage away Mary-Michael waved at Mr. Watkins and Sally while the butterflies beat a
rousing tattoo in her breast. It made her fingers tremble when she reached for her keys to unlock the door. The sun was just full over the bay, its bright reflection on the water causing her to squint as she watched her family in the carriage go down to the dock, where they would board their private boat for the short ride across Curtis Bay to Baltimore, then the long train ride to Mount Airy where the farm was located.
It wouldn't be long before Captain Gualtiero sought her out. If he took the hints she and her husband had both dropped yesterday, he'd look for her here first. Excitement had coursed through her body all night long, making it impossible for her to fall asleep until the wee hours. The thought of making love with this man was frightening. With Becky's help, she knew a little of what to expect and how to deflect any questions he might have concerning possible evidence of breaching her maidenhead. Becky helped her devise the perfect story to explain why she was lacking in knowledge and technique, so hopefully he would never discover her secret.
Too, she fretted the timing of getting with child this weekend. She also worried about him finding out she'd had a babe when he came to pick up his clippers next year. As she sat with her friend planning for this possibility, they decided that if she was blessed enough to have a babe while he was away, Becky would care for her child while Captain Gualtiero was in town. Mary-Michael knew she could make this work.
A knock on the door downstairs signaled an arrival, and since Andrew and Robert weren't expected for at least another hour, it had to be the captain. She went back down to open the door for him, leaving it unlocked after he entered. She prayed he didn't notice her nervousness as she closed it behind him.
"Good morning, Captain," she said. "Please, come in. I was just getting the office opened up. I had planned to work on your sail plans today."
He followed her up the stairs. Inside she leaped for joy. This was it. They were actually going to do it. She forced herself to remain professional and demure as she glanced at him over her shoulder, asking him, "What can I do for you?"
"I thought to help you this morning." His smile caused her insides to flip like a school of dolphins frolicking in the wake of a ship.
She tripped on a step causing the captain to lurch forward and assist her. One of his arms went around her waist again, as it had that day she was coming off of Ajax. And as he had that day, he'd prevented her from taking an undignified fall. If only he could keep my heart from falling in love with him. Love? She couldn't dare. She was a married woman. Mary-Michael simply had to remain calm. "I can finish up on my own. I'm quite capable, I assure you."
"Before we work on sail plans," he said, "shouldn't we come to a decision on the cross-trees?"
Hadn't they already covered that? She wasn't sure. "Let me get my notes, but I thought we decided on composite."
"Did we?" he asked. "I don't remember."
"You do want composite, right?" He agreed, so she went on. "The benefit of composite far outweighs the solid tree. The iron makes it stronger, in my opinion, than solid wood. We'd been using iron for years on the trestle trees. It was just a matter of time before we used it on cross-trees."
"Then composite it is," he said. "And what were your thoughts on the sail plans?" They reached the top of the steps and stopped.
"Sail plan?" Her voice squeaked. His nearness was disturbing her normal, business-like demeanor. She'd never lost track of a conversation when it pertained to her work—until she met this man. He was the first person she'd ever met who had the ability to discomfit her natural, cool, demeanor.
"Yes. It is what you were planning to work on today, was it not?" He raised a brow at her, looking as if he wondered whether she'd lost her mind. Perhaps she had.
"Oh. Yes, well—" She went the rest of the way down the corridor to her drafting table in the main antechamber to her office. "I've already decided what would work best anyway, and was about to sketch it up. I can have it ready in a couple of hours. If you had something else to do, you could come by then and give me your approval." She didn't want him to go, but she shouldn't be caught alone here with the captain when her employees began to arrive in an hour.
He followed close behind her. Too close. It made her feel too... fluttery inside. "You would make that decision without consulting with me?"
"Captain, this is what I do." She pressed open the roll of print paper on her drafting table. "I think I do it well. Have some faith in me."
She put her apron on over her shirt and tied the strings. As she walked through the office, she opened up all the windows to allow the breeze in. Papers on her desk fluttered, but weighed down by a twisted iron peg they were going nowhere. In the antechamber her prints began to dance on the desk and the captain placed his hand on them to keep them from blowing off as he watched her move about the rooms. She appreciated the light breeze more this morning than ever before. Her face was flushed, and not from the rising temperature outside. Mary-Michael knew she had maybe an hour before Robert and Andrew arrived for work, and she wanted to let the Captain know she was in agreement with an affair. At least for this weekend.
"I knew what sail plan to rig for your new boats when I drew her hull. I'll not try to sell you anything exotic. I really only needed your opinion on single or double topsails. The double is easier to handle in my opinion. Oh, and you'll have the three jibs, as you do on Avenger."
"I do, you know," he said, holding down and studying her drawings and specifications sheets on her drawing table.
"You do what?" His change of topic confused her. Of course his mere presence put her into a dither, so actual confusion was but a simple step for her jumbled mind.
"Have faith in you. It's why you got the job."
It was times like this that she hated being a redhead. Her every emotion showed on her face—from her hairline down into the collar of her blouses. Becky once told her that she blushed so hard at times that her freckles actually disappeared. That's what she was feeling at that moment. But she had to get control of herself and her emotions. This mission to bed the captain was far too important to her future to lose this opportunity due to any missish blushing.
Slowly drawing a breath and releasing it, she considered her words. "Thank you for your candor." She paused a moment, remembering something. "One more thing, before I forget. Do you prefer cotton duck or the flax-hemp combination you currently have for your sail cloth? That material will need to be imported. Our local sail maker uses cotton duck, which is really beautiful, snowy white, not dingy-looking like the flax cloth."
"Flax-hemp is more durable," he said through his smile.
"Cotton is prettier." She couldn't think of something more intelligent than that ? And why did she have to sound like a jealous seamstress when she said it?
"Flax cloth is more readily available in foreign ports." He likely thought he trumped her knowledge. "Besides, the sun bleaches it over time until it's as white as cotton."
Mary-Michael had him with this one. "Now think about that a moment, Captain." She gave him a confident grin of her own. "Right when it's at its prettiest, it's starting to rot." He had no reply to that, but she didn't want to let it falsely bolster her pride. She didn't necessarily want to drive home her point, but she needed for him to understand why she was pushing her favorite material for sailcloth. "When it is white it rips more easily, does it not?"
He looked away from her. Had she embarrassed him? She should know by now not to make the customer uncomfortable by making him feel inferior to her superior intelligence. Would this make him less likely to fall in with her plans? God help her, she hoped not.
"Perhaps. I shall have to ask my sail maker."
"Cotton is very durable and treated properly will last you five to eight, even as long as ten years," she said. "It's also the only fabric I know of that is stronger when wet than when dry. And it's quite strong dry. Cotton sails are stronger in a storm than any other material or combination of materials." She hoped she didn't give the impression that because he didn't arrive at this con
clusion himself, he wasn't as intelligent as she. She had to watch herself because she did have a tendency toward making people feel uncomfortable when she was questioned on a topic about which she did have superior knowledge.
The sound of the door opening and closing below stairs told them they were no longer alone, and Mary-Michael dreaded the interruption by her employees. She'd wasted time talking about work when she'd rather have been in his arms because it was all she'd thought about while she lay in bed the night before.
"You are right," he said, "and, I shall defer to your experience in this." His voice lowered to a whisper and when he spoke it sent shivers racing through her entire body. "But tonight, you will concede to my expertise in another area." The captain backed away from the drafting table where she worked. "I shall return to escort you to luncheon," he said, as he also greeted Robert and Andrew. "And we can further discuss the merits of cotton versus hemp."
Several hours later, as they ate lunch at Becky's tavern, Mary-Michael realized she'd misjudged him several days ago when she thought him an arrogant nabob. In fact, the more she learned about him the more she admired him as a man. Nothing had ever been handed to him because he wanted it. He'd earned the right to captain his own vessel, and worked hard at building his business from the moment he left university. He and his friend had a plan and they stuck with it, sailing two ships first belonging to his brother-in-law, then purchasing two of their own. They chose clippers because they were designs Ian was familiar with, being his father was a university-educated naval architect who built those very ships with her husband. Knowing what she knew of him now made her desire him all the more.
Not that his tanned olive complexion and thick dark waves of hair were unpleasant to look at. Quite the contrary. His looks were so opposite her fair freckled skin and wavy red hair, that she had difficulty imagining he was interested in her in any personal way. His body was well-proportioned, and–from what she observed–all solid muscle. She, on the other hand, was thin and not endowed with the bountiful soft attributes a woman should have. Her friends all told her it was because she spent her days doing a man's job, when she should have been embroidering linens. Frankly, she didn't see how poking at linen stretched on a frame with colored threads made one's breasts larger or hips wider. It might make one fatter, she supposed. But she didn't think men were attracted to fat women either.