Lucky's Lady (The Caversham Chronicles Book 4)

by Raven, Sandy

  Two hours after dropping anchor in Curtis bay, just off Watkins' shipyard, Lucky and Ian stood in Robert Temple's office at Watkins Shipbuilding. Lucky held his hands clasped behind his back, listening to the accountant's explanation for the obviously incorrect amount on the ledger for his and Ian's company. Somehow, Lucky prevented himself from punching a hole, or two, or three into the wall next to him. This was Mary's doing. And he didn't know why.

  "Captains," Mr. Temple, the balding older of the two men began, "I was told by Mrs. Watkins that the balance for both vessels were paid in full directly to Mr. Watkins in private. Those exact amounts were then deposited into the yard's operating account before they retired to the country for the summer." He turned the ledger for Lucky and Ian to view, and said, "There is supporting documentation to corroborate all is as she said. We had no reason to doubt her word. If you would like, I shall pull the banking records..."

  "That will be unnecessary," Ian said, looking as frustrated as Lucky felt. Only frustration was the least of his emotions. It took every bit of patience Lucky had to portray the facade of composure. Especially when he sensed the two men in the office with them were hiding something. Something to do with Mary and Spenser.

  "How long ago did the Watkins's leave?" Lucky asked.

  "They left a few weeks after your departure with the new ships," this came from the new Shipyard Manager for Watkins Shipbuilding, Andrew Nawton. "Mr. Watkins doesn't tolerate the heat as well as he used to. Though, in the last batch of paperwork from the farm, Mr. Watkins has stated he is feeling much better now that he is in the cooler climate of the mountains."

  "So you are in contact with him?" Ian asked.

  "Yes," Mr. Nawton replied, "we are in weekly communication."

  "Then may we have their direction so we may thank them for the fine work done?" Lucky asked.

  "We are not allowed to divulge that information," this came from Mr. Temple.

  "Though, if you leave a note we can send it with our next outbound correspondence," added Mr. Nawton. "If you require a reply, it will arrive the following week.

  The accountant removed a wrinkled kerchief from a trouser pocket and patted his wide brow of perspiration. Lucky was unsure if it was from nerves, or from the intense heat and humidity.

  He pushed away from the wall and said, "Thank you sirs, for your time."

  "Yes, thank you," Ian added.

  As they left the building, Lucky wanted to open the door to Spenser's office, just to see if she was there but unwilling to see him. He refrained from doing so, but only because the accountant walked behind him.

  He and Ian left the offices and walked toward the village. First stop for the men was the rectory, to try and get answers from Mary's brother, or Mr. Watkins' good friend. Upon arriving there, the rectory's housekeeper said they were both out of town on church business and not expected back for a week or more, and if they needed to speak to the visiting priest for confessions, they would find him in the church.

  They thanked the woman, then left. Lucky led the way to the tavern and inn, owned by Becky Parks and her husband, David.

  His heart twisted inside his breast, and food and drink was the furthest thing from what he desired. He wanted answers. How could he help Mary if she wouldn't let him in while she was hurting? Because that's what he thought was really going on. She was hurting. Likely, Spenser was near death and she was doing her best to protect herself. As he and Ian walked down the wooden walkway, Lucky thought his own footfall sounded menacing even to his own ears.

  "Something is not right," Lucky said. "I feel it."

  "In the absence of her brother and the old priest, all we have are Mary's friends," Ian said.

  "I don't know any other than Becky Parks," Lucky said, what little patience he had, had long-ago begun to wear thin. "She mentioned several, but I don't remember who they are."

  Seated at a table in the corner of Becky's, in between her luncheon and evening crowd, he and Ian were the only customers in the entire tavern. When they placed their order, Ian had charmed the server into conversation, asking the girl if Becky was available.

  Lucky wanted to wring Mary's pretty little neck for disappearing on him, or better yet, throw her over his knee and spank her till she begged for mercy. But he knew he could do neither. In fact, he was the one in need of pity and compassion. Because the clawing at his heart, the burning, tearing sensation in his chest was growing more unbearable the longer he spent in this tiny, nowhere village unable to see her. It was making him sick with worry to wonder if she was well. He wanted to know how she fared physically and emotionally with her husband as ill as he remembered from the spring.

  The clinking of the tin flatware on the pewter plates was the only noise in the dining room, as two customers ate in a corner of the room. The raven-haired Becky Parks came out from kitchen through the door to the left of the bar.

  She gave them a slight smile upon recognizing them, and said, "Hello Captains. It's nice to have you back."

  Lucky thought it was a practiced smile, and a contrived welcome. He looked to Ian, and his ever-charming partner returned the greeting and asked, "Mrs. Parks, we were wondering if you might help us."

  "I'm not sure if I can," she said, smoothing her apron and glancing at Lucky before settling her gaze on Ian. "But, what can I do for you Captains?"

  "We are looking for Mr. and Mrs. Watkins, as we would like to pay our respects to Mr. Watkins, and thank him for the fine work done on all our boats."

  "They are gone to the mountains for the summer. It is where Mr. Watkins has a farm. They usually do this every year, and they—"

  "She left no note for me," Lucky rudely interrupted, "when she knew I was coming back this month." He realized his voice sounded a little more terse than he intended, and not because his friend bumped a knee into him, before giving him a glaring eye. Lucky quickly apologized, realizing he couldn't afford to antagonize anyone who might have information.

  Ian held a steady composure. "Mrs. Parks, you know that my father was good friends with Mr. Watkins years ago," Ian said. "I was wondering about Mr. Watkins' health, and if there was anything I could do to help both of them."

  "Have you heard from Mrs. Watkins?" Lucky asked the woman.

  She returned his intent stare with frost-flecked blue eyes. "I have heard, Captain, and it may not be the news you seek," she stated. "You see, Mr. Watkins' health is drastically improved under the care of his physician, and he and Mrs. Watkins have decided to seek a cooler, drier clime to sustain his newfound good health as his doctor has recommended."

  "So she's never coming back?"

  "Not—" A sympathetic look came over her, almost as though she wanted to say more but was unable. "—not for quite a while."

  All of the sudden, Lucky couldn't breathe. The burning, ripping sensation in his chest felt as though his soul was being torn to shreds. He prayed to die, while at the same time wanting to live so he could hate her for eternity.

  The chair fell behind him as he stood, and he practically ran from the room. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out of the building. He had to get away from the entire area and be done with it all. He'd had dreams. Dreams of a home with an auburn-haired wife who spoke to him of real life matters, not of French fashion and invitations to parties. A woman who had visions of a future they would build together, not one whining about things she didn't have. He'd wanted a home filled with children, whether she bore them or not. He already knew that he could love children not of his blood, because he still loved Maura. And he remembered Mary telling him she and Spenser had tried to adopt a brother and sister, children whose relatives eventually came for them, breaking her heart.

  His dreams of a future with Mary were now gone. Because she was the only woman he wanted, and the only woman who could make them come true.

  And she didn't want him.

  "Lucky, stop." Ian's voice came through his fogged mind.

  He halted his steady march, and turned to his friend
.

  Ian caught up to him. "I know you want answers," he said, "and I agree things seem... odd. But I want you to hear what I have to say, because I believe I know what is happening." Lucky didn't reply, he couldn't, so Ian continued. "I think she's trying to end your affair in a way that relieves her conscience. She's also trying to protect herself from gossip at this time. Like you, I do not believe Watkins has suddenly improved. I concur with you that she is likely at her husband's deathbed, and what she needs at this time is privacy."

  "Dammit, Ian. I love her."

  "I believe you, Lucky, I do." On the walk back to the Lady S, Ian finally spoke. "She's obviously gone on with her life. She's telling you that the relationship with her husband comes first."

  "Did you give up when Sarah left you and went to Surrey?" He wanted to argue... had to make his case for loving a woman who was married to a man who was kind and generous. Spenser was also a man who had to surmise what was between him and his wife.

  "She was my wife at the time. It's not the same. Your Mary belongs to another, for as long as that man lives. You cannot make her choose you over him." Ian's voice dropped to a whisper. "You cannot make her love you."

  Unwilling to hear more truthful words that sliced deeper than a knife to the gut, Lucky turned and walked away from his friend. He increased his speed, practically running by the time he reached Avenger. He ran from the inevitable truth that, if he were honest with himself, Mary had tried to tell him. "There is no future. There is just now." she'd once said. Why hadn't he heeded her words? Instead, he'd ignored them. He ignored them thinking he could make her love him. But she didn't. She likely never had. She'd used him to satisfy her sexual urges.

  When he boarded, he learned from his crewmen who had been readying the boat for the return to England, that very little was needed because Mary had taken care everything. She even saw to the hanging of new sail and rigging, which his crew had always done when coming off dry dock.

  She'd seen to every detail except for the consumable dry goods, perishables and fresh water. In the morning he, Ian and Nigel Johnson would take the three boats across the bay, into Baltimore, and hunt up a cargo to carry back. Upon boarding, he greeted his men with a grunt and stopped in the galley to ask Goran not to send a tray. He suddenly felt ill upon the realization that paying for the work on the ships, and having the rigging and sails hung, was her way of paying him for satisfying those urges.

  He continued on to his cabin, and bolted the door after entering. If he wasn't mistaken, there was an unfinished bottle of brandy hiding in the cupboard, and he intended to do his best to make piss out of it.

  The very next morning, the three ships sailed out of Curtis Bay, and for Lucky it would be forever. If Ian wanted to return one day, that was fine by him. He was done with America, done with Indian Point, and most especially done with the auburn-haired wench who collected hearts for what purpose he could not presume to know.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "I still say you should invite your brother up here to celebrate his birthday," Sally told her one late September afternoon. Sally and Mary-Michael, along with Cassie her cook, and Trudy, one of the kitchen servants here on the farm, had spent the last three days working in the hot kitchen, getting the fruits and vegetables canned for winter.

  "It wouldn't be a surprise birthday dinner if I invited him up here," Mary-Michael replied. "Too, George and Father Douglas wouldn't be able to come up here at the same time."

  In the two months since Mr. Watkins' death, she hadn't been back to Indian Point. Mary-Michael missed her friends and wanted to see them before she got further along and was unable to travel. At five months into her pregnancy, her babe was tiny yet, and her condition wasn't obvious at all—especially when she wore a dress. And, while she'd promised Mr. Watkins she would not work at the shipyard during her pregnancy, to prevent her from over-exerting herself, she felt the need to check in at the office to see how things were running without her there each day.

  And there was one question that had been burning in her heart, one she'd wanted to ask each week in her correspondence with Andrew and Robert, but had not yet been brave enough to ask. How had Lucky reacted to her disappearance? Was he as upset when he spoke with them as he was when he'd interrogated Becky? She didn't know how she was going to broach the topic, but she needed to know.

  Mary-Michael pushed a final cucumber into the canning jar in front of her and passed it over to Trudy for her to add the vinegar and spices. She then reached for another empty jar. "My main reason for going down to Baltimore is to see the seamstress recommended to me by Cady," she said as she dropped the first few cucumbers into the glass container. "I must buy some dresses to last me the rest of my mourning, and through the latter months of my condition. And since I'll be that close, I might as well open up the house, visit my friends, and have my brother over for dinner, after all, George's birthday is in three days. That's hardly enough time to plan a dinner for him up here."

  Trudy shook he head while she packed the jars with the spices for pickling. "You can have someone from here make your dresses. We got women that sew right in this here village. Mrs. Trumbull is one. She sews nice clothes."

  Mary-Michael remained silent. She wanted to visit home, and her friends and brother, before getting as big as a sow.

  "Well," Sally said, "I suppose I could pack your trunk after dinner, and have Ezra bring the two big ones down from the attic. We can bring them with us empty so as to put your new dresses in them."

  "Only two?" she asked.

  Her husband's long-time housekeeper gave her a reluctant sigh, before she smiled. "I guess you might need more than that—seeing as you need baby clothes and diaper cloths." Sally added another cucumber to the jar and glanced at her. "And you're gon' need underthings, too."

  They worked in silence a few minutes, until Mary-Michael broke the quiet. "I cannot wait to see my brother and my friends," she said, bubbling over with happiness at going home again. "Cady's new babe is due soon and I haven't seen Becky's new little one yet. My best friend finally has her little girl, and I haven't seen her yet."

  "You need to be careful traveling, Miz Watkins," Trudy said. "There's bad people out there wan' take advantage of a single, rich widow."

  "We'll have Victor and Ezra with Sally and me, we'll be safe enough." Mary-Michael smiled at Sally and Trudy as all three worked in the hot kitchen putting up the fruits and vegetables to be eaten over the winter. "The good thing about going now, is the weather is cooler in the evening, which will make sleeping at night much easier. I won't stay long in Indian Point, as I want to get back here before it gets too cold and wet. I promised Mr. Watkins I'd take care of this babe, and I shall."

  She pushed the last rack of jars filled with cucumbers, vinegar, water and spices toward Cassie to put in the pot and wiped the sweat from her brow. She stretched her back and groaned. "Once we're done with this last rack, I think I might take a short nap if you ladies don't mind. We have a long day of traveling tomorrow."

  Sally harrumphed as she screwed on the lids to the jars on the last rack before passing the rack over to Cassie for her to submerge into the pots of boiling water.

  "What's the matter Sally?" Mary-Michael asked.

  "I don't right know, but I feel uneasy for some reason. Like you shouldn't be traveling into town at all. That's what I'm feeling."

  "We'll have Victor and Ezra with us for protection," Mary-Michael assured her. "And we're going to see my brother and my friends. What on earth is the worst that can happen in little old Indian Point?"

  Lucky tossed his coat and cravat onto the chair in the corner of his bedroom at his sister and brother-in-law's home in London. He'd accompanied his family to a luncheon musicale for some family friend, forcing him to remember why he didn't much like Town. And that was yet one more reason to leave with the rest of the ships in one week's time. The end of September was the latest they could leave and still make it around the Cape safely. Any later and navigating
the treacherous waters could be dangerous, not just for the ships, but for the men as well. The window was closing in on him to decide if he was going to sail this year or not.

  If he stayed, there would be an endless parade of young ladies, most of whom lived in Town, some fresh from the schoolroom, others out for a few years, and all still hopelessly unattached after the Season. Each one of them would be looking to finagle an offer of marriage from any male as long as he had sound finances or a title to aspire to. In his opinion, the young ladies being paraded by parents or other relatives were barely more than children.

  None of the eligible older debutantes had held his interest either. All they wished to speak about were fashions, gossip about their peers, or the latest romantic novel to hit the booksellers' shops.

  He wanted Mary. They'd spoken of topics that interested them both, from philosophy to the morality and economics of the slave trade. She'd stirred his soul and stimulated his brain, without ever having to pretend to be something she wasn't in order to gain acceptance anywhere. She was, in fact, the most intelligent and practical woman he'd ever met. Perfect for him in every way but one.

  She didn't want him.

  According to the unsolicited advice he received from each person brave enough to cross him, the pain was supposed to lessen as time passed. Except it hadn't. He missed her more this night than he had the day he sailed out of the Chesapeake for home.

  After tossing his waistcoat in the chair as well, he glanced at a folded missive resting on his bedside table. When he reached it, he realized there were two notes. One sealed, one unsealed.

  He lifted them, and noticed Mary's fine scripted handwriting on the sealed note.

  A terrible dread welled up in him as his heart sank deeper into agony. He stared at it. Feared it. Didn't want to touch it. Didn't want to read the words that he'd already surmised were her goodbye to him. A part of him believed that if he didn't see the words, in her handwriting, then there might still be a chance for them. If he read the words, and they were what he believed, then there could be no hope. None.