"To Van Diemen's Land more likely," she said quellingly. "Where did you get this, Decker?"
Decker shrugged.
Marie tried to mask her own anxiety. "You mustn't be afraid. I'm certain you haven't done anything wrong, but Uncle Jimmy and I need to know where you got this."
Jimmy Grooms wasn't sure he liked being referred to as Uncle Jimmy by Marie. Before he had a chance to comment on this, Marie was posing the question again to Decker.
"Colin gave it to me," he said. The truth was offered reluctantly and because of that he was believed.
"Colin? Your brother gave this to you?" Marie said just to be certain.
Decker nodded.
"Where did he get it?"
Decker shrugged.
"That's no answer, boy," said Jimmy. "Did he steal it?"
"No." Decker was confident in his answer. He recognized the earring, knew he had seen it before. He was less clear about the circumstances.
Marie's voice was gentler. "Do you suppose he found it somewhere? Perhaps at the workhouse?"
Decker didn't respond at all this time. He stared straight ahead, his mouth flat as if a secret pressed his lips closed and it could not be released.
After more than a minute of silence, Marie sighed. "Give him back the earring, cher."
"What if it belonged to the Cunningtons?" Jimmy asked. He knew that had been Marie's first concern when she saw it. It certainly had been his. The last thing they needed was for the headmaster or his wife to set the authorities on their trail.
Marie took the earring from Jimmy and held it out to Decker. It was taken from her quickly and pocketed with speed and deftness. "Do you really think the Cunningtons would have an exquisite piece like that in their possession? They'd do what we would do."
Jimmy cocked one cinnamon-colored brow. "And that would be?"
"Sell it, cher." She held up one finger to silence him when she saw the hope in his eyes. "That's what we would do if the piece were ours. It's not. It belongs to Decker. I'm quite clear on that even if your thinking is a little muddled."
Marie Thibodeaux snuggled next to Jimmy. "If that is his good-luck piece, then he's ours. Good things are going to happen to us, cher. You'll see."
Jimmy had to be satisfied with that. He doubted the boy would ever give up the earring again willingly, and Marie would never forgive Jimmy for taking it with cunning. Decker was on his knees again, looking out the window. As far as Jimmy could tell, he and Marie were out of the child's mind.
"Who do you suppose he's looking for?" Jimmy asked.
Marie didn't answer immediately. She couldn't say with any certainty. "His brothers, peut-être. His family. Who is to say what he knows about them?"
"Cunnington told me there was a search for more family but that none could be found. I suppose he thought there might be money in it for him if he could have located a relative to take the children." The earring in Decker's possession seemed to bear that out, but Jimmy was just as certain that the headmaster hadn't seen it. Cunnington would have confiscated it as payment for boarding the children. No matter that the heirloom piece would have paid the room and board of an army of children for a score of years. Cunnington was lacking in more scruples than Jimmy Grooms. Jimmy, at least, had Marie to rein him in when greed got the better of his common sense. Mr. Cunnington had only Mrs. Cunnington. Jimmy's meeting with the headmistress had been brief, but it was long enough to learn there was no conscience in that quarter.
"What do you think he knows about the night his parents were killed?" Jimmy asked under his breath. "He was there, Cunnington said. All the children were."
Marie shook her head. "Don't talk about it. It would be God's blessing if it were all forgotten."
Decker chose that moment to slump sideways in the corner of the carriage seat. His eyelids fluttered once then closed. The long thick lashes lay darkly against his cheeks. His sweet mouth was slightly parted and a bubble of dew swelled on his bottom lip as he expelled an exhausted breath.
"God's blessing," Marie said again, giving thanks that sleep had at last caught up with the child.
* * *
But he hadn't forgotten. For Decker the difference was more subtle. He chose not to remember.
Chapter 1
Boston, November 1844
Her life had become a cliché.
Jonna Remington was standing on the fog-shrouded docks of Boston Harbor waiting for her ship to come in. It hardly mattered that she was waiting for the ship in a very real way. When she heard the words roll through her own mind, when the truth of her position on the wharf became known to her, she could find no humor in either.
She was only twenty-four years old, and suddenly she was very weary.
An icy burst of wind shot over the water. White caps hurled the chilled air onto the dock, and Jonna had to grip her cape to keep it about her shoulders. She hugged the dark gray wool closer to her body, but the hem still beat a tattoo against her legs. Her skirt and underskirt and all four of her petticoats were pressed flatly to her slender frame until the wind subsided. At one point the wide brim of her bonnet lifted and curled back. It remained on her head only because of the large, tightly drawn bow under her chin, and for one humiliating moment, Jonna thought she would be choked by it.
Hanged by her own hat. It only got worse.
In anticipation of another blast of arctic wind, Jonna removed one hand from her cape and placed it firmly on her head. She was painfully aware of the sight she presented, but she was also aware that no one would comment—at least not so they could be overheard. She was, after all, Jonna Remington. And she was waiting for her ship to come in.
* * *
Decker Thorne, master of Remington Huntress, the new flagship of the Remington trading empire, called out orders to his second in command. His voice was calm and clear, as if he had been issuing such orders all of his twenty-eight years rather than only in the last twenty-eight days. He didn't show it by so much as a raised brow, but he was still a little surprised when the words coming from him were translated into action by all the men under him.
Standing at Decker's side, Jack Quincy nodded approvingly. "You've got the way of it," he said quietly. "Damn if you don't." He shifted his weight to loosen one of the crutches under his arms and pound it sharply on the deck to punctuate his point.
"Careful, Jack. You'll slip and break your other leg."
Jack shrugged awkwardly. "These sticks aren't what's keeping me up, boyo. It's the wind at my back and saltwater spray in my face that does the trick."
There was a surfeit of both this morning. And fog as thick as any Decker had experienced. Of course Jack said it could be worse, and Decker took him at his word. His own three years on the world's oceans were of little account against Jack's two score. Decker relayed another order to his second. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jack nod with satisfaction.
Decker grinned. "There's no danger that I'll run her aground," he said.
That had never been in Jack's mind. Jack Quincy's approval was for the way Decker had taken to this command. It had been thrust on him soon after they left Charleston for London on the second leg of their voyage. When Jack's ignominious fall down the gangway stairs injured his leg and made him bedfast, it was Decker he gave command of the ship.
And Remington Huntress was not just any ship. She was designed to exacting specifications to be the swiftest clipper plying any of the world's trade routes. This voyage was meant to break a record, not a leg. Now it was left to Decker Thorne to prove it could be done.
Setting out to make a record run was a risky proposition at best. Rarely was that the purpose of any voyage. There was money to be made from the effort and certainly there was notoriety for the captain of the clipper and his crew, but it was only a short-term gain for the owner of the line. Steady and reliable transportation was important over the long haul. If the China or Liverpool run was made a few days or even a few hours faster than the last time, it was a feather in someon
e's cap, but not as critical as delivering the goods to their destination ahead of the competition.
There was the key to market success. It was not that every clipper run had to break a record; it was that each clipper had to outrun others carrying the same cargo. The real money was in being the first to bring the trade goods to port. That was when tradesmen were willing to pay the highest prices and would put up the least haggling.
Huntress had been two hours too late arriving in London from Charleston to capture that record, but the record for the complete voyage back to Boston was still in her grasp. Every man aboard her knew it, most especially the one who was now charged with her command.
Watching Decker as he went through the orders that would bring the clipper about to fill her sails, Jack Quincy was again struck by the rightness of his choice. Decker's easy smile, his loose and relaxed bearing, could be mistaken for carelessness or lack of purpose. Jack had never seen him in quite that light, though he was aware that others had and continued to do so. The fact that Decker knew and never appeared bothered by it was a mark to the good in Jack's log.
Jack's broad face split in a crooked, dryly amused grin as Decker walked away. Had he ever been as trim and agile as this young man? he wondered. Decker Thorne was light on his feet, like a cat, with a rolling stride that was beautifully synchronized with the rhythms of the clipper and the sea. "Youth," Jack muttered to himself. He was surprised by the surge of envy he felt. It was best not to dwell on things that couldn't be changed. Jack's age and his growing list of infirmities were two of those things. You lived with them or died from them. There wasn't any in-between.
Jack Quincy knew this was his last voyage. It had been two years since he had taken out a clipper except on a trial run. He had agreed to master Huntress at Jonna's request, even though he had pressed hard for her to accept Decker Thorne as captain. It was one of the few times in his long association with Jonna Remington that she did not embrace his advice. Huntress was too valuable, her mission too important, for her to be given into the command of an untried captain. If Jack wouldn't do it, then she had other masters she could entrust, but she was adamant Remington Huntress would not have Decker Thorne at the helm.
Jack Quincy grimaced as the clipper lurched when the sails were strained by the wind. His weight settled uncomfortably for a moment on the crutches, and they dug in under his arms. He gripped the braces in his large hands and raised himself up. The splints chafed his calf. He had been too long standing topside already, but he wanted to see Decker bring Huntress into Boston Harbor.
More than that, he wanted to see Jonna Remington's face when she realized who was in full command of her clipper. He was thinking that breaking the record was not going to be enough. He was still going to feel the sharp edge of her tongue. "Hell to pay," he said to himself. "Damn if there won't be hell to pay."
But it would be worth it just to see her face.
* * *
A crowd had begun to gather on the dock behind Jonna. As word spread that she was on the waterfront, and as the reason for her early morning outing became common knowledge, work in the busy harbor slowed. Wagons moving from ships to warehouses crawled along the dock now as the drivers, taking advantage of their high perches, looked out over the water for a first glimpse of Huntress.
It said something about Jonna Remington's reputation that men found their eyes trying to pierce the thick wall of fog for the curve of the horizon. There was no way the owner of the Remington line could be certain her ship would appear in the next hour or the next day, but the fact that she was waiting told others she expected it to be sooner than later. The timetable, they knew, was one Jonna kept in her head, along with a plethora of other facts and figures, of debits and credits, of manifests and maritime laws. Not a man working the harbor that morning doubted that Jonna Remington had plotted her flagship's course and anticipated the vessel's arrival within the accuracy of a heartbeat. In a business that was fraught with risk, things that could be plotted and planned were never left to chance.
Jonna turned only once to survey the gathering at her back. They were careful to keep their distance, a sign of their respect but also an acknowledgment of Jonna's natural aloofness. She was not unapproachable but neither was she casually available. Her mien was sober and steady, even dispassionate, and her manner was straightforward. She worked hard and she expected others to do the same. She never said as much; it was there by example. Men in her employ who did not understand that were quickly given their leave. Jonna Remington did not suffer fools in any fashion.
Her brief study of the crowd had laid a blanket of silence over it. To a man they felt they were shirking their duty by waiting for Huntress. This guilt didn't move them to go back to their work, but they were aware of their discomfort now where they hadn't been a moment before. A few of them, in a paltry show of defiance, stared back hard at her. If she knew they were doing it, she remained unmoved.
Another biting breeze swept over the dock. Jonna felt her bonnet lift again, and the purple satin bow caught her under the neck. This time she unfastened the ribbon rather than hold the hat to her head. The wind tore at the bonnet as soon as it was loosened, and Jonna barely managed to keep it in hand. She held it in front of her, letting the salt spray sting her unprotected face and whip at her hair.
She had had no patience with having her hair dressed that morning. Instead of fashionable ringlets, she'd told the maid to simply tie it back and tuck it into a bun. The wind made short work of the maid's efforts. The anchoring pins lost their moorings as glossy black tendrils slipped free. Jonna's hair unfurled and was beaten back. In moments it came to define the invisible currents of air that lifted it behind her.
Jonna had an urge to glance over her shoulder. Had anyone noticed, or were the men still watching for the ship? With an uncharacteristic consideration of feminine vanity she wondered which of the two possibilities would be more insulting. She quelled the impulse to look around and clutched her bonnet tighter.
It wasn't that she was unused to being stared at. She was. But it had been her experience that it was for reasons not to be regarded as truly flattering. The first thing that usually struck people was her height. At just three inches under six feet she was taller than all the women of her acquaintance and stood eye to eye with most men. If her height went unremarked—and truly, she thought, why did people think they had the right to make some comment on it, or more to the point, think that she should accept their observations graciously—then something was said about her eyes.
Why, they're purple, my dear. How very unusual. Actually they were violet, but when someone was visibly caught off guard by the odd coloring, "purple" was the word that came quickly to mind and was voiced. To make it more maddening, her eyes seemed too large for her face and did not remain a constant hue but captured shades of blue and gray depending on the predominant colors of her costume. Until she had removed her bonnet and its purple ribbon, Jonna had been assured her eyes would remain violet. Not that it was a matter of great importance to her. She only had to look out of her eyes, not into them. For that she was grateful.
Jonna raised one arm to shield them now. Behind the fog the sun was burning brightly. The light was diffused throughout the gray mist, the effect almost blinding. She waited for the sun to break through. She was selfish enough to want the sighting of her flagship to be unfettered by the low-lying clouds.
Soon, she thought, let it be soon.
* * *
Huntress rolled through a bank of fog and into a clearing. She rode the crest of each wave smoothly as the wind swelled her sails. Like an albatross with great white wings spread, Huntress seemed to take flight just above the surface of the water, moving forward in defiance of the laws of nature that commanded friction and gravity. Her swift progress brought a rush of pride to the men who labored in her yardarms and on her decks.
"Land Ho!"
It was the cry they had all been waiting for. Twenty pairs of eyes, all of them unaided by a
telescope, strained to see what the one man with a spyglass could. It was two long minutes before they saw the same New England shoreline. The cheer that went up was deafening, and in that moment the swell of voices seemed to add substance to the burgeoning sails.
The spyglass was passed to Decker, but he handed it to Jack before he looked himself. He ran a hand through his dark, wind-ruffled hair. His mouth was set in a quirky, yet somehow rueful grin. "Tell me if you can see her," he told Jack.
Jack Quincy raised the telescope. He knew Decker wasn't talking about the coastline in general. His reference, in spite of its lack of specificity, was to Jonna Remington. The older man gave a bark of laughter as he pressed the 'scope to his eye. Another chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest. "You're not afraid of her, are you?" he asked.
"Down to my toes," Decker admitted easily. His loose and relaxed posture didn't change, and there was nothing about his quietly amused expression to suggest he was telling the truth.
Jack dropped the spyglass a fraction, looked sharply at Decker, then raised it again. "Damn liar," he said. "Had me going there, just for a moment, mind you. Can't imagine why anyone would be afraid of Jonna. Just the same, I know it's true. She just doesn't warm up to people the way she did when she was a young'un. I never figured out whether she puts them off or t'other way around."
Decker didn't comment. He had his own thoughts on the matter, and he was determined they would remain just that—his own.
"She'll be as mad as my great-aunt Lottie," Jack said.
"Mad crazy?" asked Decker. "Or mad angry?"
"Lottie was both." Jack looked up, interested as Decker groaned softly. "Didn't I ever tell you about her?"
Decker took the spyglass. "No. And I'm not listening to one of your tales now."
Unperturbed, Jack went on. "Lottie would raise her fist at the sun if it got too hot to suit her, then strip down to her skin to get the better of it."
Jo Goodman Page 2