by Leenie Brown
Much to Mary’s surprise, Mr. Durward replied with “And what did you do instead?”
She had thought he would be disinterested in whether or not they had gone to the park, for he was a man of business, not leisure.
“I worked on a blanket while Mary played her harp. It was lovely and warm with the fire built up to take the dampness from the air. And then, we had tea just as we would have if there had been a full party even though it was just for the two of us.”
“That sounds most pleasurable. Did you find it enjoyable, Miss Crawford?” He asked from where he was draped comfortably on the sofa.
“I will not lie. I was disappointed, but Margaret is so good at cheering me up.”
“Do you like the harp, Mr. Durward?” Margaret asked.
He shrugged. “It is as fine an instrument as any, I suppose. However, I cannot say that I have listened to it very often.”
Margaret placed a hand on Mary’s arm. “Oh, Mary, you will have to play for Mr. Durward. She is most excellent, I assure you,” she added to Mr. Durward.
“Perhaps another day,” Mary replied. “Mr. Durward did not come to listen to music.”
“I will admit that without a business plan before me, I have very little idea how to conduct myself in a sitting room. If you wish to play, Miss Crawford, you may.”
Mary shook her head. “I think another time would be better.” She would rather discover more about him than have him sitting silently while she played.
“Whatever you wish.”
His eyes held hers. How could so much comfort be found in eyes that were so intently focused?
“Mary tells me that you were once a captain of a ship,” Margaret said when neither Mary nor Mr. Durward continued speaking.
“I still am when needed,” he replied with a smile. His eyes held Mary’s for a moment longer before turning toward her sister. “However, I do try to make certain that I am not needed. I would not tell everyone this, but I have never preferred the sea to the land.”
“You have not?” That was surprising. Most men who chose to go to sea spoke as if they were powerless to resist the call of the sea and adventure.
“Then why did you sail?” Margaret asked.
It was the question Mary also wished to have answered.
“That is a bit of a convoluted story but suffice it to say that the sea provided adventure and distance between my father and me.” He grimaced. “A stupid notion formulated by a young mind who rebelled against the ideals of his father. Truly, my father was a good man. I was just far more independent and headstrong than I likely should have been.”
“Should have been? Or are?” Mary asked in a light teasing tone. Mr. Durward appeared to be a very resolute individual. Had Tom not said as much last night?
Mr. Durward chuckled. “You are correct, Miss Crawford. I have not changed so much in essentials, but I have hopefully grown wiser and less foolish.”
“Much like your friend, Mr. Bertram, seems to have done,” Mary added.
Mr. Durward frowned as he nodded his agreement. “Tom was previously engaged today, or he would have called with me.” His tone was apologetic.
“Think nothing of his absence,” Mary said hastily. “I did not mention him because he is not here. I was simply noting the similarity between the two of you and noting the change I saw in him last night.”
“He will call,” Mr. Durward insisted.
“I am certain he will,” Mary replied. “Please think nothing more of it. I am sorry I have brought him up at all.”
Mr. Durward’s eyes grew wide. “I did not mean to upset you with my comments,” he rushed to assure her. “I merely wished you to know that you are, as I said last night, worthy of his notice.” He leaned forward and skewered her again with one of his unsettlingly intense looks of concern. “I fear many have been less than trustworthy in your life – if Lady St. James and the admiral are any indications — and I would not have you thinking that my friend or I would not prove to be honorable.”
Trustworthy. That was a quality Mary longed to find in someone. She had had it with Edmund and Fanny. Neither would have played her false. No, she thought, as remorse filled her, that job had been hers alone. She was the one preening and pretending.
“Thank you,” she muttered with a small smile, “and I would say that I do not feel worthy of much of anything, but I fear either you or Margaret would scold me for saying it. So, I will not.”
“I most certainly would scold you,” Margaret replied.
“And I would say that one does not need to feel worthy to be worthy,” said Mr. Durward.
“Did you see the prize ship?” Mary asked, turning the subject away from feelings of guilt and delight which when mingled as they were at present in her mind were decidedly discomposing.
“I did.”
“And was it to your liking?”
“For the right price, it is.” He smiled, a glimpse of teeth showing in the action. “I do think I will be adding her to my possessions, but she’ll be for cargo and not plundering, and she’ll likely be the last I add for some time. I will need to refit her and find a crew to sail her as well as garner some reasons to set her sails.”
The confidence that radiated from his every action and word told Mary that this new ship would not stay in port for long after her refitting.
He tipped his head and looked at her inquisitively, as if what he was about to ask her was of great importance. “Would you like to see her and the others? I could take you for a tour of the dock – all very politely done in a carriage so as not to soil your skirts and shoes.”
“And your warehouse?” Mary asked. She had been wondering what treasures he might have stored away in a building somewhere near the docks.
“If you wish,” he replied, a bright smile spreading across his face. “And in return, you can play something for me on your harp, and I shall listen most intently.” He pushed up from where he had been sitting. “If I were you, I would wear something sturdy when we go on our tour. There are dust and dirt to be found, and the wind off the water can be cutting if the day is not bright.”
“Oh, we do not mind a little chill,” Margaret assured him. “As long as it is not raining.”
“Yes, yes, to attempt a tour in the rain would be dreadful,” he agreed. “I will not be able to call tomorrow as there are some business matters to which I must attend, but perhaps the day after that, I can collect you and take you for a tour.”
Mary opened her mouth to eagerly accept his invitation but then closed it again.
“Is something amiss?” he asked her.
“I just sent my brother a letter saying I would be home all week. I cannot risk being away if he should call.”
“Then, our tour will wait until next week. I would never wish to be the cause of you not keeping your word.”
He was entirely too good she thought as he said his good days and took his leave.
“His skin is such a lovely brown colour without being at all creased,” Margaret muttered when he was gone. She had said the same thing last night after meeting him. “He really is handsome.”
Mary would not refute the statements. Mr. Durward was a darkly handsome fellow. “He seems very nice.”
“Most pleasant. Most pleasant,” Margaret agreed. “Now, will you be playing for me, or would you like to continue working on the baby clothes for the foundling’s hospital?”
“The clothes,” Mary replied, settling into a chair at the work table while her sister got out the workbasket.
Chapter 5
Gabe swung up onto his horse and took a look back at the door to the Grants’ home. He had never thought to meet a lady of quality who would be interested in seeing his ships and storehouse. He had concluded that if, by some good fortune, he should find a lady to accept him with his ties to trade and his complexion that was naturally darker than that of most gentlemen in England who had not been put to sea or left to work in a field all day, one of two things would be true a
bout that lady. Either she would be desperate for a good match due to some deficit in her own appearance or family, or she’d be only too happy to spend all of his money on some fancy home far removed from whatever it was that he did. Not that she would ever truly know what it was as she would never wish to know.
However, Miss Crawford did not appear to be such a lady. She was undeniably beautiful. Her hair and eyes were not quite so dark as his, and her skin was the colour of fresh cream with just a touch of tea added. Her figure was just as he preferred. To look at her, she was perfection, and he would not deny that her beauty enticed him. Yet, there was something more about her that drew him – a familiar uncertainty of being part of something and yet not. It was that same shifting, searching soul that had driven him to the sea and Tom to horseraces and the theatre.
For some, no matter how good their lots in life were, there was a struggle, deep and disquieting, that had to be faced when it came to finding their purpose and place. To have been such a person in the home of Admiral Crawford must have been challenging indeed. If the stories Gabe had heard were true, and he had no reason to believe they were not, the admiral was not one to take prodigious care of anything save his ship and himself. Gabe had heard the tales about the number of mistresses the admiral had had. It was not something he hid from anyone, not even his wife.
Gabe nudged his horse forward.
To be a young woman under such care and to see her aunt treated with so little respect must have taken its toll. But, then, just as he and Tom had done, Mary had found acceptance and a place to be something. It was just not a proper something.
Tom had found friends who allowed, even encouraged, him to run headlong into ruin, and it had almost killed him. Gabe himself had found acceptance in the ranks on an East Indiaman. The life on board had called to him. It had promised him adventure and a place to develop his skills of command. And it had delivered on both accounts. It had also nearly cost him his life on more than one occasion.
While standing on the beach of a tropical island at the end of a successful skirmish that had left Gabe with a small hole in his upper arm and had once again lined the pockets of the company, Gabe had come to the realization that where he thought he belonged and how he thought he could please his father while still pleasing himself was an illusion. It was not who he was. It was not where he belonged. On that beach as the waves lapped the sand, he had determined that he did not wish to continue his contribution to a company that seemed to be growing more and more hungry for power and seemed to have less and less respect for the people whose lands they conquered. People like his mother.
His father had not been willing to leave his position. He had been in it for too many years. He had nothing to return to in England and not enough years left to strike out on his own. Added to that, he was not so disgruntled with company behaviour as Gabe was. His father had called Gabe’s ideas “foolish alarmist views of the young.”
It had been a painful day when Gabe had set sail for England, never to return to India. Thankfully, both his father and his mother had written to him, and, to the welcome balm of his soul, his mother’s letters always contained some mention of his father’s pride in Gabe’s successes. He sighed as his home came into view. If only his father had been the sort of man to say such things himself, it would have given them the weight that only the voice of a father to a son could.
These were the thoughts which kept Gabe company on his journey home and would have continued to fill his mind had he been entering an empty house, but his home was not empty. And so, his ruminations about the past were put aside to be picked up again some other time. Presently, there was another woman who deserved, and to whom he would give, his attention.
“Welcome home, my son,” his mother lifted onto her toes to greet him with a kiss when he entered the hall. There had been a time when he had needed to stretch to meet her cheek, but that was many years ago now. She was still as short as she ever was, but he had inherited his father’s height with interest.
“You do not have to wait for me by the door, Mama.”
She seemed to always be right here, waiting to greet him when he returned from some outing – even when the hour was late, and she should be in bed.
“I was not. I was waiting in the sitting room.” She winked and wrapped her arm around his. “You are so cold.”
“I am not cold.”
She was always cold. He was not.
“Come. Sit by the fire and tell me about your lady.”
“She is not my lady, Mama.” He would like her to be, but as of yet, Miss Crawford was not.
He settled into a chair near the window and not the fire. The heat of India was not something he missed. He had been born into it, but it was not something he craved as some did.
“How can she not be? You are so handsome, just like your father. Can you not make a bargain with her brother?”
“That is not exactly how it is done here, Mama. And you know I wish to have a wife who has chosen me as much as I have chosen her.” He had discussed that fact with her many, many times over the years.
His mother sighed and took up her knitting. “I just want you to be as happy as I was with your father, and I would not mind having a daughter to talk to, you know.”
“Yes, Mama, I know.”
“So tell me about your Miss Crawford.”
Gabe sighed. There would be no putting her off. For though small in stature, his mother was not short on determination. He smiled. That was something she and Miss Crawford shared. It was also likely why he could not abide a simpering milquetoast maid for longer than one dance. His grandmother, his mother’s mother, had been the same. Small and unassuming but solid as iron when needed. And both had married successful company men.
“She wishes to see my boats.”
His mother looked up from her knitting in surprise. “She does not wish to sail on them, does she? I can tell her that while it might seem like an adventure for the first few hours, it soon grows dull.”
Gabe chuckled. “You do not wish to take a trip with me to some exotic location?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Ireland would be acceptable. I think we could reach it before I became too bored.”
“Ireland is not exotic,” Gabe protested.
“It is to a girl from India,” she replied. “Why if I had grown up here, India would be exotic, but as I was not born here, India is but common – pleasantly warm, but common.”
“Point taken,” he replied. “I do not think Miss Crawford wishes to sail away on one of my ships, but she is curious about them.”
“And this makes you happy?”
Gabe nodded. “I like her very much, Mama.”
His mother smiled. “It takes very little for one’s heart to decide its course. That is how it was for your father and me. I saw him once before we married and that was enough. I knew that I was not being given away in vain. My heart, as well as my father, would be happy.” She glanced up at him. “Do not give me that look. It was how things were done at the time — one man tying himself to another in some agreement by taking a bride.”
“I dislike thinking of you as a payment.”
She shook her head. “I was not a payment, my son. I was a reward. Your father said it often.” She sighed. “I wish he could see you now. He would be so proud of you.”
“I wish he could see me now as well. You are not alone in missing him. I have just had more years to grow accustomed to the absence. And before you say it, I know that it was of my own doing, but I will tell you once again, I could do naught else.”
She placed her knitting in her lap. “Strong men are not easy men. Does your Miss Crawford know this?”
Gabe blew out a breath. “I do not know if she does.”
Mary knew about oppressive men, but he doubted she truly understood what a strong man was.
“I do not believe she trusts men. There have been few in her life who have been worthy of her good opinion.”
Sadness spread a
cross his mother’s face. “She is strong then?”
“Yes, she has had to be, and I believe her heart is good.” He paused and drew a deep breath which he released slowly. He hoped that her heart was not so locked away and unused to kindness that it would prove to be too difficult to convince her that he was not like other men and that he could be trusted.
“You are worried for her?”
Gabe nodded.
“Then you love her already.”
It was not a question, but a statement of fact spoken in a tone that told Gabe she would hear no refute if he were to make one, which he wasn’t. He was quite sure that his mother was correct. There was just something about Miss Crawford that captivated him.
“Is she pretty?” his mother asked.
Gabe smiled.
“I can see that she is.”
“She has dark hair and eyes and a creamy complexion. She is taller than you, and,” he winked at her, “she has a few more curves than you do.”
“You are not to notice your mother’s lack of curves,” she said with a laugh.
“I was only making a comparison for description purposes,” he replied.
Her brows rose over twinkling eyes. “I do hope those curves are in all the proper places,” she said in as proper a tone as she could muster. She had always been able to play the part of a proper lady. She had been trained in all the same accomplishments as any other English lady had been. Her father had insisted that she become as British as possible despite her brown complexion, for he intended for her to marry not from her country but from his. However, she had a playfulness to her that often liked to thwart propriety when in private.
“Precisely where they should be,” Gabe replied with a grin.
“Does she know about me?”
Gabe shook his head. “Not yet, but I am certain she will not object.”
“If she does, I can always be sent back to India,” she said over the click of her knitting needles.
“You cannot be. You are my mother, and I will not be tossing you out. If she does not love you, she cannot love me.”
“I only wish for you to be happy,” his mother said softly. “I would not stand in the way of that.”