by Jane Goodger
Sara had the awful feeling that she should apologize to him.
A soft knock on the door had her heart slamming once again in her chest, but she calmed when she recognized her brother’s voice. After letting in her brother, Sara returned to the mirror to finish with her hair.
“Heard you got yourself into a bit of a spot.”
Sara gave him a look of surprise.
“Mr. Owen. He’s got a habit of hanging about doorways.”
“He was eavesdropping?” Sara said, horrified. She quickly thought back on her and West’s conversation, knowing the two had said things that were damning. Anyone listening the entire time would know they were not married.
“He wasn’t there for long,” Zachary said quickly. “Just long enough to hear the captain setting you down for cleaning the aftercabin.”
Sara sat down in the stateroom’s only chair, fretting her hands together in her lap. “Who has he told?”
“Whoever wanted to hear.”
Sara winced. “Then everyone.” Everyone knew of her humiliation, knew that Captain Mitchell did not have a care for his “wife.” Perhaps, she thought gloomily, that was better, for she was becoming more and more convinced that she hadn’t a care for her “husband” either. Nor did she have the inclination to make anyone believe she did.
“It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, Sara. Just as long as they don’t guess at the truth of things.”
“But it is only a matter of time before they do. The captain cannot abide me. And I cannot abide him,” she said forcefully. “We are supposed to be married, Zachary.”
He shrugged. “Married couples fight. Look at mother and father.”
“That’s true. But I had hoped I would have a better marriage,” she said glumly, before realizing just how ridiculous she sounded. She laughed at herself, shaking her head.
“It is a muddle, isn’t it?” Zachary said when he stopped laughing.
Both sobered when they heard the door that led from the aftercabin to the dining room shut. Zachary grew pensive and rubbed his jaw where he was allowing a beard to grow. “I don’t want you hurt, Sara. You know that cleaning the cabin and mending his shirts won’t make the captain fall in love with you. You do know that, don’t you Sara?” he asked softly.
Sara stiffened. “Of course I know that. My cleaning the cabin has nothing to do with anything except that I dislike untidy things.”
Zachary did not look convinced. “There is something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time but a promise to Mother prevented me from doing so. But now that she is passed away, I have no misgivings about telling you.” He breathed in as if bracing himself for something, and Sara grew slightly alarmed.
“Your father is not my father, Sara. John Dawes married mother when she already carried me.”
Sara’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Mother married father out of pure desperation. She loved my father, my real father, and he her. But he was wealthy and already married and could not bear up against the pressures of his family who would have been quite horrified by a divorce.”
“And so she married whoever would have her,” Sara said dully.
“Sara, father loved mother. Couldn’t you see that?”
Sara looked at her brother, her half-brother, and nodded. “But she never loved him.”
“I’m sure she was grateful to him. At least at first. But then I believe she grew to hate him. In her twisted mind, it was father who was to blame for her not marrying the man she loved. She loathed everything about him.”
Sara’s face paled. “Everything. Including me,” she whispered, her eyes staring blankly in front her. “She never loved me.”
Now she knew why. Now she knew why nothing she did or said pleased her mother. For each time her mother looked at Sara, she saw the man she hated. Her entire life crystallized in that moment and understanding exploded in her mind. She suddenly had the answer to that question asked only in the dead of night when she was curled up beneath the covers: Why doesn’t she love me? Sara sat down heavily, her eyes filling with tears, her heart feeling as if someone were squeezing it.
“Why did you tell me?” Sara said, almost angry to have been told the truth. She dashed away the tears that slipped down her cheeks.
“Because your entire life you tried to make her love you. You worked yourself to death trying to please a woman who would never be pleased. Every time you put flowers on the table and looked at her with a smile, I wanted to scream for you to stop as much as I wanted her to just once return your smile. I didn’t want to see you do it again, that is all.”
Sara was silent for a long moment as tears continued to fall unbidden and silent. Memories, painful, horrible, rushed through her mind. She saw herself as a little girl, tip-toeing through a room if she knew her mother was there, looking for approval for even the smallest of things—a hair ribbon, the shiny polish on her shoes. Sara swallowed down the growing lump in her throat. “You must think me pathetic. I know I do.”
Zachary hunkered down before her and grasped one hand. “No, Sara. I think you the warmest, kindest woman I have ever known. And the strongest. You held our family, such as it was, together.”
“Thank you.”
Zachary stood, all gruff and awkward. “Well. We’ve had our talk,” he said, straightening the cheap wool waistcoat he was so proud of.
“Yes, we have.” Sara brushed the last of her tears away with her fingertips. “I want you to know, though, that I intend to clean if I like and mend clothes if I choose. I simply will do it for myself and any member of the crew in need of assistance, except him.” There was no need for her to say whom she meant. “Captain Mitchell will have to beg me to darn one of his socks before I ply a needled to one of them. And several,” she said with a lift of her chin, “are in definite need of mending.”
Zachary laughed and gave her a small hug. “The real reason I am here,” he said, suddenly sounding formal, “is that I am to accompany you to dinner. Captain’s orders.”
Oh, drat, Sara thought miserably. She’d forgotten that in her pique she’d demanded that she at the very least act the wife and eat with the captain and his officers at dinner. She looked miserably down at her clothing, wishing she had something better to wear. She let out a sigh. “Very well.”
She followed her brother to the dining room where the elegant table was cut out around the mizzen mast, which thrust through the decks of the ship. Captain Mitchell and his mates were already gathered around the table, and stood abruptly when she entered the room.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said with a calm she did not feel. She hadn’t yet gained the courage to look at West, even though she felt his eyes on her, warming her skin to an uncomfortable degree. She sat to West’s right and fingered the little railing that bordered the dark walnut table.
“To keep the place settings in place,” West explained.
Sara darted a look to him, trying to make her gaze cool and distant. “Thank you for explaining, Mr. Mitchell.”
West watched as she took in the formal settings, which were elegant, almost absurdly so given the roughness of the men around the table. Despite her simple dress and her simple background, West couldn’t help but think she belonged sitting at an elegant table. She had an innate grace, an indefinable quality that made her a lady. He realized with a start that she reminded him of his mother, and he wondered what Julia would think of such a comparison. All those days and nights of retching into a basin and she’d said not one word of complaint, uttered not a syllable of regret. She’d even, he realized, taken his boorishness rather well.
West looked up through the skylight built directly above the table and could see that the sky was still light, though the sun cast the golden light of the coming dusk upon the ship’s wheel and the helmsman who tended it. He forced his mind to his ship and their hunt and away from the woman who sat next to him, who drew his gaze the way a whirlpool draws flotsam—with
with dangerous strength. When he looked down, he saw that Sara’s gaze had followed his and all the men, save Zachary, were looking at his wife, or rather at the woman pretending to be his wife. Pretending, he said to himself forcefully, though his body seemed to want to ignore that pertinent fact. He turned his thoughts to Elizabeth, imagined her sitting beside him. Ah, he thought, thoroughly pleased, that’ll cool my ardor for this little chit.
“When do you think we’ll spot our first whale?” Sara said to no one in particular, and none of the men answered for some time.
“Hard to tell,” Zachary mumbled finally.
Silence descended. Knives cut the surprisingly succulent chicken. Spoons dipped into the fish chowder that must have been to Sara’s liking, for she let out a small sound of pleasure. Mr. Billings slurped loudly and Mr. Mason gave him a sharp nudge. The next mouthful went in smoothly.
“Is it true,” Sara said, her voice sounding overloud. “that a whale can eat a man whole?”
Next to her, Zachary nearly choked.
“Mr. Mitchell. Is it true?”
West gave Mr. Mason a sharp look, clearly suspecting his first mate had been up to deviltry by spinning tales.
“I’ve heard such stories, but I’ve never seen proof of such,” he said dismissively.
Mr. Mason wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then hastily picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth again. “Only the sperm whale. Vicious creatures when they’ve got a harpoon stuck in their backside.”
“Mr. Mason.” West’s warning was clear. Sara ignored it.
“And would the whale chew? Or simply swallow a man whole?” Sara shot a glance at West, and smiled when she saw his look of disbelief. Mr. Mason cackled.
“Well,” Mason said, rubbing his beard. Bits of something escaped the frazzled whiskers with the movement. “I imagine it’d chew a bit. Depends on the size of the man, I suppose.”
As if engaging in perfectly acceptable dinner conversation, Sara nodded. Next to her, Zachary was trying his best not to laugh aloud.
Sara took a few delicate bites. “Do you think, Mr. Mason, that a whale would eat a man for food? Or only to exact revenge?”
“Miss Dawes.”
Sara looked at West, her blue eyes innocent. “Mrs. Mitchell,” she corrected sweetly.
His jaw clenched and Sara supposed her “husband” was getting miffed at her.
“Whales do not eat men.”
“Well, I am very glad to hear of it, Mr. Mitchell.”
Sara did not know why she was teasing the captain. Perhaps sheer malice drove her to do it. She could remember similar conversations with her father, the two of them purposefully trying to goad her ever-serious mother. And part of her knew she was doing the exact same thing now; she wanted to annoy this pretend husband of hers.
“You will hear many fantastic stories,” he said, giving Mr. Mason a warning look. “Most of which are false. I wouldn’t want you to worry needlessly.” He gave her a tight smile.
“What stories?” Sara leaned forward eagerly, and she could see the glint of amusement in Mr. Mason’s eyes. She’d been right about him, she thought, he wasn’t mean, simply ornery.
“A later time, Miss Dawes,” West bit out. “Mrs. Mitchell,” he amended briskly.
Sara’s face burned with embarrassment. Next to her, she could sense Zachary stiffen and she turned to give him a smile so that he’d know that Mr. Mitchell’s sharp words had not affected her. The other two men gave their captain a searching look before turning back to their food. Sara looked up at the skylight, pretending all was well.
“Where are we, exactly?”
West finished chewing before answering her. “About two hundred miles east of Long Island.” He spoke into his plate.
“Truly? It seems as though we should be much further.” Sara recalled reading accounts of ships reaching Florida in a week, and here they’d been gone nearly that and had barely left New England.
“This is not a clipper. And we are sailing southeast, not a direct line to the Caribbean. In fact, if we do not get a wind shift in a day or so, we shall sail to the Azores for supplies. We are not trying to set a speed record. We are hunting for whale.” He sounded like a tired teacher explaining a concept for the tenth time to a dull student.
“She don’t know, Captain. She ain’t never been on a whaler.”
Sara looked up to find Mr. Mason scowling darkly at the captain, then he winked at her, and Sara’s face split into a grin.
“That is true, Mr. Mason,” Sara said, ignoring the tense man next to her. “And I never thought I would be on a whaler, either. I thought I would only learn of such an adventurous life from the tales my brother and father spun.”
Mr. Mason leaned back, seemingly satisfied to have Sara smiling once again. “Yer pappy was a whaler?”
“Oh, no. He was a carpenter who built many of the interiors of the whaling ships. And other ships, as well. But he heard plenty of yarns while he was working on the ships, and he shared them all with us. I’m afraid he was quite the storyteller, so you’ll be hard pressed to top some of the yarns I’ve heard.”
Sara looked at her brother, who smiled his encouragement. It seemed everyone leaned forward to hear a tale but the captain, who instead moved his thumb across the handle of his spoon as if he were polishing it.
“Have you ever seen a giant squid?” Sara asked, remembering just how her father had told the story. She had never told a tale in her life, but suddenly found herself drawing the officers in with her words. It was the most fun she’d ever had, using her hands and eyes, as well as well-chosen words, to draw a gruesome picture of a giant squid, its tentacles slowly, slowly engulfing a ship, screaming men diving off only to be captured by the huge and snapping beak at the center of the beast’s body.
In the middle of the tale, Sara sneaked a look at the captain who watched her beneath hooded eyes. She had no idea if he were enjoying her tale. Indeed, he had more the look of a menacing and hungry giant squid at the moment, so she turned her attention to the other men who were so obviously swept up in her bloody tale. When she was finished, all was silent for a few moments before Mr. Mason slapped his palm on the table loudly, letting out a loud laugh.
“By gor, Mrs. Mitchell, I’ve got to get ye to tell that tale to the greenhorns. They’ll have nightmares for a week.”
“No.”
Sara’s joy at Mr. Mason’s praise disappeared with the sharp, unrelenting sound of that word uttered by the captain.
“I’ll not have my wife entertaining the men with tales like some barroom wench, Mr. Mason,” West said.
“Oh, I do beg yer highness’s pardon,” Mr. Mason said with a little snort. But he did not press and Sara knew no more would be said on the matter.
For some reason, West’s pompousness did not disturb Sara. Instead, despite her new resolve to not care a whit about West Mitchell, Sara could only think how nice it was to hear him call her “my wife.”
When dinner was finished, Sara excused herself and made her way to the aftercabin knowing she would have the cozy room to herself for a few hours. She was exhausted and no longer in the mood to spin tales or make anyone laugh. She felt, quite oddly, like crying, though she didn’t know exactly why. Sara sat upon the cushioned sofa, her head resting on the back, and stared at the teak-paneled ceiling. Before she knew it, tears were streaming down her face, tickling her ears, wetting her neck. She’d just had a wonderful time, why was she crying? Then a rush of memories assaulted her, crushed her.
How could she mourn a woman who never loved her? She squeezed her eyes closed. That yearning she’d felt as a little girl flooded her heart, even now hoping that she would someday earn her mother’s love. Sara could not remember ever being held. Or loved. Except, of course, by Zachary. But he was older and had escaped their house as much as possible, leaving for good when she was just fourteen.
Her father, though she loved him, was rarely around, and when he was, it was a gruff, distant man she saw. The only t
ime she shared with him was at the dinner table when he was spinning his tales. Now they were both gone, forever gone. She’d have no more chances to make her mother love her. There would be no more stories at the dinner table. Then a memory, sharp and cruel, came to her. That last night they were together as a family, her father had delighted in torturing her mother with the story of the young man who’d been murdered practically outside their door.
“Heard there was some excitement today,” John Dawes had said as he’d sawed at a piece of pork and popped it in his mouth, chewing noisily and opened-mouthed. His brown eyes glinted with something close to amusement as he noted his wife’s look of disgust at his bad table manners. He let out a noisy, liquidy burp.
Sara had looked up expectantly at her father, who had returned just before supper from an overnight trip to Fall River to look over a new lumber yard.
“What excitement?” she asked, feeling more tension between her parents than was typical. She looked from one parent to the other, but they only had eyes for each other, and the look was not loving.
“Murder,” her father growled. “A young boy.” He emphasized the word “boy” in a odd way, as if it would have some significance to Evelyn, and Sara furrowed her brow.
“You’ll wrinkle your forehead if you continue to scowl like that, Sara,” her mother said, finally looking her way. Then to her husband, “This is not a suitable conversation for our dinner table.”
John slurped his beer noisily, then wiped his mouth with flourish on the back of his sleeve, a defiant look on his face.
“Maybe not your dinner table. But at my dinner table I can talk about whatever I goddamned please,” he said, a hard and terrible edge to his voice. He took another drink and let out a satisfied sound. Her father, never the cleanest nor neatest man, was particularly grubby this night. His hair, matted and greasy, spiked up all over his head. His shirt was stained, his cravat and collar undone and still draped about a neck that was dark with grime and unshaved hair. It almost appeared as if he had purposefully come the dinner table in this state to upset his wife.