by Jody Hedlund
This time she gave an exasperated sigh.
“If you honestly don’t want to be with me, I’ll go.” He was stretching the truth. He didn’t know that he’d be able to leave her even if she demanded it. “Just say it. Say, ‘I don’t want to be with you, John.’ Then I’ll leave.” He didn’t care that he was baiting her to declare her affection for him. Even if it would never match his own, he wanted her to admit her feelings.
“John,” she chastised softly.
“Do you want me to leave?”
She was silent again. Finally, she uttered one low word. “No.”
He smiled. “Aye then.” Before he took the implication of her admission to a new level and neglected to leave her bedroom, he forced himself to turn the doorknob. “Good night, Polly.”
Her breathless good night followed him out of the room and almost made him lose his willpower to close the door behind him.
Polly squeezed Eliza’s hand from her spot on the edge of the settee. Everyone watched John pace back and forth, eight steps to the window and eight steps to the pianoforte.
The moment the constable and two superior officers from the customs office had arrived, Mother had banished the rest of the children to their rooms upstairs. Since then she hadn’t moved from her spot near the door where she now stood like a marble statue.
The only sounds were John’s footsteps muted by the rug. Every once in a while, Father’s voice rose. At those moments they all strained to hear what he was saying. It couldn’t be good if Father was upset since he rarely lost his temper or spoke in anger.
“This is all my fault,” John mumbled, as he had already a dozen times since the men had arrived.
Polly wanted to ask him what was his fault, but she already suspected the answer had to do with yesterday’s run-in with Charlie’s gang at the cave. They’d all been tense since last evening. Every passerby, every noise from outside, every knock on the door had made them jump. In some ways, finally having this confrontation was a relief.
At the click of Father’s study door opening and the ensuing sharp footsteps in the hallway, John halted his pacing. His broad shoulders were tense and his expression grave.
The two customs officers made quick work of exiting the house, leaving Father behind with the constable.
“I’m sorry, George.” The constable, Mr. Pickworth, was a longtime friend of Father’s. Mr. Pickworth attended their church, and their families had grown up together. “The most I could do was prevent them from taking away your commission altogether.”
Polly’s pulse dove at the same time that Mother stiffened.
“You did the best you could, Sam,” her father replied from near the front door. “It means a great deal to me that you defended my rights, especially since in doing so you put your own welfare in danger.”
“You’re a good man,” Mr. Pickworth said. “One of the best I know. If I suffer for defending a man like you, then it will be worth it.”
Father bade Mr. Pickworth good-bye and ushered him out. When the door closed and Father’s weighted footsteps neared the drawing room, Polly couldn’t keep from gripping Eliza’s hand harder.
As Father entered the room, Mother reached trembling fingers for his. Father’s hand shook as he took hold of hers. His forehead was grooved with deep lines, and his expression was somber.
Like the others, Polly stared at him, waiting for the news but not wanting to hear it.
“The good news,” Father started, “is that I still have a job.” He attempted a smile, but it was weak.
Polly held her breath and from Eliza’s utter stillness, she knew her sister was doing the same.
“The bad news is that I’ve lost my position as a senior officer.”
For a long moment the room was so silent they could hear the soft tap of raindrops against the window.
Finally, John spoke. “They can’t do that.”
“They did,” Father replied.
“Because of Charlie Baldock?” John asked, his voice taut.
Father shrugged. “I suspect he paid one of the other senior officers quite a hefty sum to make sure my hands are tied.”
John spun and stalked back to the window. Once there he stopped and stared outside at the gray winter sky.
Guilt settled over Polly’s heart like a coating of coal dust. If John felt responsible, she was more so. “I’m sorry, Father—”
“Don’t blame yourself, Polly.” John turned, and Polly could see his face was a mask of anguish. “This is all my fault.”
“But I shouldn’t have chased Miss Donovan’s dog. Billy warned me not to.”
“Neither of you are at fault.” Father squared his thin shoulders. “I knew by taking a stand against the gangs that eventually I’d pay the price.”
Polly realized what he was leaving unsaid, that the price could have been his death. Being demoted was certainly less costly than his life. Even so, the loss of his prestigious position would bring shame to their family as well as a reduction in her father’s income. Would Jack still be able to continue his education? And what of her own schooling now? If her parents could no longer afford to pay for Jack to attend school, then there would certainly be no chance for her.
For a brief moment she tasted the bitterness of disappointment. But as quickly as it came, she swallowed it. She ought to be grateful her father was safe. She ought to be grateful that this was the most Charlie was doing to them for stumbling upon his hideout yesterday. The punishment could have been so much worse. In fact, there was still the very real possibility that he could attempt to recapture and harm John. Or her.
She bowed her head as the shame of her selfishness pressed upon her. Tonight she would pray harder and longer. For forgiveness for wanting more. For safety for her family and John. But even as her prayers formulated, her soul echoed with emptiness. Would God really hear her? Why would he listen to her when she was riddled with faults? Would she ever be free of her sin and good enough to truly connect with God and feel his presence?
If only she could earn his favor. Maybe then he’d finally hear her prayers.
February 1744
Polly’s fingers formed a new chord on the keyboard before her. “How does that sound?”
“Hmm…” John stood next to her bench and examined the notes with a solemnity that was almost comical. “Why don’t you sing what we have so far?”
She couldn’t contain her smile. “I think you’re just looking for an excuse to hear me sing again.”
“My lady, do you question my motives?” He put a hand over his heart as though she’d wounded him with her accusation. But his easy grin told her that she’d figured out his tactic.
“You have questioned my arrangements so often that I’ve decided either you think I’m a terrible composer or you’re simply looking for an excuse to hear me sing.”
His green eyes twinkled with the mirth she’d grown to love. “Or it could be that I take very seriously our task of developing music to go with these hymns.”
Polly only shook her head and then worked her way through the page of music they’d already arranged. The music was meant to accompany the words of a hymn written down in a little book that once had belonged to John’s mother. The verses were mostly taken from the Psalms, but his mother had composed them beautifully. And they begged for music to go with them.
From the worn pages and battered cover, she could tell John treasured the book, even if he didn’t treasure the words of faith the same way she did. Although he didn’t speak of his mother often, whenever he did it was with reverence and love. It was clear he adored her, and he’d told Polly that the hymnal was his last remaining link to her.
Over the past several weeks, the time spent composing with him had become one of Polly’s favorite parts of the day. Usually they did so in the early afternoon, after their midday meal. And some days, especially during the past week, they had spent several hours at it. They’d written music for two of the hymns and had started a third. When she w
as deep in the development of the melody, she had the niggling suspicion that perhaps this was what God was calling her to do, to sit beside John and develop worshipful songs that would be an inspiration for others in their faith. And yet, how could it be if John didn’t share her faith in God?
Her father had forbidden her to leave the premises of their home for fear that Charlie’s gang might still attempt to harm her. As if the worry of reprisal and her father’s loss of his position weren’t enough, they’d had to release two of their servants, which left them with only one, not nearly enough help for a large household such as theirs. However, Mother had attempted to cheerfully embrace the new duties, explaining that the extra work would be good for all of them.
Thankfully, John’s companionship had provided her with many hours of distraction. He willingly joined them in any task needing to be done. When the work was completed, he loved reading from the books in the morning room. She often found him there with a new book in hand, and he always discussed what he was reading with her. Not only that, but he resumed teaching her Latin. He also entertained her siblings and her in the evenings with his delightful rendition of one novel or another. And he introduced several new parlor games that they had fun playing.
She could hardly complain that she was a prisoner, not when John as her fellow prisoner provided such pleasant companionship. Nevertheless, spring would soon be upon them, and she was ready to resume normal life.
“When does your next voyage start, John?” her mother had asked only that morning as they ate toast and sipped tea to break their fast. “My recollection says you were due to set sail any day now.”
He nearly choked on his tea and took overlong to respond. Although his tanned face didn’t go red, Polly sensed a deepening color, especially when all her siblings stared at him and waited for his answer.
“I wanted to stay and protect Polly. I couldn’t leave without making sure there was no longer any danger.”
“Oh dear.” Mother sat back in her chair. “I’m sorry that we’ve caused you to miss your voyage.”
“Nay,” he said quickly. “ ‘It wasn’t your fault, to be sure.”
“You should have let us know,” Mother chided softly. “We would have encouraged you to go. You cannot neglect your other responsibilities for our sake.”
“I’ve been carefully contemplating other options,” he responded, “and I’m certain I can find another position at some point.”
He took a bite of his toast and didn’t notice Mother’s narrowed eyes studying him with concern. But Polly saw the look, and it filled her with foreboding.
“As a matter of fact,” John said after wiping the butter from his mouth, “I’ve considered going down to the dockyard and finding work there.”
Mother had been made momentarily speechless by his declaration. Although the Royal Dockyard launched a new ship or two every year, some of the largest classes of ships, a man could not simply walk down to the dockyard and ask for a job. Most of the positions were filled by tradesmen and apprentices who specialized in their particular craft, including block makers, caulkers, blacksmiths, joiners, carpenters, and others.
Even getting a position in the ropery would have posed a challenge. Although the spinning of the hemp and rope making required many men, John hadn’t been trained in any of the required skills. Perhaps there was a chance he could find work in the tarring house where the newly made rope was tarred to prevent rot. But Polly suspected, as Mother surely did, that the chances of John finding work beyond that of a common laborer weren’t very likely. Would he really be happy with the backbreaking work and meager wages of unskilled positions that were reserved for paupers? At the same time, she couldn’t bear the thought of him returning to seafaring life, not when war with France was looming so near.
Although her mother and father didn’t often talk of the hostilities with France, of late they hadn’t been able to shield her or her siblings from the growing threat of an invasion by the French under the guise of helping Bonnie Prince Charlie take the throne away from King George. She didn’t understand what it all meant, except that since they lived so close to the coast and to France, her Father feared for their safety. And now she feared that if John returned to his sailing, he might get caught up in war.
But the truth was, John’s only viable recourse was to continue in what he knew—sailing. Perhaps one day he’d earn enough to sustain a family through his voyages, like his father had.
Polly flushed at the thought and let her fingers linger on the keyboard. She wasn’t thinking of a future with him, was she? Right now he wasn’t ready, either financially or spiritually. But that didn’t mean he never would be, did it?
He hummed a few more notes and then sang another line. He had a deep, well-tuned singing voice, and she had to admit she enjoyed listening to him.
In fact, there were so many things she liked about him—his wit, his laughter, their conversations, his helpfulness, his thoughtfulness, and his desire to see that she and her family were safe. She would miss him when he finally took his leave.
“Scoot over and make room for me.” He lowered himself to the edge of the bench, giving her little choice but to move or have him sit on her lap.
Her attention shifted to the chair where Eliza had been only a moment ago embroidering an apron. The ivory linen was detailed with tiny colorful flowers, one tulip half-finished with the needle and thread hanging abandoned over the edge of the chair.
Where had Eliza gone? Even though Mother often referred to John as their brother and had enfolded him in their family as though he were her son, she had admonished them to have a chaperone whenever they were with him.
Polly had done her best to obey her mother’s instructions. But now he was sitting directly next to her with his thigh pressed against hers. She had no more space to move on the short bench. Even though she ought to slide to the edge or even stand up, she couldn’t make herself.
He leaned over the keyboard and placed his fingers on several notes as though completely oblivious to her nearness. He plunked out a few off-key notes. “How does that sound? Like a masterpiece, no doubt.”
“If you keep it up, I think you shall likely put Mr. Handel out of work.”
John grinned and played several more notes. “Aye, soon I’ll be the one playing for the king and queen.”
“I should like to see you in a long wig exactly like the one Mr. Handel wears.” She glanced to his hair, tied back except for one sandy-brown piece that had come loose.
“I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you, my lady.” He attempted a chord but clearly needed lessons. “I refuse to wear anything that resembles sausage links piled one on top of the other.”
“Are you afraid that you might be tempted to snack on your hair in moments of hunger?”
He laughed softly. “Aye.”
She couldn’t resist studying his profile, the strong lines of his jaw, the slight layer of beard, and the smile lines near his mouth.
As though sensing her appraisal, he shifted his attention from his fingers on the keys to her face. Her mistake was not looking away quickly enough.
His beautiful sea-green eyes were wide and clear and light with the humor of the moment. And he didn’t glance away either. She hadn’t expected him to. He was bold and mischievous and sometimes even impious.
Heaven help her, she ought not encourage him in anything beyond simple friendship. And she’d done well during his visit to maintain boundaries. Thankfully he had too, in spite of his usual good-natured teasing. But there were rare moments when they were alone, like now, when all pretenses fell away.
The light faded from his eyes, turning them a darker green. The humor dissipated from his expression, replaced by a mixture of seriousness and determination that suddenly put her senses on keen alert.
He hardly shifted on the bench, but it was enough for him to lift his hand to her cheek. When his fingertips skimmed her cheekbone, she didn’t move. She couldn’t resist his gentle
pressure. When his gaze alighted upon her mouth, the chaste part of her warned her to stand up, to flee temptation.
But another part of her longed for the thrill of knowing what it would feel like to kiss him. She could no longer deny that she’d been waiting for this moment since the day he’d held her in the stable. She’d wanted to feel his mouth against hers. She’d dreamed of what it would be like.
If he wanted to kiss her, she would let him.
As though she’d spoken the words aloud, he tilted his head closer. His fingers dropped to her jaw and grazed a line to her chin. She wanted to close her eyes and bask in the sweet sensation. But he’d captivated her, and she couldn’t break eye contact any more than she could free herself from a swirling abyss.
He tilted a fraction closer so that now his breath lingered above her lips. When his nose touched hers lightly, the contact was so intimate and tender that she brushed the tip of her nose back against his, completely lost in the brief contact and the way their breath mingled.
If he’d had any doubt of her willingness before, the touch of her nose was all the invitation he needed. His lips grazed the corner of her mouth, feathery light. Even though the contact was infinitely soft, it elicited a gasp that came out of the depths of her naivety and new delight of such intimacy. But before she could express the completeness of her pleasure in that small kiss, his lips came against hers more forcefully.
The power of his mouth left her no room to utter a sound. She was too shocked by the strength of his kiss, the way his lips laid claim to hers, the way his mouth moved against hers. His lips demanded a response, stirring her passions, so that she closed her eyes and gave way to the driving need to experience him, to know him more deeply.
Oh God help her, but she’d never experienced anything so beautiful, so pleasurable. A moan begged for release, but his mouth covering hers gave her no escape. She wanted no escape. And when he lightened the pressure of his lips as though to pull away, she did the unthinkable. She refused to let him go. She initiated more. She crushed her lips against his.