Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  Leaning down, Luke planted a kiss on her wrinkled forehead and gave her a beguiling smile. “What would I do without you?”

  A red hue crept up her face as it always did when he kissed her. She slapped his arm and wagged a finger at him. “Your charm doesn’t work with me, Luke.” Shaking her head, she turned toward the kitchen. “You forget how often I took a strap to your bottom when you were but a child, and I’ll do so again if needs be.”

  Despite her threat, warmth flooded Luke. He had indeed received many a swat from Mrs. Aldora Barnes as he had grown to manhood. Not one of them undeserved. Truth be told, the old housekeeper had been more of a mother to him than his real mother, who had so often been gone on trips with his father to “redeem the dark-hearted savages.”

  Redeem the savages, indeed.

  John stared up at him wide eyed. “I think she means it.”

  Luke chuckled. “Then I shall have to behave myself, won’t I? As you will, as well.”

  John shrugged. “I always behave.”

  Pulling out one of the chairs, Luke dropped onto the soft cushion and eyed his brother. Yes, John did always behave. So unlike Luke. John’s face twisted as he limped over and struggled to sit in the chair next to Luke’s. He stretched out his leg before him, the steel brackets bending the boy’s trousers at odd angles. Where one leg was thick and strong and normal, the other was thin and frail and twisted to the right. Luke cringed. He should have been the one with rickets, not his kindhearted brother. “How does your leg fare today?”

  “Good.” John rubbed his withered thigh.

  Always the same response no matter what discomfort the boy was enduring.

  “When I get a new brace, I’ll be able to walk much faster,” John continued. Then casting a glance over his shoulder, he leaned toward Luke and whispered, “Perhaps I can come with you on your ship then?” Excitement sparked in his eyes.

  Luke fingered a spoon on the table. “I’m afraid it won’t be seaworthy for quite some time.” If ever. He shifted his gaze from the disappointment tugging on John’s face. The boy loved the sea as much as Luke did—had repeatedly begged Luke to take him out on Noah’s ship, the Defender. But of course that was not possible. A privateer was no place for a lad, especially a crippled one. And with Noah losing his own brother in a ship accident some years ago, he wasn’t about to risk Luke’s. After a while, John had stopped asking. Until Luke had won his own ship in a game of Piquet two weeks ago, resurrecting the boy’s petitions. If John had anything in common with Luke, besides his love of the sea, it was persistence.

  “Shall we make a bargain?” Luke said. “If I ever get my ship seaworthy, you may come sailing with me.” Luke knew he shouldn’t make such a promise, but the chances of acquiring enough money to repair the Agitation were less than impossible. And the look of delight now beaming in the boy’s eyes was well worth the risk.

  “You promise?” John held out his hand. “A gentleman’s honor.”

  Luke chuckled and took John’s hand in a firm grip. “Aye, I promise.” Though he cringed at pledging upon an honor he did not possess.

  Mrs. Barnes swept into the room, her arms loaded with platters of steaming food. “What’s this we are pledging to each other?”

  “Nothing, Mrs. Barnes.” John gazed at the broiled fish, biscuits, rice, and platter of sweet pickles and fried greens that Mrs. Barnes set upon the table. He licked his lips.

  Luke’s stomach leapt at the succulent smells, reminding him that he’d imbibed nothing but rum all day. While Mrs. Barnes said a prayer over the food, Luke glanced over the dining room, small by comparison with other homes: whitewashed walls devoid of decoration, save three sconces wherein candles flickered; a small brick fireplace with a cloth of painted canvas before it; a chipped wooden buffet that lined the wall beneath a rectangular window framed by dull linen curtains. A silver service tray complete with teapot, china cups, and silverware sat upon it, should company grace their home. Which rarely happened.

  Luke clenched his jaw. He’d wanted to do more for his brother. So much more.

  “And Father,” Mrs. Barnes continued, “thank You for bringing Luke home to us tonight.”

  Luke flinched. Candlelight flickered off the old woman’s face, casting her in a golden glow that made her look much younger than her sixty years.

  “Amen,” John repeated then eagerly helped himself to a piece of fish.

  Their meal passed with laughter and pleasant conversation, during which Luke listened with rapt attention to John’s rendition of his visit to the town library that day with Mrs. Barnes. Embellished with mad adventures that involved fighting off a band of gypsies and an encounter with a fire-breathing dragon, the story could match any found in Aesop’s fables. The lad had an overactive imagination. And Luke wondered if perhaps he’d be a writer someday. Whatever he did, he’d no doubt be far more successful than Luke.

  Then, per John’s request, Luke regaled them with one of his adventures at sea, all the while wondering whether he’d ever have any new stories to tell.

  Soon after, Luke found himself sitting beside John as he lay in bed.

  “You know you don’t have to tuck me in. I’m not a baby anymore,” John huffed.

  “No, you’re not.” Though he had been just one year old when the responsibility of parenting had fallen solely on Luke. “You’re almost a man. I can hardly believe it.”

  “Will you work on your ship tomorrow?”

  “Yes, if you work on your studies with Mrs. Barnes.”

  John’s face soured. “But they are so boring. I want to be with you.”

  Luke raised his brows. “If you’re going to be a sailor, you must be able to read and write and calculate numbers. Every captain I know who is worth his salt has a good education.”

  “Truly?”

  “Indeed.” Luke drew the coverlet up to John’s chin.

  “Will you come home tomorrow for dinner?” The pleading in John’s voice stung Luke.

  He wiped the hair from John’s forehead. “I’ll try.”

  John gave him a placating smile that said he didn’t believe him. The boy was growing up too fast. Luke planted a kiss on his forehead then mussed up his hair. “Get some sleep.”

  Grabbing the lantern, Luke headed for the door.

  “I love you, Luke.”

  Luke halted, emotion clogging his throat. “I love you too, John.”

  Down in the parlor, Mrs. Barnes filled Luke’s mug with coffee then poured herself a cup and sat down in her favorite chair—a Victorian rocking chair—beside the fireplace where simmering coals provided a modicum of heat. A wooden clock sat on the mantel, its time stranded at 9:13. Luke stared at it, willing the hands to move. But they remained frozen in place. Hadn’t it been working fine just that morning? Lud. That was all Luke needed. Something else broken in his broken-down world.

  “I’m glad you came home tonight,” Mrs. Barnes said. “That boy adores you.”

  Luke sipped the hot liquid, enjoying the exotic smell more than its bitter taste. Yet the coffee soothed his throat and settled in a pool of warmth in his belly. “He means the world to me.”

  “Then come home more often.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t give up your gambling and drinking?” Mrs. Barnes set down her cup on the table beside her and picked up her knitting as if she hadn’t just chastised her employer. A large Bible perched proudly beside her steaming mug. Luke never saw her without it.

  “I win more than I lose.” Luke shifted his boots over the wool rug, trying to rub away the guilt.

  Mrs. Barnes gazed at him from kind brown eyes that seemed far too small for her round face. Gray curls, springing from her mobcap, framed her like a silver halo. “I know a great deal of responsibility was laid upon your shoulders at only seventeen, but—”

  “And I have kept us alive since,” Luke interrupted, his ire rising.

  “I’m not disputing that.”

  Leaning back in
his chair, Luke glanced over the parlor, which boasted of chipped paint, threadbare curtains, and secondhand furniture. “I know this isn’t the most comfortable place to live, but it’s all I can afford at the moment.”

  “You know I don’t care about that, Luke. I’m concerned for your soul.”

  “My soul is fine.”

  “Hmm.” She continued her knitting. “If only you’d settle down. Pick an honorable trade.”

  “I have. A privateer. If this war continues much longer, I can make a fortune.”

  “You sound as if you wish the war would go on.”

  “Absurd.” Setting his cup down with a clank, Luke rose and began to pace. “I know firsthand what the British are capable of. I hate the blockade. I hate their intrusion onto our land. I want to fight as much as the next man. Only at sea.”

  Needles flying, Mrs. Barnes joined one strand of white yarn and one strand of black together in a chaotic pattern that made no sense. Much like the pattern of Luke’s life.

  He stomped about the room, trying to settle his agitation. “When I sailed with Noah, I took great pride in thwarting the British cause by capturing their merchant ships.”

  “Yet you are no longer with Captain Brenin.”

  Halting, Luke avoided looking at the censure he knew he would find on Mrs. Barnes’s face even as he braced himself for her lecture. Everyone in town knew why Noah had relieved Luke of his duties.

  But instead, she gave him a gentle smile. “If privateering is where God is leading you, Luke, then by all means, pursue that course.”

  Luke warmed at her encouragement. “As soon as I get the funds to fix my ship.”

  “What happened to the money you had in the bank?”

  Luke lowered his chin as silence permeated the room.

  “Your parents would not approve of your methods of procuring money. And neither does God.”

  “My parents followed God and look where it got them.” Luke gazed at the rippled, pink skin on the palm of his right hand. “I’m doing things differently. I’m doing things my way. Besides, I’m not hurting anyone with my actions.”

  “Except John.”

  “He misses me, that’s all.” Luke shrugged. “I’ll make it up to him when I fix my ship. Teach him to sail. We’ll become merchants together after the war.”

  “That would be nice.” Yet her tone held no confidence.

  Luke parted the curtains. Aside from a few twinkling lights emanating from nearby homes, nothing but an empty, dark void met his gaze. Empty like his many promises to John. “Why do you stay with us, Mrs. Barnes? Surely your skills and experience could land you a better position in a proper home.”

  “Why, I wouldn’t know what to do in a proper home.” Her warm smile reached her eyes in a twinkle. “Besides, I love you boys as if I birthed you myself. And I promised your mother I’d look out after you.”

  Luke made his way back to his chair, drawn away from the darkness by the love in this precious woman’s face. “You are family now, Mrs. Barnes. Which is why I allow you to speak to me with such forthrightness.” He winked and slid back onto his chair.

  Dropping her knitting into her lap, Mrs. Barnes leaned forward and patted his hand as she always did to comfort him. “Love can only be expressed in truth.”

  The wise adage drifted through Luke, finally settling on his reason. Love and truth. Two things he didn’t know much about.

  Mrs. Barnes gazed at the red coals. “The doctor came today.”

  Leaning forward, Luke planted his elbows on his knees.

  “He said there shouldn’t be any additional malformation due to the rickets.”

  “That’s great news.” Luke nearly leapt from his seat, but Mrs. Barnes’s somber expression stifled his enthusiasm. “What else? Will the leg ever heal?”

  Mrs. Barnes took a sip of her coffee then wrapped her hands around the cup. “In time, perhaps. The doctor cannot say for sure. But he did say John needs a new brace.”

  Luke nodded, swallowing down resurging fears for his brother’s future. A new brace cost money. Money he didn’t have.

  “He gave me a bill.” Anxiety burned in her eyes. “And the rent is due by the end of the week.”

  “How much?”

  “Including the doctor bill, forty-eight dollars.”

  Luke ground his teeth together. He had only two silver dollars in his pocket—barely enough to provide food for the week. A sudden yearning for rum instead of coffee screamed from his throat. Picking up his mug, he gazed at the brown liquid swirling in his cup. Around and around it went like a brewing tempest at sea.

  A tempest that was surely heading his way.

  CHAPTER 5

  Wake up, miss. Wake up.” The sweet voice bade entrance into Cassandra’s sleep.

  She denied it permission.

  It rose again. “Wake up, miss.” Followed by the shuffle of curtains, then the clack of shutters. A burst of light flooded Cassandra’s eyelids. Her ladies’ maid began singing a hymn—something about a fount of blessing and streams of mercy.

  Cassandra could not relate. She rolled over. “I’m not feeling well, Margaret.”

  “But Mr. Crane is here, miss.”

  Struggling to sit, Cassandra squinted into the sunlight blaring through the window. “Oh bother.” She rubbed her eyes. “Mr. Crane?”

  “Yes. Remember your mother invited him over for coffee and cakes this morning?”

  Tossing her quilt aside, Cassandra swung her legs over the edge of her mattress as her stomach turned to lead. Yes, now she remembered. She had wanted to forget—which was probably why she had forgotten.

  Swinging open the armoire, Margaret chose a saffron-colored muslin gown then pulled two petticoats from the chest of drawers in the corner, laying them gently on Cassandra’s bed. “Come now, miss, surely the man can’t be that distasteful?” She planted her fists atop her rounded waist and smiled at Cassandra. Cheeks that were perpetually rosy adorned her plump, cheery face while strands of black hair escaped from beneath her bonnet.

  With a groan, Cassandra hopped to the floor, raised her arms, and allowed Margaret to sweep her night rail over her head. “There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Crane. I simply do not wish to marry him.”

  “Well, miss.” Margaret folded her sleeping gown. “Perhaps you should give him a chance. He might improve with time.”

  Grabbing a stool from the corner, Margaret placed it beside Cassandra and stepped onto it, holding up the first petticoat. Few women were shorter than Cassandra’s mere five feet. But dear Margaret, at only four foot eight, made up for her small stature with an enormous heart. Cassandra shrugged into her petticoat. “I doubt I’ll find anyone as agreeable as your Mr. Dayle.”

  Margaret’s rosy cheeks turned crimson. “Aye, he’s a good man, to be sure. But I suspect the Lord has a kindly gentleman chosen just for you.”

  Cassandra let out an unladylike snort. “God has better things to do than play matchmaker for me, Margaret. And even if I believed He was involved in my life—which I doubt He is—I would prefer He provide me with a privateer rather than a husband.”

  “Who says He can’t do both, miss?”

  Twenty minutes later, Cassandra burst into the breakfast room situated at the back of the house. Silverware and crystal decanters sitting atop the table glittered in the sunlight pouring in through the closed french doors. The aroma of butter, spicy meat, and aromatic coffee whirled about her.

  Tossing down his serviette, Mr. Crane rose from his seat and smiled her way. Tall, thin, with neatly combed brown hair, the man was not without some appeal. His attire was fashionable and clean, save for the occasional ink smudge on his skin. In addition, his manners were impeccable and his pedigree spotless. As Cassandra’s mother loved to remind her at every turn. Speaking of, her mother, dressed to perfection in a cream-colored gown that was crowned at the neck and sleeves with golden ruffles, sat at the head of the table. Cassandra did not miss the scowl on her face. “Mr. Crane has some urgent busi
ness to attend to this morning and could wait no longer for you to join us.”

  “I am glad you proceeded without me.” Cassandra circled the table and helped herself to a cup of coffee from the serving table, passing over the odd-smelling battercakes and blackened sausage. Turning, she found Mr. Crane’s eyes latched on her. “Do have a seat and finish your meal, Mr. Crane.” She took a chair across from him. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I fear I had a rather hectic day yesterday.”

  Children’s laughter accompanied by the bark of a dog echoed from the back garden.

  Mr. Crane flipped out his coattails and sat. “Of course, Miss Channing. I understand women need their rest.”

  Cassandra tapped her shoe on the floor and scoured him with a pointed gaze. “I was just telling your mother of the happenings down at the Register.” He chuckled and lifted a piece of battercake to his mouth. After a moment’s pause, his lips twisted into an odd shape as he continued chewing.

  Cassandra smiled.

  Which he must have taken as encouragement to continue his dissertation of the newspaper business.

  Searching the table for sugar, Cassandra sighed when she remembered they’d been out for months. She sipped her bitter coffee, trying to drown out the man’s incessant babbling.

  Thankfully, after a few minutes, Miss Thain, the cook, entered the room. Eyes downcast, she cleared the plates, bobbing and curtseying at every turn.

  Mr. Crane stood. “Would you care for a stroll in the garden, Miss Channing?”

  “It’s a bit cold, isn’t it?” Didn’t the man say he had an appointment?

  “Don’t be silly, Cassandra,” her mother said. “I’ll have Margaret bring down your cloak.” She hurried off, returning in a moment with Cassandra’s wool cape.

  After sweeping it around her shoulders, Cassandra followed Mr. Crane through the french doors into the back garden. Warm sunlight struck her face even as a chilled breeze sent a shiver through her. Though nearly spring, winter seemed unwilling to release its grip on the city. To her left, Mr. Dayle chipped through the hard dirt in preparation for a vegetable garden. Beside him a small stable housed their only horse. To the right, smoke rose from the smokehouse where Miss Thain made the bread and smoked the meat—or where Miss Thain attempted to make bread and smoke meat. A small stone path wound among various trees and shrubs whose green buds were just beginning to peek from within gray branches.