Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Amen.” Mr. Crane slapped his hands together and reached for a bowl of boiled potatoes. After shoveling a heap onto his plate, he passed the bowl to the lady of the house and took the liberty of pouring himself a glass of wine from the carafe. “I was most pleased to hear of your good fortune, Miss Channing.” He dipped his head toward Cassandra.

  Grabbing a plate of what appeared to be fried fish, she handed it to Luke. “Yes, indeed, sir. We have Mr. Heaton to thank for that. As it turns out, he is quite the privateer.”

  Luke smiled inwardly as he grabbed the platter and slid a portion onto his plate.

  Mr. Crane sipped his wine. “Isn’t it just a game of luck, Mr. Heaton, this privateering?” he said without looking at Luke. “I mean to say, it’s quite a gamble that you’ll even encounter a British vessel, let alone one that you can catch and defeat in battle.”

  Luke opened his mouth to reply but the man continued, “And then she must have a bellyful of cargo to sell to make her worthwhile prey.” He plucked a biscuit from a tray and passed the plate to Cassandra. “Yes, indeed, it seems but a game of chance.”

  “As it turns out, Mr. Crane. I’m quite good at gambling.” Luke winked at Darlene as she passed him a bowl of greens. The girl giggled.

  “A worthless pastime,” Mrs. Channing interjected. “For charlatans and idlers.”

  “I quite agree.” Mr. Crane huffed. “Your reputation, Mr. Heaton, does you no credit. And like all gamblers, I’ll wager your luck will run out in time.”

  “Then you would wish ill luck on me as well, Mr. Crane.” Cassandra seethed. “For my success is tied with Mr. Heaton’s.”

  Luke raised a brow at her spiteful tone.

  “Not at all, my dear.” Alarm rang in Mr. Crane’s voice as if he realized his error. “I merely speak in philosophical generalities. No harm done, Mr. Heaton, eh?”

  Fury surged through Luke’s veins while he forced a calm smile upon his lips. All eyes shot to him as if expecting an angry outburst. “I’m flattered that you have spent so much of your precious time pondering my pastimes and my reputation, sir. Perhaps you should attend to your own.”

  Cassandra smiled and gazed down at her plate.

  Mr. Crane stretched his neck. “I’ll have you know, sir, that my reputation is without blemish.”

  Mrs. Channing helped herself to the meat pie. “Indeed, Mr. Crane. You need not concern yourself in that regard. All of Baltimore can attest to your good name.” She gave a nervous chuckle, no doubt anxious to change the topic. Her glance took in the table. “Do forgive the lack of proper dining service. I’m afraid we haven’t had time to redeem our china and silverware.”

  “Ah, no bother. No bother at all, my dear lady.” Mr. Crane lifted a spoonful of fish to his mouth then recoiled slightly as he tasted it.

  “But, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Crane,” Cassandra pressed, “that one’s reputation is never etched in stone? That it is subject to improvement over time?”

  Amazed at her defense of him, Luke sought out her eyes, but she kept them locked upon Crane.

  Mr. Crane gazed at her with the patronizing look of a teacher with a child. “A rarity, Miss Channing, for it is my belief that one’s character”—he cast a condescending glance at Luke—“or lack thereof, is forged in one’s youth.”

  “I do not agree, sir.” Cassandra pursed her pink lips. “And I’ll ask you not to further insult Mr. Heaton. He is my guest.”

  Luke sipped his wine, enjoying the exchange. Enjoying that this fascinating woman stood up for him. Perhaps he should thank Mr. Crane for being such a priggy bumblehead.

  Mrs. Channing leaned forward, her pointed gaze landing on her daughter. “Come now, Cassandra, enough of this absurd drivel about reputations.” She waved a hand through the air. “Let us enjoy ourselves.”

  “Nevertheless”—Cassandra flashed Luke a smile that jolted his heart—“you must give credit where credit is due. I, for one, am glad I hired Mr. Heaton as a privateer.”

  Luke lifted his glass toward her in appreciation of her confidence. Hearing her speak so ardently on his behalf was worth enduring the odious company of Mr. Crane.

  “I am, as well,” Darlene piped in as she took a bite of biscuit.

  Cassandra turned to her mother. “And you, Mother? Are you quite happy to be free of financial worries?”

  “Why, of course, dear.” The older lady’s smile was tighter than a sheet under full wind.

  Mr. Crane took a bite of meat pie. His lips twisted in a knot. Grabbing his wine, he poured the remainder down his throat then set his glass down. “Well, it does seem your risky investment has paid off. For now.” He poured himself more wine. “However, Miss Channing, you needn’t have gone to such extremes. I readily offer you my assistance whenever the need arises.”

  “So generous, Mr. Crane.” Mrs. Channing patted her curls.

  Cassandra straightened her shoulders. Candlelight spread a delightful sheen over her burgundy curls. “I do thank you, sir, but I prefer to make my own way.”

  “Rubbish.” Mr. Crane snickered, pushing his food around the plate with a fork. “Women are best at childbearing and managing the home, don’t you agree, Mr. Heaton?” He winked at Luke.

  “As to childbearing, I agree they are best suited for it.” Luke leaned back in his chair, noting that Miss Channing’s jaw tightened. “As to managing the home, I do not think they should be forced to limit themselves to only those functions.”

  A look of shock and appreciation claimed Miss Channing’s face.

  Mr. Crane snorted his displeasure.

  Luke took a bite of fish. A sour taste saturated his mouth. Miss Channing lowered her chin. Longing to bring her gaze back to him, he swallowed the bite and inquired after Miss Hannah.

  He was immediately rewarded. “She is much better, Mr. Heaton. Thank you for asking.”

  Darlene exchanged such a warm glance with her elder sister that a lump formed in the back of Luke’s throat, his thoughts flickering to John.

  “I cannot wait until she has fully recovered. I miss playing with her,” the little girl said.

  “In fact, we expect her to be able to leave her bed very soon.” Mrs. Channing took a bite of fish then dabbed her lips with her serviette.

  Luke sampled the meat pie but found it no better than the fish. Even the cook aboard Destiny produced more palatable meals than this. “I am glad to hear of it.”

  Grabbing his wineglass, Mr. Crane leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes. Miss Hannah. I had quite forgotten she had taken ill.”

  Cassandra gave the man a look of disdain, which he seemed to miss entirely. Her mother gestured toward Mr. Crane’s plate. “You did not find the meal to your liking, Mr. Crane?” Disappointment stung her blue eyes.

  “Come now, Mother.” Cassandra’s delightful giggle lifted the spirit of the room. “I’m sure Mr. Crane is accustomed to finer fare than our humble cook can produce.”

  “I do not see why you keep her on.” Mr. Crane flung his serviette onto the table.

  Mrs. Channing’s face reddened. “I’m afraid my daughter insists.”

  “Because, Mr. Crane.” Cassandra’s voice filled with venom. “She is a war widow and has no family. I’d sooner eat boiled rat every night than put her on the street. Besides, she’s improving.”

  Crane shifted in his seat at her rebuff and refilled his wineglass while Luke allowed this new revelation to find anchor in his mind. He knew Miss Channing was beautiful, feisty, brave, intelligent, and determined. But he had not realized until now that she also possessed the heart of a saint.

  The thought made him as uncomfortable as Crane seemed to be. Yet for a completely different reason. For each new thing he learned about Miss Channing pushed her higher out of the reach of a man like him.

  Cassandra eyed Mr. Crane as he downed yet another glass of wine and tugged uncomfortably at his cravat. Her gaze shifted to Mr. Heaton sitting beside him with all the confidence and manners of a titled gentleman. Though she’d been con
cerned he would overindulge in drink, his wineglass stood half full. Though she’d been concerned he’d ignite a brawl with Mr. Crane, he’d responded with nothing but polite, albeit witty, answers to the man’s insulting remarks. And how could she miss the smiles shared between him and Darlene? The young girl adored the man, just as Marianne’s son, Jacob, adored him. And though the food tasted like the boiled rat she referred to earlier, Mr. Heaton forced it down with nary a complaint.

  Dressed in a suit of black taffeta with silver trim, his dark hair slicked back into a tie, he had nearly stolen her breath when he’d first walked into the parlor. Even the stubble was vacant from his chin. Somehow, Cassandra missed it.

  Just then his eyes found hers, a smile lingering at the corners. Flushed, Cassandra looked away.

  “May I be excused, Mother?” Darlene asked. “I’d like to go see Hannah.”

  “By all means.” Mrs. Channing lowered her glass to the table as Darlene leaned in to kiss Cassandra on the cheek then flew from the room.

  Gazing after her, Mr. Crane sipped more wine. “If I may say so, that girl needs a strong hand. Word has spread through town of her escapade the other day.”

  “Why, I quite agree, Mr. Crane.” Mrs. Channing set down her spoon. “She has been beyond control since my Phillip left. And, my word, but she gave us all such a fright.”

  Anger pulsed through Cassandra’s veins. The audacity of the man. “Though I thank you for your concern, Mr. Crane, we are quite able to handle Darlene. Besides, Mr. Heaton brought her home before any harm came to her.”

  “Quite the hero, eh, Mr. Heaton?” Mr. Crane’s chuckle carried no sincerity.

  Mr. Heaton merely smiled in return.

  “Indeed,” Cassandra said. “He also saved me from thieves a few months past.”

  Crane gulped his wine. “Odd how you seem to find yourself always in the right place and time to rescue the women of this family.”

  “A burden I gladly bear, sir,” Mr. Heaton said.

  “Perhaps you could write a story about him in your paper?” Cassandra couldn’t resist toying with Mr. Crane. “He’s quite the talk of the town now with his privateering success.”

  Mr. Crane’s forehead twisted. “I’m afraid, Miss Channing, that my paper deals with more, shall we say, matters of higher importance.”

  “Of course it does.” Cassandra’s mother gave her a look of censure before she turned to face Mr. Crane. “Oh, do tell us, Mr. Crane, what stories are you working on currently?”

  The meat in Cassandra’s stomach hardened into a rock as the man, accepting the request with glee, began regaling them with every aspect of running a paper, from rambunctious employees, to secret sources, to the shortage of ink due to the blockade, and to the overwhelming decisions that fell on him each day. With each story, he sat a bit taller in his chair and drank a bit more. And with each sip of wine, his eyes became more glassy and his boasts more emphatic.

  Blocking out his incessant drone, Cassandra found her gaze drawn to Mr. Heaton who now sat back in his chair, sipping his wine, while pretending to listen to the babbling man. More than once his eyes met hers and a smile would form on his lips. A smile that sent her heart into a frenzied beat. What was wrong with her? The man was a scoundrel, a gambler, who had more than once tried to steal a kiss from her. True, he had made her a fortune and for that she was grateful, but their relationship must end there. He was not the sort of man a lady entertained thoughts of a future with. Not the sort of man a lady could trust. And trust was of the utmost importance to Cassandra. She would not be abandoned again.

  Yet the comparison with Mr. Crane—the respectable, trustworthy businessman—made her head spin. Who was the true gentleman, after all?

  Mr. Crane’s sharp tone snapped her attention toward him. “Your charity astounds me, Miss Channing. It’s one of the many things that endears you so to me.”

  “Of what charity do you speak?”

  “Why, of inviting Mr. Heaton to dine with you.” His words slurred as he leaned forward. “In appreciation of his success on your behalf.”

  “And why do you consider that charity, sir?”

  He adjusted his waistcoat and cast a cursory glance toward Luke. “Not to impugn your character further, sir …”

  “Not that you could, Mr. Crane,” Mr. Heaton was quick to respond.

  Crane huffed. “But clearly, he is beneath such an invitation. Though I do understand your reasoning, Miss Channing. A bachelor in need of a good meal. Ah, your kind heart astounds me.”

  “Mr. Crane.” Cassandra’s blood boiled. “That is not—”

  But Mr. Heaton raised a palm, silencing her. Calmly placing his glass on the table, he rose from his seat and bowed toward Cassandra’s mother. “Thank you, madam, for having me in your home and for a most interesting meal.” He turned to Cassandra, his eyes twinkling with ardor. “Always a pleasure.” Then, facing Mr. Crane. “You sir, are a buffoon.” And with that, he quietly left the dining hall.

  Cassandra’s mother gasped. Mr. Crane coughed, his face a bright red. Forcing down a giggle, Cassandra clutched her skirts and darted after Mr. Heaton, catching him just as he’d opened the front door to leave. “Please, Mr. Heaton.”

  He faced her. Moonlight turned his eyes to silver. He smelled of wood and spice.

  “I must apologize for Mr. Crane. He isn’t normally so belligerent.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve apologized for the man.”

  She lowered her gaze. “He doesn’t seem overly fond of you.”

  Mr. Heaton chuckled. “Indeed. But I believe I can handle the likes of him.” Without warning, he brushed a thumb over her jaw.

  His touch sent pinpricks over her face and neck. “Yes, I believe you can.” Her voice came out breathless.

  He leaned toward her. “Thank you, again, for the invitation.”

  Cassandra tried to release the breath that had crowded in her throat. “It’s the least we could do to thank you.”

  “You owe me nothing.” He leaned further and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek before Cassandra could stop him. His warm lips branded her with delight.

  She couldn’t move.

  Then he winked, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him.

  The sound of footfalls woke Cassandra from her dream and spun her around to see the back of Mr. Crane stumbling down the hall.

  CHAPTER 16

  Luke tossed the last bit of rum into his mouth and gestured toward the barmaid for more. The pungent liquid swirled a rapid trail down his throat before plunging into his belly in a fiery blaze. He nodded at Mr. Sanders and Mr. Keene who were sitting far across the crowded tavern. Luke had seen them when he first entered, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation, especially not with his crew.

  “What’ll it be, Heaton?” The grimy-toothed man sitting to his left, who smelled no better than the supper Luke had partaken of that night, yelled over the raucous crowd and gestured toward the cards in Luke’s hand.

  Luke studied them, their images blurring in his vision. He hadn’t meant to drink so much. Had intended to go straight home after dining with the Channings. But he could not chase Mr. Crane’s insults from his mind. They rose like demons, taunting them with their truth. Crane may be an officious fat wit, but he was right about one thing. Luke had no business dining with such a prestigious family. Further, he had no business entertaining thoughts of calling on Cassandra. He was a drunk, a womanizer, and a gambler. Just because he’d succeeded in capturing a prize didn’t mean that the entire voyage hadn’t been one huge wager. With no more certainty of success than the game he played now. Simply the luck of the draw. Which, as Luke stared at his cards, he needed at the moment.

  Selecting the two of diamonds, he laid it facedown on the table. “Another card, if you please.”

  A pianoforte chimed from the back of the tavern, overpowering the hum of conversation and occasional curses flung about the shadowy room. A throng of men began belting out a disparaging chorus.
Mr. Crenshaw, a shipbuilder, sitting across from him, dealt him another card. Luke picked it up and smiled. The ace of diamonds. This might turn out to be a good night, after all.

  Clara, a well-endowed barmaid who enjoyed sharing her voluptuous wealth with others, slapped down another glass of rum in front of Luke then leaned over to capture his approving glance. The sting of tobacco and perfume bit his nose, making him long for Cassandra’s sweet scent of gardenias.

  “I can offer you much more than rum.” The barmaid’s salacious slur did not have the same effect on him that it usually had.

  Mr. Fairfax chuckled from Luke’s right and grabbed the lady, forcing her onto his lap. “How about me?”

  Giggling, she struggled to free herself and slapped his arm playfully then planted a hand upon her curvaceous hip and stared at Luke.

  “Thank you, Clara, just the rum for now.” He swept his gaze from her figure, suddenly finding the unabashed display unappealing.

  “Perhaps later then.” She pouted and sashayed away, checking over her shoulder to see if he was looking. He was. And yet he wasn’t. Something else had caught his eye on the other side of the bar.

  A gold epaulette glittered in the lantern light. Along with the brass buttons of a lieutenant’s uniform, on top of which perched the squash-shaped head and pointed nose of Abner Tripp.

  With a moan, Mr. Fairfax played a card.

  Luke watched as the lieutenant stood alone at the bar and ordered a drink. This seedy tavern was not the sort of place Luke would have expected Lieutenant Tripp to frequent. He was more the posh tavern sort, places like Queen’s or Grant’s Tavern. In fact, it had been at Grant’s Tavern that Luke had won his ship from the man in a game of Piquet.

  Mr. Crenshaw tossed a coin in the pile and grinned.

  Shaking the fog from his head, Luke gazed back at his cards. A breeze swirled in from the window, scattering the stagnant air and flickering the lantern’s flame. If he indeed possessed the hand swirling in his vision, then it appeared his luck would hold.