Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  Luke heard him leave as the door shut again. Rest, how could he rest knowing what his brother was enduring on that frigate? Rising, he opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of rum. He held it up to the lantern light. Mr. Sanders had brought it to him a few nights ago. Luke had not taken a sip. Not a single sip. Wanting to honor his promise to Miss Channing. But what did it matter now? What did anything matter now? Uncorking it, he took a long draft, hoping the burning liquid would warm his gut and numb his senses. But after several swigs, he felt nothing but grief—deep seated, clawing into his soul. Lifting the bottle, he tossed it against the bulkhead. It shattered, spraying rum over his bookshelves and onto the deck. Shards of glass clanked to the floor in a glittering shower, dripping with the vile liquid.

  Sinking back onto his chair, he dropped his head in his hands once more. “Oh God, what am I to do?”

  Sometime in the night, he must have dozed off beneath exhaustion and grief. He dreamed of cannon blasts and smoke and men being lashed by a cat-o’-nine-tails and John crying Luke’s name in echoed ripples over the sea. And in the middle of the mayhem, a glowing figure appeared. Tall and muscular, shining like bronze, with a sword hanging at his side. He said, “Never fear.”

  Marianne shoved a roll of dollars into Cassandra’s hands. “Here, take this.”

  “How can I thank you?” Cassandra’s eyes burned. “I am so ashamed to have to ask you for help. I know you and Noah don’t have a great deal of wealth.” She slipped the wad into her reticule and set it down on the table.

  Marianne cupped Cassandra’s hands with her own. “God has blessed us. I’m happy to help you. So, not another word about it.” Releasing her, she skirted the table in her sitting room and poured two cups of tea, handing one to Cassandra.

  “Thank you.” Cassandra warmed her hands on the cup then took a sip. She gazed out the window, where afternoon sunlight splintered the room in glittering swords.

  “Now, tell me what happened.” Marianne patted the sofa beside her.

  “I don’t really know.” The cup shook in Cassandra’s hands. The soothing mint turned to ash in her mouth. She lowered the cup to her lap. “No one knew where I hid the money. The chest wasn’t broken so they must have used my key, which I keep in the desk in my chamber.”

  Marianne frowned. “It must be someone in the house, then. But who?”

  Cassandra had driven herself mad the past two days trying to figure out the answer to that question. All her servants had been with her for years, and she had never seen a spark of disloyalty among any of them. Visions of Mrs. Northrop standing in her chamber a few days ago sped across her mind. But no. The housekeeper had always been a bit of a snoop. Nothing unusual about that. “I fear my mother has taken to her bed with a case of headaches and hysterics, which has left my sisters to run amok through the house.”

  “Why didn’t you put the money in the bank?” Marianne asked.

  “I was careless. I had been without funds for so long, I didn’t trust anyone, not even the bank.” Cassandra’s hands trembled, and she set the cup on the saucer with a clank lest she spilled the tea on her gown. “I’ve gone and ruined everything. I’ve put my family at great risk again.”

  Marianne touched her hand. “It’s only money.”

  “It would have lasted us years.”

  “Luke will return soon with more, you’ll see.”

  Mr. Heaton’s name sent a spark of joy through Cassandra. “I’ll pay you back upon his return, I promise. Until then, this will help me buy some much-needed food.”

  Marianne’s brown eyes sparkled. “Word about town is that Mr. Crane is bringing your family food. A goose one night, two chickens the next, and fresh cod and crab last evening?”

  Cassandra couldn’t help but laugh at how quickly rumors spread in the town. “Is nothing secret?”

  “Well, not when the man tells everyone that you and he are courting.”

  “Courting?” Cassandra frowned. “Oh, bother. We are doing no such thing. How dare he spread such tales!”

  “I wouldn’t be so hard on him. No doubt he considers the courtship firm since you have accepted his charity.”

  “Which is precisely why I needed to borrow this money. Good grief, the man keeps insisting he take me to the Fountain Inn Ball.”

  “Why not go with him?” Marianne waved a hand through the air, then she stopped and gazed at Cassandra as if she could see into her thoughts. “Unless you are waiting for someone else to ask you … someone who is perhaps out to sea at the moment?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Cassandra looked away. “If I marry it will be to a man I can depend on. A man who is stable and grounded. Someone I can trust.”

  “Odd. That sounds precisely like Mr. Crane.” Marianne sipped her tea, a grin playing on her lips.

  Cassandra made a face at her friend, though she supposed Marianne was right. Why, then, didn’t Cassandra long for Mr. Crane’s attention? Why didn’t her heart bounce when he walked into the room? Perhaps marriage was not meant to be based on such foolish sentiments, but on mutual respect and financial and familial practicality.

  If so, Cassandra would be better off alone.

  “I wouldn’t disqualify Mr. Heaton just yet on those counts,” Marianne said.

  “Who said anything about Mr. Heaton?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.… You just had that dreamy look in your eye again.” A child’s laughter filtered down from above, and Marianne glanced out the parlor door before she faced Cassandra with a smile. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  Why did her statement send a thrill through Cassandra?

  “Mr. Heaton is my business partner, nothing more.” Cassandra folded her hands in her lap.

  “God doesn’t always choose the men we think are best for us. Take Noah and me. For years, I couldn’t stand the sight of him.”

  “God doesn’t choose for me. If He does, I can hardly trust Him, given the bad choices He’s made so far.”

  Marianne set down her cup. “You’ll see that He is looking out only for your good in the end.”

  Uncomfortable talking about a God who obviously paid her no mind, Cassandra stood and made her way to the window. “Noah is not yet returned?”

  “No. I do miss him so.” Marianne joined her and gazed out onto the carriages and pedestrians strolling down the street. “And so does Jacob. I pray this war will be over soon and we can get back to a normal life.”

  “Only if we win.”

  “Indeed.” Marianne offered her a sad smile.

  And only after Mr. Heaton has caught another prize. Cassandra cringed at her selfish thought.

  After finishing her tea and thanking Marianne for the money, Cassandra began her trek home. Casting a glance toward the west at the setting sun, she guessed she had enough time to visit the harbor before dark. Pulling the pelisse tight around her chest, she turned down Pratt Street. For some reason, seeing all the ships made her feel close to Mr. Heaton. And feeling close to Mr. Heaton brought her more comfort than she cared to admit. She shrugged the sentiment away, reasoning that it was only her need for the money he would bring home. But deep down, she knew it was more than that.

  She greeted several people as she made her way down the cobblestone walkway then darted across the street between a phaeton and a wagon—avoiding the horses’ deposits—to the dock side of the street. Halting, she scanned the bay, its dark waters rustling against the pilings of the wharves. Salt and fish and tar filled her nostrils. A fisherman hawked his fresh catch. A bell rang and a burst of wind tore at her straw bonnet. A few dockworkers turned to look at her. Her eyes landed on a schooner anchored off Spears Wharf. It seemed familiar. She headed in that direction then crept out on the wobbling dock just far enough to see the name painted on the ship’s bow.

  Destiny.

  CHAPTER 23

  Vague shapes formed behind Luke’s eyelids, like shadowy specters of light and dark drifting over his eyes. A clank sounded from somewhere in the di
stance. The scent of coffee spiraled beneath his nose and thrummed on his rousing senses. No. He tried to push his mind back into the abyss of apathy, back into the soothing comfort of unconsciousness.

  But another clank jarred him. Then the pain struck. Like a grappling hook clawing through his brain. He moaned and waved a hand around his head to see if someone was hammering on it. He touched his face. Nothing but damp flesh met his fingers. Cold and damp. And what was that stench that infiltrated the sweet smell of coffee?

  Footfalls sounded, and he pried open one eye to see the blurry shape of Mrs. Barnes enter the sitting room with a tray. Setting it on the table, she sank into her favorite rocking chair with a heavy sigh. “I made you breakfast.” Her voice was thick and choppy, devoid of its usual cheerfulness.

  Luke wanted to say thank you. Wanted to tell her to leave him alone. But he felt as though someone had stuffed a rag in his mouth. He opened his other eye to peer at the wooden ceiling and waited until the room stopped swirling.

  “I see you drank yourself into unconsciousness.” Mrs. Barnes began to rock in her chair, the creak creak scraping holes in his wall of alcohol-induced narcosis.

  Allowing memories to barge into his mind. The image of John being stolen by the British captain struck Luke first like a broadside in the gut, jarring him fully awake. Then the vision of Mrs. Barnes when he’d told her the news. The horror in her eyes, her ragged breathing, trembling lips, and the white sheen that had covered her face. Luke had grabbed her before she’d fallen and led her to a chair where she had sobbed for nearly an hour. Fighting wave after wave of guilt and battling his own tears, Luke had fumbled in the kitchen, attempting to make her some tea to soothe her nerves.

  But no amount of tea or apologies or promises had been able to assuage the grief-stricken woman.

  Closing his eyes, Luke struggled to sit. He felt as though a twenty-pound cannonball sat on his neck. He leaned on his knees, hoping the room would stop spinning. An empty bottle of brandy leaned on its side atop the hearth. The brandy he’d found in the kitchen. The brandy he’d intended to take only a few sips of to settle his raging soul.

  Hair hanging in his face, he dared a glance at Mrs. Barnes. Her skin was even paler than last night. The lines etched across it deeper. Dark circles tugged on eyes that were red and puffy. A look of pity crossed them, and she poured him a cup of coffee that she passed his way.

  Luke set it on the table, his stomach rebelling at the sight. “You serve me coffee after what I’ve done?” he moaned.

  “You’re a son to me, Luke. I love you no less than I love John.”

  The sound of his brother’s name pierced Luke’s heart. He hung his head. Not once after Luke had told her the news had Mrs. Barnes scolded him. Not once had she shouted or screamed or cursed him for what he’d done. No. She’d simply sat in her rocking chair, with her Bible in her lap, alternating between bouts of tears and gazing numbly into the burning logs of the fire.

  Rebuke, shouting, even hatred, Luke could bear. But not her silence. Not her agony. So he had taken to drink to numb the pain.

  “What happened, happened,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Maybe John was too young to go to sea. Maybe he wasn’t. You did what you thought best.”

  “He was good out there, Mrs. Barnes,” Luke said, pride swelling within him, even now. “You should have seen him. He took to sailing as if he’d been born on a ship.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” The hint of a smile twitched one side of her mouth before it faded. “He’s got your blood running through him.”

  Luke didn’t want to hear that. John was nothing like Luke. John was kind and pure and good. He would make something of his life.

  If Luke hadn’t already sent him to his grave.

  Mrs. Barnes drew her Bible to her chest and gripped it as if it held the answer to their dilemma. She stared once again at the coals in the fireplace, now black and cold. “I’ve been up all night praying, you see. And God has told me there is a reason this happened.”

  Luke shot to his feet and instantly regretted it. His head spun and his stomach lurched. “I grow tired of hearing that God has a reason for every bad thing that happens.” Bile rose in his throat, but the desert raging in his mouth forbade him to swallow it down. “Bad things happen because there are bad people in the world, nothing more.” Bad people, of whom he was one. “John is … John is …” He ran a hand through his hair, unable to even say the words out loud. “This is all my fault. I should have known Tripp would try something. I should have checked the sails and supplies myself.” Luke sank back down onto the couch and dropped his head in his hands.

  He heard the rocking chair squeak and felt Mrs. Barnes’s wrinkled hand on his arm. “This isn’t your fault, Luke.”

  He raised a shocked gaze to her. “How can you say that?”

  “Not everything is your fault, Luke. Not your parents’ death and not John’s kidnapping.” A peace Luke envied glowed from her glassy eyes. “Your pounding head is your fault. The gambling, the drinking, those are your fault.” She shook her head. “Not John’s kidnapping.”

  Sitting on the stool, Cassandra unlocked the small wooden chest, replaced the key in the pocket of her gown, and opened the lid. Hope sparked in some small part of her that still believed in miracles—hope that the money would be there. But of course, it wasn’t. Though she refused to believe any of her family or servants could have stolen it, that seemed the only logical conclusion. But who? It pained her to even think of it. Removing her father’s pipe, she raised it to her nose and drew a whiff of the fragrant, spicy smell.

  “Oh Papa, what am I to do?” Toying with the pipe, she glanced over her leafy-green gardenia bushes, the fading sunlight spilling from their leaves, replaced by the golden glow from the lantern overhead.

  After purchasing enough food for a week with the money Marianne had loaned her, Cassandra had headed home, still baffled by the sight of Luke’s ship anchored in the bay.

  “He must not have caught a prize, Papa, for that is the only reason I can think of that he would have returned and not come to see me.”

  The wind whistled over the panes of glass in the solarium, and Cassandra released a heavy sigh. “And if that is true, I fear, Papa, that we are done for.” She certainly couldn’t borrow any more money from Marianne and Noah. And what were they to do when the food ran out in a week’s time?

  Her gaze landed on her father’s Bible tucked within the chest. Closing her eyes, she pictured him sitting in his chair in the library, the Holy Book opened in his lap, his blue eyes, so full of life, glancing up at her as she entered the room.

  “Come here, my darling Cassie,” he would say as he set the book aside. And Cassandra would crawl into his lap—her favorite place in all the world. Then he would stroke her arm and kiss the top of her head and tell her how much he loved her.

  The Bible seemed to glow from within the chest. Cassandra rubbed her eyes. She was seeing things. Memories of what Marianne, Reverend Drummond, and even Margaret had told her of God’s love, purpose, and provision flooded her mind. But none of it could be true, could it? Not when He had taken so much from them.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. “Papa, I don’t know how to take care of Mother and my sisters. We have no money. Soon, no food. I haven’t paid the servants in weeks. Why would someone steal from me?” She fisted her hands and pounded her lap. “Why was I so foolish to keep the money here? Oh Papa, why did you leave me all alone?”

  Nothing but the rustle of the wind answered her as the last traces of sunlight slipped from sight. Cassandra drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. There was only one thing left to be done. If Mr. Heaton had indeed returned without a prize, then Cassandra would have no choice but to accept Mr. Crane’s courtship. She would not allow her family to starve or end up on the street because of her own selfishness.

  The crank of the door latch drew her gaze to the front of the solarium. Those unruly urchins. Couldn’t they leave her alone for one minute? But
then heavy footsteps thumped on the hard dirt, giving her pause. Her heart hammered against her chest. Cassandra peered between the leaves of a bush just as a deep voice said, “Hello.”

  Mr. Heaton stood just inside the door, cocked hat in hand, gazing over her bushes. Her heart took on a different sort of thump. She slowly rose. His eyes met hers. A smile lifted his lips. “Good evening, Miss Channing. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  Cassandra could not find her voice. Perhaps it had been swept away in the tide of hot waves that flooded her at the sight of him standing there in his black boots, brown breeches, and white shirt. Absent the neckerchief and waistcoat propriety dictated. Aside from a few loose strands, his black hair was tied behind him, and there, peppering his chin was the ever-present stubble, as if his beard were as stubborn as he.

  An imposing figure so out of place among her flowers. Yet she found no fear within her. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “Why, no, Mr. Heaton,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you is all.”

  “Your maid.” He gestured toward the front of the house. “She said I might find you here.”

  Margaret. Cassandra flattened her lips. She would speak to her later.

  He took a step toward her. “So, this is why you always smell like gardenias.”

  Cassandra smiled. “I love these flowers.” She caressed one of the leaves. “I come here to think.”

  “And I have disturbed you. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I come on an important matter.”

  It occurred to her she’d been so happy to see him that she’d not even considered that he’d come with news of a prize. “I saw your ship at anchor earlier in the day.” Cassandra approached him.

  “Yes, I sailed in late last night.”

  “How did you get past the blockade?”

  She thought she saw a flicker of unease pass over his blue eyes. “Destiny is swift and hard to see in the dark.” He would not meet her gaze.

  “Did you capture a prize?”

  He shook his head, and her hopes tumbled. “Not this time, miss.”