Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  The note had told John to jump over the side at that exact spot between one and two in the morning. Luke’s eyes strained from the intense focus he had maintained for over an hour. Now, at ten minutes past two, and with still no sign of his brother, Luke’s hopes began to sink beneath the murky waters.

  “We should be going, Captain.” Biron’s voice was heavy with sorrow yet held a tenderness not often heard from the man. “They’ll spot us if we linger here much longer.”

  “He could still come.” Luke gripped the railing, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to give up. He could not allow his brother to be enslaved for one more minute, not allow himself to be a traitor to his country one more time. His knuckles ached as he peered into the darkness, searching for the one thing his heart yearned to see. But all that met his gaze was the shadowy outline of the frigate’s hull, lit by the fluttering glow of a lantern mounted at her stern.

  Biron tugged at his neckerchief. “You told him not to come after two in the morning. He’s a good lad. He’ll obey you.”

  “I guess he couldn’t get away,” Sam added.

  Luke sighed, knowing they were right. If his brother had the opportunity to come above deck, he would have. “Raise topsails, Mr. Keene, and move us out of sight of this dastardly ship. Then head back to Baltimore at first light, Sam.” Back to a town of patriots ravaged by British troops on all sides. Back to being a traitor to everyone he knew and everything he believed in. Back to Mrs. Barnes, once again without his brother. Back to Miss Channing.

  If she ever discovered his traitorous activities, she would have nothing to do with him. And he wouldn’t blame her in the least.

  “Cassandra, dear. Mr. Crane asked you a question.” Her mother’s shrill voice snapped Cassandra from her musings.

  Musings about Mr. Heaton. A topic that seemed to occupy much of her thoughts of late. Wondering how he fared out at sea, wondering if he caught another prize, wondering if he was well, wondering if he thought of her as much as she thought of him.

  “Oh, do forgive me, Mr. Crane. I fear my mind was elsewhere.” Picking up her glass, she sipped the cool mint tea then set it down and glanced at the man across the dining table. She’d had a week’s reprieve from enduring his company—a peaceful, glorious week. Well, if she didn’t count the ongoing antics of Darlene and Hannah. But, at her mother’s invitation, Mr. Crane had joined them once again for supper.

  He dabbed the serviette over his lips. “I asked you—yet again—if you would honor me by allowing me to escort you to the Fountain Inn Ball?”

  Cassandra dropped her fork onto the plate with a loud clank. “I had no idea the ball was so fast upon us.”

  “Cassandra, whatever is wrong with you?” Her mother’s forehead wrinkled.

  “Nothing.” Nothing except the man sitting across from her. Everything else was going well. They had paid this month’s mortgage, had food for a month, and had given the servants their back pay. Her mother had even purchased a new hat. But Luke had only just set out to sea last week. Would he catch a prize and return before her money ran out? Cassandra tried to settle her agitated nerves. Whimpering, followed by the scrape of claws on glass drew Cassandra’s gaze to poor Dexter, banished to the back garden while Mr. Crane was visiting.

  At the sight of the dog, Mr. Crane’s nose wrinkled. His impatient gaze shot to Cassandra. “Your answer, miss?”

  Thankfully, Miss Thain entered the dining room and began clearing plates, providing the diversion Cassandra needed to avoid answering the question, as she wondered how she would tell Mr. Crane that she had already accepted Mr. Heaton’s invitation to the Fountain Inn Ball. Regardless of her feelings about the newspaper man, she didn’t wish to wound Mr. Crane’s pride. Nor his heart. Nor crush her mother’s expectations. But lately it seemed, she did nothing but disappoint everyone around her. Especially herself.

  Never making eye contact, Miss Thain swept through the room, gathering up utensils and platters, finally ending with Mr. Crane’s half-full plate of boiled wild geese, fried potatoes, and baked beets from the garden. The fact that it neither resembled nor tasted like any of those things was no longer a shock to Cassandra.

  “Thank you, Miss Thain,” she said as the woman darted from the room, plates stacked up her arms.

  “Now that you can afford a good cook, perhaps you should hire one?” Mr. Crane leaned back in his chair and cocked one brow.

  Cassandra’s jaw tightened.

  “Though where you obtained additional funds is beyond me,” he said. Cassandra’s mother fluttered her napkin about her face. “Dreadful, simply dreadful business the way our money was stolen. And without your help those few days afterward, we would have starved.”

  Mr. Crane returned her smile with a forced one of his own before he faced Cassandra. “A distant, wealthy relative die and leave you a fortune?”

  “I fail to see how that is any of your affair, Mr. Crane.” Cassandra thought she saw a flicker of turmoil cross his eyes before he swept them away.

  “Wealthy relative die?” Her mother laughed nervously. “Wouldn’t that be a turn of fortune?”

  Cassandra gave her mother a pointed gaze, reminding her that she’d instructed her not to say anything about where the additional money had come from.

  Her mother coughed and set her serviette on the table. “Shall we have coffee in the parlor?”

  Mr. Crane extended his chin. “As I said, I’m more than happy to provide whatever you need, Miss Channing.”

  “And as I have said, you are too kind, sir.” Cassandra stood as a playful scream sounded from above stairs, followed by giggling, the stomp of tiny footsteps, and Mrs. Northrop’s harsh voice.

  “Oh dear.” Cassandra’s mother rose. “I had hoped Mrs. Northrop would have gotten the girls abed by now.”

  Frowning his disapproval, Mr. Crane stood and proffered his arm to Cassandra’s mother, leading her down the hall to the parlor.

  Cassandra dipped her head in the kitchen door to ask Miss Thain to bring coffee before she followed them.

  No sooner had she sat down on the sofa and spread her skirts about her than Mr. Crane, standing at the hearth, one arm draped over the mantel as if he owned the home, brought up the Fountain Inn Ball once again.

  A warm breeze swept into the room, fluttering the curtains. Cassandra gazed into the darkness creeping in from outside.

  Mr. Crane cleared his throat. “The ball is in ten days, Miss Channing. Surely you have not made other arrangements?”

  “But I’m afraid I have, sir.” Cassandra smiled sweetly, hoping her demeanor would soften the blow. “I have agreed to be escorted by Mr. Heaton.”

  Her mother gasped. Grabbing her bell, she shook it vigorously.

  Mr. Crane’s bushy brows bunched together. His mouth dropped open. “Mr. Luke Heaton?”

  As if there could be any other.

  Miss Thain entered with a tray of coffee and set it on the table, seemingly oblivious to the incessant chiming bouncing off the walls.

  “One and the same.” Cassandra reached over and stayed the bell in her mother’s hands.

  Miss Thain’s oversized eyes met Cassandra’s before she lowered them and began to pour the coffee.

  Cassandra’s mother raised a hand to her forehead. “Oh, never mind that, Miss Thain. Please have Mrs. Northrop bring my tonic immediately.”

  After the cook left the parlor, Cassandra’s mother glared at Cassandra. “You cannot be serious, dear. This is unheard of!”

  “Isn’t the man out to sea?” Mr. Crane’s normally calm voice cracked.

  Cassandra poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her mother, but the woman merely stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Setting the cup back down with a clank, she swallowed. “He assured me he would be in town for the occasion.”

  “How can he assure you of such a thing? Of all the …” Mr. Crane gazed up at the picture of Cassandra’s great-grandfather as if trying to garner some wisdom from the aged man.

  “Mr
. Heaton cannot predict when he is in town and when he isn’t.” Suspicion twisted his features.

  “Dear.” Her mother touched her arm. “I know you feel you owe Mr. Heaton for his success at sea, but this type of charity is simply beyond the pale.”

  Cassandra tapped her shoe over the ornate rug. “Yet I have given him my word, and I intend to abide by it.”

  Mrs. Northrop entered the room with tonic in hand. Crossing to the table, she poured a splash of the magical elixir into Cassandra’s mother’s coffee and left without saying a word or speaking to any of them.

  Mr. Crane tugged on his embroidered waistcoat, crossed to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. The sharp scent of ink followed him.

  From his terse expression Cassandra knew she had hurt him, but there was nothing to be done about it. The sooner he realized she could not possibly accept his hand, the freer he would be to find some other lady upon whom to shower his affections.

  He tossed the coffee to the back of his throat then grimaced, no doubt from the scalding liquid. Setting the cup down, he dipped his head toward them. “I thank you for supper, Mrs. Channing, but I fear important matters draw me away early this evening.” Cassandra’s mother rose. She pressed her trembling hands together, a wild, pleading look in her eyes. “So soon, sir?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He shot a gaze so filled with outrage toward Cassandra it sent a chill down her.

  As he made his way to the door, her mother eased beside him. “Forgive her, Mr. Crane. I will speak to her.” Though she whispered, her words found their way to Cassandra’s ears. “Rest assured, she will attend the ball with you.”

  After Mrs. Channing saw him out, Mr. Crane made his way down the flagstone path to the street, anger tossing the putrid contents of his supper into a tempest. How dare the young tart refuse him? And for that swaggering miscreant? After all Crane had done for this family. He clenched his jaw until it hurt then turned toward the shrubbery that marked the corner of the Channing property. There as expected, the housekeeper, Mrs. Northrop, emerged from the shadows.

  “What do you have for me?” he asked, settling his hat atop his head.

  A breeze, ripe with the scents of honeysuckle and roses, tousled wisps of the elderly woman’s hair from beneath her mobcap. She puckered her lips and gazed back at the house. “I thought you should know, sir, that it was Mr. Heaton who gave Miss Channing the money.”

  “Mr. Heaton again!” he shouted then slammed his mouth shut with a groan. He closed his eyes as a horse and rider walked past. “Why does she take his money and not mine?”

  Mrs. Northrop stretched her already elongated neck. “She says it is only a loan until he catches another prize.”

  The news rankled over Crane’s already agitated nerves. Catch another prize, indeed. Not if he could help it. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir. But I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for anything unusual like you said.” She held out her hand.

  Mr. Crane huffed. “I gave you five dollars last time.”

  “It’s not easy sneaking around listening in on conversations. Mrs. Channing is getting suspicious. Besides, I took a big risk for you stealing Miss Channing’s money.”

  “And you were handsomely paid for that.”

  Yet the servant’s hand would not retreat. Mr. Crane plucked a couple of coins from his waistcoat pocket and deposited them atop her greedy palm—if only to buy her continued silence.

  “Thank you, sir.” Turning, she snuck away into the darkness.

  Mr. Crane stormed down the dirt street, his mood as dark as the evening shadows around him and as turbulent as the skies above. He cursed Luke Heaton. How did the man keep succeeding at sea? Lieutenant Tripp had assured him that he’d sufficiently sabotaged Mr. Heaton’s ship. Yet five days ago, the scoundrel had sailed into Baltimore harbor a victor. His ship none the worse for wear and his pockets full of coins. “To the devil with him!” Mr. Crane shouted as he turned down Lombard Street. The man was up to something. No privateer could capture a prize and return to port in that short amount of time. Nor would luck allow him to slip undetected past the British blockade more than once.

  One thing Crane knew. Mr. Heaton must be dealt with. Without him in the way, Miss Channing would have no choice but to accept Crane’s courtship. No, the rake was up to something.

  And Crane intended to find out just what that something was.

  CHAPTER 25

  Cassandra exited the drapers, wrapped package in hand. Margaret followed her outside onto the street bustling with people, horses, and carriages. From his spot leaning against a wooden post, Margaret’s husband, Mr. Dayle, lengthened his stance, picked up two empty buckets from the ground, and greeted them, his gentle smile ever present.

  “Success, ladies?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Dayle.” Cassandra tilted her head into the hot August sun.

  “The gown looks glorious on you, miss.” Margaret’s eyes twinkled. “Mr. Heaton will no doubt be speechless at your beauty.”

  Warmth flooded Cassandra’s face as she turned and proceeded down the walkway—warmth that had nothing to do with the sultry afternoon. “I care not what effect my beauty has on Mr. Heaton. I simply needed a new gown and the ball provided me with an excuse.” Though she could ill afford the extra expense.

  Margaret’s giggle reminded Cassandra that she’d forgotten to chastise her maid for telling Mr. Heaton she was in her solarium alone those … how many nights ago? It seemed an eternity since she’d seen the man.

  Felt his strong arms surround her.

  His lips on hers.

  More heat swamped her.

  “Miss, are you all right? Your face is as red as a beet,” Margaret said.

  Cassandra glanced at her maid, expecting to see a look of concern. Instead she saw a mischievous grin. Opening her parasol with a snap, Cassandra stopped to cross the street. “You are incorrigible, Margaret.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Dayle agreed as his eyes took in his wife with affection. “My wife fancies herself a matchmaker.”

  “It’s just that I wish everyone could be as happy as we are, my love.” Margaret smiled up at him, her cheeks as rosy as her lips.

  A twinge of jealousy pinched Cassandra at the adoring affection that stretched between the couple. “Well, I assure you, you are wasting your matchmaking skills with me. I have enough of that with my mother. Besides, I cannot hope for such a fortuitous match as yours. Most marriages occur out of necessity and are merely contracts of convenience by reason of wealth or pedigree.”

  Mr. Dayle stepped into the road, leading the way between a passing landau—overflowing with passengers donned in lace and exotic feathers—and a wagon filled with children dressed in rags sitting amongst barrels. Cassandra smiled at one of wee ones, and the little girl waved.

  Margaret weaved her arm through Cassandra’s. “Contracts such as the one between you and Mr. Heaton?”

  Cassandra shook her head and laughed. “I surrender, Margaret.” A breeze blew in from the harbor, cooling the perspiration on her neck and dancing through the lace that fringed her parasol. “Now, let’s go fetch water from the spring and get home before this heat becomes unbearable. And I’ll have no further talk of Mr. Heaton or any other man for that matter.”

  Yet, as they headed down the crowded street, Cassandra could think of nothing but Mr. Heaton. She had spotted Destiny anchored at bay when they passed by the harbor that morning. Odd that only he had successfully slipped past the blockade yet again. Ignoring the nip of suspicion, Cassandra settled on the fact that he was a better captain than she or the entire town had given him credit for.

  He was in town! Which meant she would soon see him. Which also meant he had kept his promise to be home in time to escort her to the ball.

  A group of militiamen marched by, muskets propped on their shoulders, their boots stirring a dust cloud in the street, reminding Cassandra that they were at war. But how could she forget that with the British fleet sitting just mile
s off their coast, repeatedly threatening to sail toward Baltimore? Not to mention the musket shots that peppered the sky many a night, waking Cassandra from a deep sleep. Perhaps she shouldn’t allow herself such flighty thoughts of balls and gowns and romance during such a time as this.

  She was still pondering these things when they turned the corner onto the city square, where a natural spring provided not only fresh water, but the perfect meeting place for the inhabitants of Baltimore. Several groups of people mulled about the area. Feathered bonnets and cocked hats huddled in deep conversation. Children darted here and there. Giggles and the thrum of chatter accompanied the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the slosh of water being collected from the spring. As Cassandra scanned the crowd, her eyes latched onto a tall man with dark hair standing with his back to her.

  Her heart vaulted into her throat.

  “Cassandra!” Marianne waved at her from her spot beside Mr. Heaton. Noah and another powerfully built man with brown hair and a regal bearing lifted their gazes in her direction.

  Trying to avoid looking at Mr. Heaton, lest she give away her excitement at seeing him, Cassandra approached the group and gave her friend a hug.

  Margaret joined her husband at the well where they waited their turn to fill the buckets.

  “Noah, so good to see you. When did you get home?” Cassandra asked, avoiding Mr. Heaton’s gaze.

  “Two days ago.” He gave his wife an endearing look. “I had a very successful voyage.”

  “I’m happy to hear it.” She turned to Mr. Heaton. “I saw your ship in the bay.”

  “Indeed. I sailed in last night.” He drank her in with his eyes.