The Red Siren

by Marylu Tyndall

  Faith smiled and tried to hide the agitation brewing in her stomach. “Of course I don’t. What could you be referring to?”

  “Nothing, I assure you. It seems some urgent matter always steals your time away from home.” Mr. Waite finished his toast and rubbed his hands together. His strong jaw flexed with each chew as his playful blue gaze flickered over her.

  “How would you know? You have been here no more than a few days.”

  “And yet you are never here.”

  Faith tightened the corners of her mouth for a moment to keep from spewing angry words at him. When she recovered sufficiently, she smiled sweetly. “I am here now, Mr. Waite.”

  “Indeed.” He sipped his tea and grinned. “And what pleasure I find in your company.”

  “Can we go to the park?” Hope asked.

  “After we attend church.” Grace stirred her tea then set down her spoon with a soft clang. “It is the Lord’s Day.”

  “Oh pshaw. Why must we always go to church?” Hope’s shoulders slumped.

  Grace frowned at her sister and twirled the button on her collar. “Can you not give God back one hour of your time for all He has done for you?”

  “What has He done for me?” Hope crinkled her nose and patted her perfectly styled hair. “I am stuck here in this horrid town. Mother is gone. Father is always away, and I am forbidden to have any fun at all.”

  “Things are not always as they seem, Miss Hope.” Mr. Waite plucked an apple from the bowl. “You have plenty to eat, a comfortable home, beautiful clothes, and your health. These are gifts from God. Many do not have such luxuries.” He chomped on the apple.

  Grace nodded in approval and cast a matronly look toward Hope.

  “Faith does not attend church,” Hope quipped and tilted her head.

  Faith shuffled in her seat. Her sister’s mouth always ran wild like a storm at sea.

  Mr. Waite raised a brow.

  “She stopped attending shortly after Mother died.”

  “Indeed?” Sorrow tainted his voice.

  “It was Mother’s wish that you both attend church regularly.” Grace rubbed her thumb over the handle of her teacup. “She begged me to ensure that all of us maintained our faith in God.” Her voice cracked. “It was most important to her, but neither of you have listened to me at all.”

  Hope rolled her eyes. “Perhaps if you did not look down upon us from your high and lofty pedestal, we would.”

  “I do not—” Grace snapped then pursed her lips. “Oh, never mind.” Releasing her teacup, she sat back in her chair.

  Mr. Waite cast a disapproving glance over them all.

  “I am afraid I do not share your faith in God, Mr. Waite.” Faith took a bite of her toast. “And it would seem neither does my sister.” The jam, however, soured in her mouth, and she swallowed it with a gulp.

  “So you have told me. Yet you have not denied His existence. Perchance church would be a good place to hear from Him again?”

  If she wanted to hear from God, Faith longed to respond, but she did not wish to incite another argument with Grace. Instead, she remained silent, thankful when she heard Edwin’s uneven gait behind her.

  “Sir Wilhelm,” the steward announced as he halted beside Faith. The bags beneath Edwin’s eyes hung lower and darker this morning, no doubt because of his incessant worrying. But Faith refused to concern herself with the skittish steward. Her sisters provided her with enough stress, and to make matters worse, she must now deal with this pompous bore, Wilhelm.

  Closing her eyes, Faith wondered what the infernal man could possibly want.

  Mr. Waite dropped his apple to his plate then stood, scraping his chair over the floor, and bowed. “Sir Wilhelm. A pleasure.”

  Yet there was no pleasure to be found in the captain’s gaze. Faith saw only wariness in his blue eyes as he took in the Carolina proprietor. Well, at least Mr. Waite was a good judge of character.

  “Mr. Waite,” Sir Wilhelm replied, his look of surprise quickly replaced by one of disappointment that tugged on his pasty white skin. “Here again, I see.”

  “I am afraid I do reside here for the time being.” Mr. Waite gestured for Sir Wilhelm to take a chair.

  Ignoring him, Sir Wilhelm briefly nodded toward Hope and Grace before his sunken brown eyes fixed on Faith. “Miss Westcott, you are the picture of beauty this morning.”

  Faith flashed a curt smile but quickly faced forward and fingered her half-eaten toast. Oh, please go away.

  “’Tis a glorious day, and I have come to inquire whether you and your sisters would do me the honor of joining me on a carriage ride through the country.”

  Silence struck the table as if a mighty blast of wind stole all their voices and blew them away.

  “A splendid idea, Sir Wilhelm,” Mr. Waite said, breaking through the shroud of discomfiture. “I was about to escort Miss Hope and Miss Grace to church. But I believe Miss Westcott is available.” He raised his sarcastic brow her way. “Are you not?”

  The cad. Faith wanted to strangle him but instead forced her lips into a pert smile. “Why, no, Mr. Waite, you misunderstood me. I have every intention of attending church with my sisters today.” She gazed up at Sir Wilhelm. “Please accept my apologies, but as you can see, we have plans.”

  Mr. Waite widened his eyes. “I have a grand idea. Perhaps Sir Wilhelm would like to join us?”

  h

  Faith shifted on the hard pew as a bead of perspiration made its way beneath her gown. It took a wayward course down her back, twisting and turning before finally being trapped by a fold of her dress. She wondered if it was due to the summer heat or the fact that she had not stepped foot in a church in over seven years.

  Mr. Waite sat smugly beside her. She longed to grind her elbow into his side. How dare he use her hatred for Sir Wilhelm to manipulate her into coming to church! To make matters worse, the buffoon had accepted Mr. Waite’s invitation to join them and took up valuable space on her right, space she would have preferred anyone else to have taken, even the miscreants down by the docks. There was something grotesque about the man—the sickly smell of him, the way he looked at her that made her stomach shrivel in nausea. And she was not one easily overcome by queasiness.

  Her sisters sat on the other side of him, Hope staring into space as if wishing she were anywhere else but here—Faith could well understand her sentiment—and Grace with gloved hands clasped around the Bible in her lap, waiting in anticipation of worshipping a God who surely would neither hear nor care.

  Sir Wilhelm slid closer to her until his arm touched hers. She flinched and shifted away, only to bump into Mr. Waite. Heat from his body shot through her until further drops of perspiration slid down her back to join the wet blotch she was sure was forming on her gown.

  The captain flashed her one of his charming smiles but made no effort to move aside.

  This was going to be a long service.

  A rugged, stocky man with sandy hair that seemed to spike out in all directions approached the lectern. He wore normal street clothes of breeches and waistcoat rather than the long flowing robes of the Anglican priests, and Faith assumed he was a simple attendant until he opened a Bible and began to read aloud. Never in all her years of attending church had she seen any priest like him. A simple, humble man. Even when he glanced across the crowd, naught but love beamed from his gaze, instead of the condemnation and vainglorious snobbery she had often witnessed in the eyes of the priests back home.

  Above him a large wooden cross hung upon a brick wall, framed on each side with long narrow windows. The sight of it sent a twinge of shame through Faith, making her feel suddenly tainted inside, unworthy. Swallowing hard, she shut out the passage he read—something from the Gospel of Matthew about seeds—and instead focused on a rather handsome man sitting in the front row who kept glancing over his shoulder at Hope.

  The square brick building that encircled the fifty or so parishioners was much smaller than St. Philip’s, where her father and
her sisters usually attended. The crude furnishings and lack of decorations made it seem more like a rustic barn than a place of worship. The scents swirling around her of aged wood, mold, dirt, and tallow only confirmed her assessment.

  Still, Faith could not shake the sweet Spirit permeating the place, evident on the faces of those who listened with rapt attention to the reverend’s passionate reading:

  “ ‘But he that received the seed into stony places, the same is he that heareth the word, and anon with joy receiveth it; yet hath he not root in himself, but dureth for a while: for when tribulation or persecution ariseth because of the word, by and by he is offended.’ ”

  Offended? Had she become offended at God? Confusion tore through her. Perhaps she had. But who wouldn’t be offended when the almighty God, the one Being who had power to do or allow whatever He wished, had sentenced her sister Charity to a lifetime of misery, had allowed Hope to endure an unspeakable horror, and had taken their mother from them at so young an age—the only parent who truly loved them. Yes, Faith was indeed offended.

  Determined to block out the convicting words, she gazed over the small building, amazed that a church without the beauty of stained glass, without the ivory pillars and gold-inlaid altar, without the incense and white robes could stir more passion within her than she had felt in years.

  And she did not care for it one bit.

  On her left, Mr. Waite sifted through the Bible in his lap as if it were a delicate treasure he had just found in the hold of his ship. To her right, Sir Wilhelm began to snore, eliciting giggles from Hope, which were quickly stifled by Grace’s stern look of admonition.

  The reverend continued: “ ‘The Son of man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity; and shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.’ ”

  All things that offend, eh? Perhaps God was as offended with her as she was with Him. The only difference was that He had the power to cast her into a fiery furnace. Would He really do such a thing when all she was trying to do was save her sisters? Withdrawing her handkerchief, Faith dabbed at the perspiration on her neck. Perhaps He would. She really didn’t know God anymore.

  Maybe she never had.

  She thought about saying a prayer to Him here in this holy place that seemed so filled with His presence. She thought about it, but the words wouldn’t form in her mind. She gazed up at the wooden cross that symbolized the ultimate sacrifice of a Man, claiming to be God, who had come down to earth to save His children from their wickedness.

  Her wickedness.

  Instead of the guilt, the condemnation Faith expected to feel, a strong sense of love drifted over her like a cloud on a hot summer’s day. It settled on her and soothed away the rough edges of her nerves. Closing her eyes, she basked in the peace. A gentle call, open arms, the flap of angel wings cooled her in the stifling church. She breathed deeply, longing to give in to it, longing to let go of her fears, her frustrations—her fight.

  No!

  Everything inside of her screamed in defiance. She would not serve a God who had allowed such suffering in her life.

  Chapter 15

  Dajon had expected Faith to be uncomfortable at church, especially at a church where the powerful Word of God was read out loud, but certainly not as discomfited as she appeared. The poor woman could barely sit still. Her eyes flitted about the church as if she were seeking any possible means of escape. Sigh after sigh poured from her mouth, and tiny groans escaped from deep within her. At one point, she had closed her eyes and seemed to finally settle down, but then she jerked suddenly as if she had been stabbed. Now her breathing sounded like that of a seagull with its beak full of fish.

  Rev. Halloway’s sermons could certainly be convicting, but Dajon had not anticipated quite so strong a reaction. A breeze wafted in through the open window, teasing him with the scent of lemons. He drew it in like a sweet elixir, the aroma reminding him of Faith’s glowing auburn eyes, her rosy plump lips, and the tiny freckles that adorned her nose. With her arm brushing against his, he found it difficult to focus on what the reverend was saying—or on anything else for that matter. Shifting slightly away from her, he tried to shake off the heated daze. Not since Marianne had a woman affected him so ardently. Opening his Bible, he searched through it for words of strength.

  Father, please help me. Do not let me fail You again.

  After the service, Faith sprang from her seat and snapped her gaze to the back door as if plotting her path to freedom. But before she could make a dash for it, Dajon grabbed her arm.

  “Leaving so soon?” he teased. “Come, I would like you to meet Rev. Halloway.”

  A look of dread sparked in her eyes as if he had asked her to meet God Himself. “Truly, there is no need.” She tugged from his grasp.

  “But I insist. He is my dear friend, and I know you will find him most amiable.”

  Faith looked at him as if he were an annoying bug she longed to squash.

  “I would love to meet him,” Grace chirped from their right as people began to flow out the front door.

  Hope pointed at Sir Wilhelm, still sitting in the pew, his eyes shut, his chin snuggled amid the folds of his waistcoat. Deep breaths fluttered between his lips. She tugged on her sister’s sleeve with a giggle. “Should we wake him?”

  “Of all the irreverence.” Grace shook her head. “Of course, wake him.”

  “No. Please do not.” Faith reached out a hand toward her sisters and shook her head then eyed Dajon with the same warning.

  He scratched his chin. “Well, I suppose we could let him sleep a bit longer—while you meet Rev. Halloway, that is.”

  “Yes, yes, by all means, introduce us to your friend.” Pulling her skirts close, Faith inched past the snoring man.

  Dajon stifled a chuckle at the lengths she went to, to avoid her intended.

  “Rev. Halloway, may I introduce the Westcott ladies, Miss Faith Westcott, Miss Hope Westcott, and Miss Grace Westcott.”

  The reverend nodded toward all the ladies, but his gaze remained on Faith. He smiled and then cast a sideways glance at Dajon.

  Dajon gritted his teeth, hoping Faith had not noticed their exchange, but the moment her narrowed eyes met his, he knew that she had. She faced the reverend. “And how long have you known Mr. Waite, Reverend?”

  “Ah, just this past month.” He folded his hands over his prominent belly. “Did you care for the sermon, Miss Westcott?”

  “Forgive me, Reverend.” Faith shifted her stance and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. A tiny purple scar marred the golden skin of her neck. In the shape of a half-moon, it curved upward like a smile just below her left ear. Dajon didn’t remember seeing it before. An odd scar for a woman.

  “But in all honesty,” she continued, “I found my mind distracted with other matters.”

  Although at first taken aback by her forthrightness, Dajon could not help but appreciate her candor. While most people hid the truth behind the excuse of propriety, this lady spoke her mind without fear of consequence. Quite refreshing, indeed.

  Dajon watched Rev. Halloway’s reaction curiously but was not surprised when he saw naught but humor and love beaming from his friend’s gaze.

  Grace clicked her tongue and clutched her Bible to her chest. “You are all rudeness, sister.” She turned to the reverend. “It was an eloquently spoken word of truth.”

  He laughed. “Eloquent? I doubt it. But filled with truth—now that I’ll agree with.”

  The reverend tilted his head toward Sir Wilhelm, still asleep in the pew. “Seems your friend shares your view of my sermons, Miss Westcott.”

  Her mouth quirked in disgust. “I assure you he shares none of my views.” She smiled at the reverend.

  Faith liked his friend. Dajon found himself oddly pleased at that dis
covery.

  “And you.” Rev. Halloway turned toward Hope. “Are you of the same opinion?”

  Hope glanced down, obviously unsure how to respond, and a moment of awkward silence settled upon them, conveniently interrupted by the approach of Mr. Mason.

  Tanned from many hours working outdoors, Nathaniel tossed his brown hair out of his face and halted next to the reverend, but his gaze drifted over Hope in obvious admiration.

  “Ah, Nathaniel.” The reverend gripped the young man around the shoulder and shook him good-naturedly as a father would a son. “Ladies, may I introduce my ward, Mr. Nathaniel Mason.”

  Hope raised her nose. “We have met.”

  His gleeful expression sobered. “Yes, down at the docks.”

  “You are building a boat or some such thing.” She shrugged and glanced away.

  “A merchant brig, miss,” Nathaniel corrected, lengthening his stance.

  “Nathaniel is skilled at carpentry and shipbuilding,” Rev. Halloway said proudly. “He has great plans to own his own merchant fleet someday.”

  Hope coughed and fingered the lace trim on her sleeves. “Can we go for a stroll in the park now?”

  Annoyance flamed within Dajon at the sight of his friend being slighted in such a manner. Truth be told, by the standards of society, Nathaniel was not a man to be noticed. Born to a street harlot who died soon after, he grew up as an orphan on the streets of Charles Towne until Rev. Halloway took him in and raised him as his own son. But the boy—man now, for he was nigh five and twenty—possessed the kind spirit of a parson. Dajon had tried to enlist him as his ship’s carpenter, but Nathaniel had plans of his own.

  “In a moment, Hope.” Faith adjusted her flowered hat, drawing Dajon’s attention to the tiny scar on her neck. Most curious. He longed to know the cause of it.

  “Shall we go?” She faced him, saw the direction of his gaze, then quickly bowed her head. Tugging on a lock of hair, she pressed it over the scar.

  “Holy Chesterfield, is the service over already?” Sir Wilhelm thundered from behind them, staggering to his feet and wiping the drool from his chin.