Her hand closed around it and she flung it with all her strength toward his voice, the piercing, agonized crash of china against the far wall shattering the stillness.
“Get away from me, you coward!”
She fell back into the pillow, sobbing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath, feeling as if she were suffocating in its wet softness, its damp heat, and drowning in the choking awfulness of her own grief.
“I hate you. . . . God, I hate you. . . .”
But it was really herself she hated, for if she hadn’t fallen in love with this—this Brit, she would have been out on Proud Mistress and helping her brother.
“I hate you, hate you, hate you.”
Silently Brendan moved across the darkened room. The object in his hand, found as he’d combed the beach of the island that had shuddered to the thunder of Mistress’s guns, and later, her death, was now warm in his hand. He ran his thumb over it one last time.
He thought of the broken bowl. Shattered, like Mistress. Like Mira’s trust in him, and the love they’d shared.
Like Kestrel’s honor itself.
Quietly he reached out through the darkness and put the object on the table where that bowl had stood, and left the room.
There, alone, staring unseeingly up into the darkness, the metal growing cold once more, sat the spectacles of a dead privateer.
###
They had no body to bury, but Captain Matthew Ashton’s memory was laid to rest with full honors just the same, on a cloudy day with a mournful wind and an oppressive rain that soaked through cloak and coat alike. Gray sky and gray river, gray faces and tears that mixed with the rain and went unnoticed. And a tombstone of granite, on which was painstakingly carved the likeness of a brig with the figurehead of a woman; a tombstone that reflected the mood of the sky, of the day, of the people.
It was a sad day for Newburyport.
The American flag flew at half-mast from the fort at Plum Island, and aboard every vessel in the rain-soaked harbor. A black coach carried the dead hero’s family to St. Paul’s Church on High Street, followed by a funeral procession and mourners of keening women, silent sea captains, weeping children, and a seventy-man detachment from the Newburyport militia. When the sad ceremony was all over, the ships in the river fired their guns in solemn salute to one of their own, lost in the name of Liberty. Drums rolled, church bells tolled in lonely sorrow. And at the granite marker, and its reign of unbroken ground, the militiamen lifted their muskets and fired three volleys as the dead captain’s sister tossed a single, blooming tulip to the earth and turned away to sob into her father’s arms.
Apart from the group a lone figure stood, wearing his best uniform and clasping his tricorne to his heart. That uniform was dark with rain, and water streamed from his curling russet hair. He watched the girl in helpless misery, and when she lifted her face from the comfort of her father’s chest, their gazes met across the rainy distance.
Brendan swallowed, and took a hopeful step forward.
The crowd huddled protectively around her.
And Mira turned her face away.
His heart broke. And as the ceremony ended and the townspeople looked up and saw him standing there, they cursed him and turned away as well, leaving him to face alone the river that had brought him here—and the schooner whose name had become anathema.
Newburyport’s newest hero.
Named by his Irish mother for a long-dead sea explorer, the patron saint of sailors.
In grief, the truth is often crushed.
Chapter 23
Being a man who viewed the use of excessive force as a necessary means of getting information, Captain Richard Crichton saw no reason not to defy Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s demands for temperance and even less reason not to exercise such methods on his three Yankee prisoners of war.
They were a bedraggled, sorry-looking lot. With such ill-bred rabble to represent them, he wondered how the colonies could ever expect to win a war they were stupid enough to start in the first place. One, a salty old bloke with steady gray eyes and the honest face of a fisherman, had proved his Yankee idiocy by spitting in Crichton’s face; now he was getting a taste of the lash he’d not soon forget. The second prisoner, also picked up from the wreckage of the privateer Proud Mistress, was a youth named Jake who wasn’t old enough to put a razor to his face. Even at such a tender age the boy refused to divulge any information about Captain Merrick, even under Crichton’s most persuasive methods, and insisted he didn’t know a thing about him or the schooner that had been wreaking such havoc upon British shipping.
And the third—semiconscious, blinded by shrapnel, and lying slumped against the bulkhead in Crichton’s fine cabin—was no help at all.
Captain Matthew Ashton.
No help at all, Crichton thought, with a cold grin. Yet.
With controlled savagery, he drew back and kicked the blind man hard in the ribs. The Yankee captain doubled up in agony, his face paling beneath a spray of freckles that, coupled with his unruly shock of red hair and naked, owlish eyes, made him look boyish and defenseless.
Hard to believe this was the same man who’d fought his Proud Mistress with such doughty valor.
Crichton kicked him again.
“So, the brave Captain Ashton shows the same loyalty to his friends as he does his country, eh?” Crichton’s milky eyes hardened, emphasizing their red-tinged lids and fair lashes, and his mouth tightened in a smile thinner than prison gruel. His blue uniform was freshly brushed, his shoes shone, his epaulets gleamed on his blocky shoulders, and the gold braid on his hat was almost decadent—yet his fine image was wasted on his blinded captive. But the Yankee’s mind was lucid enough, and Crichton made full use of that fact.
“What, no answer, Captain Ashton? Do you think your silence will save you? Do you think it will save Merrick when I catch up to him?” He gave a short, brittle laugh. “The fox can only outrun the hounds for so long, you know. Sooner or later that fox, clever as he may be, will have to come out of his lair—and when he does, I’ll be waiting for him.”
“You’re . . . wasting your time. You’ll never catch . . . that schooner. ...”
Crichton’s laughter was evil, awful and humorless. Chills snaked up Matt’s bruised spine, but he was in too much pain to bring on more by shuddering. Instead, he simply lay there in his own private darkness, gritting his teeth to steady himself as the laughter faded and the silky voice flowed over him like acid.
“Do you think me foolish enough to waste my time even trying? That schooner has given me ample demonstration of her speed. One does not try to outfly a kestrel, my good captain. But a kestrel can be netted—and a fox can be shot.”
“Captain Merrick is no fool.”
“Precisely. He’s a former officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and our navy does not breed fools, Ashton. Nor does it allow them to command our ships.” Matt heard liquid sloshing into a glass, and felt Crichton staring down at him as he sipped his wine.
“Merrick entered the navy as a midshipman at age twelve, quickly proving himself and passing his lieutenant’s exam at age seventeen. By his twentieth year he was commanding his first ship, by his twenty-third, a forty-four-gun frigate, and by his twenty-fifth, was put in charge of Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s fleet as flag captain, a post that he deserted not a month after his appointment to it. Some time later, he showed up in the service of the rebels, commanding a privateer named Annabel. A ship familiar to you, eh, Captain Ashton?”
Matt’s lips thinned, and Crichton kicked him again.
“I asked you a question!”
“The devil take you,” Matt wheezed, clutching his ribs. Another kick, and the breath roared between his clenched teeth with a harsh whistle.
Tiring of the game, Crichton went on, his voice calm and controlled. “In any case, there were those of us who felt that young Merrick’s appointment to such a high post was politically based and largely undeserved—a favor on Sir Geoffrey’s part. The old windbag was cl
ose friends with Merrick’s father, you see. And Sir Trevor Merrick was an admiral himself, an autocratic old firebreather with a stiff upper lip, but well respected and a particular favorite of the king. He moved in high places and intended his mongrel son to do the same. Of course, there are those who insist it was Brendan’s own abilities that snared him the post of flag captain, but you know something, Ashton? I don’t think so. ’Twas the influence of his sire and the luck of that damned Irish hussy he married, luck that Brendan seems to have inherited, God rot his bloody soul.” A glass slammed down on a hard surface, and Matt heard the bitterness in Crichton’s voice. “And that’s all it was, Ashton. Luck. I should’ve had that position. I should’ve been promoted, not Merrick. Dammit, I deserved it!”
Matt looked blindly up toward that hate-filled voice. “It seems that you are wrong after all, sir,” he said, with a trace of his old fire.
“Wrong about what?”
“Wrong about your navy employing fools to command their ships. You did say you’re a captain, didn’t you?” He waited for another kick, but his brazen words seemed to have rendered his tormenter speechless. “And furthermore, any man who thinks that Captain Merrick obtained recognition simply by being born the son of a British admiral—and not by his own intelligence, compassion, courage, and charisma, traits that I’ve yet to see reflected in you—is not only a fool, but a bleeding idiot besides.”
“You dare insult me so?”
“I’ll dare anything I damn well please, you treacherous whelp of a she-bitch.” Matt glared sightlessly up toward that flat, emotionless voice, but inside he winced, waiting for another kick. It wasn’t the blow itself he feared, nor even the pain; it was the fact that he couldn’t see it coming.
And couldn’t see his enemy.
And perhaps that was best, for his last memory of the British captain was very clear indeed: that of Crichton standing on the decks of this frigate moments before she’d reduced Proud Mistress to a floundering wreck. One of the balls had hit a gun, cut down its crew, and the exploding fragments of metal and wood had struck him in the face and left him in a world darker than the hide of Mira’s black stallion.
Richard Crichton. Arrogant and stout-shouldered, with a mouth hewn from stone and stamped with cruelty. Thatch-colored hair and a purposeful jaw. Young Jake had told him that Crichton had been smiling as that last broadside had struck Mistress’s magazine and done her in, and Matt didn’t have to look upon that cold and emotionless face to know that he was smiling now. The thought chilled him, and again he fought a shudder. Not for himself. Not for whatever remained of his crew.
But for Brendan.
Crichton chose to ignore his last remark. “No, Ashton, I’m not a fool, nor am I an idiot. I’ll prove that to you soon enough, when I shoot myself a fox and bring him home for my admiral to skin. And as for that schooner, she’s the swiftest thing afloat for her size. Nothing but teeth and wings and claws. A most singular vessel, you’ll agree, which is precisely the reason my admiral, and his peers back in London, want her. To study, to examine, to use her as a model so that our navy may improve upon its own designs.” Matt heard the deck creak as Crichton moved slowly across the cabin, then back again. “And you must agree, ’tis only right that she ends up in our hands. I told you I’m no fool, Ashton—I know who designed her. And given that fact, I do believe that makes her British property.”
Pain was shooting through Matt’s ribs, sharp, lancing pain that made it hard to breathe, let alone talk. He clamped his jaws shut and ground his back teeth together to keep from moaning, and said nothing.
“No, the fox must be outsmarted,” Crichton continued, as matter-of-factly as if he were moving pieces around on a chess board. “Outwitted. And you, Captain, are going to help me draw him out.”
Gasping, Matt raised his head and stared sightlessly into the blackness. “Never, you son of a bitch . . . Nev—”
This time the kick did come.
Savagely Crichton drove his boot into Matt’s temple and sent him into senseless oblivion. Bloody rebel, he thought, and drew back to kick him again. But at that moment Myles, his trusty first lieutenant, entered. There was a smile on his face and his beady eyes glinted.
“I delivered that missive to the Tory you asked me to find.” Myles stepped over the sprawled body as though it carried the plague. “He’ll see that it reaches Merrick, one way or another.”
“Good.” Crichton sipped his wine and stared disdainfully, then thoughtfully, down at the unconscious Yankee lying at his feet. Useless, he thought angrily. No help at all. But he would be.
He smiled thinly and met Myles’s expectant gaze. “Douse our good captain with water—salt water, please, as it tends to sting more and I don’t want to waste our fresh water on such vermin—and when he awakens, haul him up on deck. Blinded he may be, but he’s not deaf. I want him to hear the screams of his men when I wring out of them what he won’t reveal.”
“And that is?”
“Every last bloody detail of that schooner. Ashton’s father built her, and Ashton knows more than he’s telling me. I want to know precisely what I’m up against, Myles.”
Myles smiled, drawing his lips back from crooked teeth.
Crichton took another sip of his wine and prodded the lolling red head with the toe of his boot. “And when you get him up there, string him up to the grating. Young Midshipman Rothfield shows promise of making a fine officer someday. I should like him to witness the proper technique of stripping the flesh from a man’s back.”
“Yes, sir,” Myles said, eagerly.
“Oh, and Myles?”
The lieutenant turned.
“Mind that you haul an extra bucket of that seawater up and save it for after the lashing. The good captain’s back will probably need to be . . . washed.” He returned Myles’s sly grin. “These Yankees are a stubborn lot, you know. I have a feeling that if the boatswain’s cat doesn’t do this one in, the saltwater might.”
Myles gave a slow, measured salute, thinking that if he hauled not one but several buckets up, his captain would be even more pleased. “As you wish, sir.”
And as his faithful hound went off to do his bidding, the hunt master, still sipping his wine, looked down at his captive and smiled.
Tomorrow the scent would be laid.
In due time, the fox would sniff the wind and come running.
And when he did, that fox would be shot.
###
Eveleen was in the middle of packing her trunk when Mira came in.
“What are you doing?”
Eveleen put down the skirt she’d been folding and looked down at her feet. Misery cloaked her features; not only had she lost her beloved Matthew, but now her adopted family as well. With Mira and her father so bitter toward Brendan, there was no way she could expect to stay here in the Ashton house. “I’m packing,” she whispered, reaching for a plate that stood beside her bed. On it was a stack of cookies.
“Why?”
Eveleen looked up, her eyes tragic and filled with tears. Mira, usually so perky and full of spunk, seemed no better; her features were pale and drawn, and there was a pinched look about her mouth. The two women looked at each other for a long moment; then Eveleen put down the cookies, and they flew into each other’s arms, hugging each other and crying brokenly.
“You can’t leave, Eveleen,” Mira sobbed into the other girl’s hair. She clutched her desperately, unwilling to let her go. “You just can’t!”
“But I’m not welcome here any longer.”
“That’s not true; you’ll always be welcome here! You’re the only real friend I have, and I need you. Oh, Eveleen, we need each other!”
Eveleen drew back, and looked into Mira’s tortured features. Her fingers were cold and bloodless, and in her eyes was something Eveleen had never seen before—terror.
You’re the only real friend I have, and I need you.
Mira, need her? Mira, who had never been squeamish about her crippled hand, h
ad never made an issue out of it nor allowed her to use it as an excuse to be miserable and full of self-pity. Mira, who had taught her that she didn’t need food to assuage the pain, a lesson that Eveleen, in her misery, was having a hard time remembering. What sort of friend would she, Eveleen, be if she walked out on Mira now? Mira needed her as much as she needed Mira—but nevertheless, she didn’t feel that she should stay in the Ashton house. “But I have to leave, don’t you see? You all believe the worst of Brendan and—”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” Mira sat on the bed and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. Then she looked up, the tears spiking her lashes and spilling down her cheeks. “Please don’t leave me, Eveleen. I’m begging you. Please.”
Eveleen wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stared miserably at her trunk, her lower lip trembling with the effort it took to contain her own sobs.
“Eveleen, please? Can’t you understand, I need you.”
Eveleen met her gaze. “I need you, too, Mira,” she whispered. They hugged each other again, their friendship the only shield they had against the pain.
###
Reverting back to her old ways and burying the pain of the handsome Captain Ashton’s death beneath apple pies, Indian pudding, tarts, scones, and any other confection she could get her hands on, Eveleen found the house strangely silent. Ephraim spent his days—and nights—locked in his library with his grief, a bottle, and a painting of his dead wife.
Mira had gone into an unreachable depression. Eveleen’s riding lessons stopped, and the muddy field that was Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship grew thick and green with spring grasses that heard only the footfalls of cats traveling on the silent paws of hunters. Inside the big Georgian the furniture grew dusty, and the rooms echoed with emptiness. Mira spent her days locked in the stable, and Ephraim spent his locked in the library, both emerging only to scream and shout at each other. At last, dejection overwhelmed them both. The fighting stopped. The neighbors across the street could sleep again. Abigail, miserable with grief, stopped cooking, and Mira started. But nobody ate.
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