Captain Of My Heart

by Danelle Harmon

  “Faith,” he said, and opened his eyes.

  Beyond his feet, Kestrel’s huge red-and-white-striped flag, torn and blackened with shot, filled his entire field of vision. There was a tabby cat nestled against his ankle and staring at him in alarm.

  He blinked, wondering what it was doing on his ship.

  The cat fled. He looked up.

  And saw her.

  A wall of thick, tumbledown hair that was in desperate need of a combing. Green eyes, wet with tears, peeping out between and beneath it. Freckles peppering an impish nose—and a jaw that had come unhinged.

  “Moyrra?”

  Faith, why was she staring at him so?

  “Eveleen!” she screamed.

  And Eveleen, just coming into the room—faith, had she actually lost weight?

  She merely grinned and hurried away, heading down a hall he recognized as Ashton’s, her steps in time with clocks he knew were Ephraim’s, two cats in her wake he identified as Mira’s.

  And Mira?

  “Brendan!” she was screaming, at the very top of her lungs. “Oh God, Brendan! Brendan!”

  He shut his eyes. She was smothering him with thick hair and the scent of roses. Silky locks and kisses, raining over his face, his eyelids, his scarred chest. Arms that wound beneath him and hauled her up against him, tears that wet his chest and ran down the little grooves between his ribs and tickled his armpits. She was squeezing the life out of him. Pain lanced through his ribs. Squeeze any harder, lassie, and I’m going to pass out, he thought.

  She drew back only long enough to shout, “You’re awake! Awake!” and then she was giggling and crying and shouting all at once, her wall of hair suffocating him, her kisses and laughter filling his soul as she rocked him from side to side and told him over and over again how much she loved him.

  “Mira! What the goddamned bleedin’ tarnation’s goin’ on in—”

  She paused. Drew back. Swept her hair aside and gave him an unhampered view of a doorway that was quickly filling with people. Matt, staring sightlessly at the wall behind him, but grinning as he leaned heavily against Eveleen; Abigail, wiping floured hands on her skirts; Liam, John Keefe, Amos Reilly, Abadiah Bobbs. Dalby, clutching his chest. Fergus, clutching his crystal.

  And at the forefront of that formidable pack, Ephraim—clutching his watch.

  “The British have invaded Maine,” the old sea captain snapped. “Kestrel sits rotting in the harbor. And yer lyin’ here taking a goddamned nap!”

  He snapped open the watch and shoved it in Brendan’s face.

  “It’s about bloody TIME ye woke up!”

  Chapter 27

  Early the next morning, Eveleen climbed from her bed and, from her window seat, watched the sun come up over the harbor. Above the buildings of Market Square, she could see ships’ masts silhouetted against the pink and gold sky; the distinctive backward rake of a pair of them marked them as Brendan’s schooner. Mist rose from the river, and down in the harbor a cloud of seagulls raised their raucous voices, no doubt fighting over some fishy morsel washed up by the overnight tide.

  Eveleen closed her eyes, treasuring these early dawn moments before the rest of the household awakened. Formerly a late riser, she’d never appreciated the beauty of the sunrise, the songs of warblers, cardinals, and sparrows.

  The birds would not have been enough to drag Eveleen from her bed. But Matthew Ashton, who got up with the sun, most certainly was. Now she awakened when the morning was still gray and shadowy; now she perched herself here on the window seat and eagerly waited for him to pass beneath her window as he took his morning walk. She hugged herself. Oh, what would it be like to be kissed by his handsome mouth, to be enfolded in his strong arms, to lay her cheek against his leather vest and listen to the beat of his heart?

  She carefully pushed the curtain aside. He was out there now, returning from his walk, his shoes leaving darker trails through the silvery morning dew. Sunlight glinted off the spectacles he no longer needed and turned his brilliant red hair to flame. In his hand was a long stick, which he used to carefully chart his course. But his steps were sure and confident. She wondered if he’d lived his life as a privateer the same way: daring, fearless, and unafraid to take risks.

  Craning her neck, Eveleen strained to catch a last glimpse of him as he passed beneath her window. She heard the front door open, then slam shut, making the floor tremble beneath her feet. Ephraim shouted something, Matt shouted something back. And then every clock in the house chimed the hour in perfect synchronicity and the door slammed again as Ephraim, clad in a fashionable brown coat, left for his shipyard.

  Downstairs, she heard Matt moving about, then a loud crash as he walked into something. His good-natured curses wafted up to her. Oh, Matt, she thought, you’re so brave, so noble, never complaining about your blindness, never bitter. Yet how well he’d tried to hide his sorrow when the news about the British invasion of Penobscot had swept Newburyport. The town had been so eager to take part in the Expedition to rout the enemy that some thirty sea captains had volunteered to go to Maine as common seamen. But Eveleen had seen the raw, naked pain on Matt’s beloved face that he couldn’t go, too. Not so long ago he’d been Newburyport’s most celebrated hero. Now he was left behind, a forgotten invalid, when his country needed him most.

  A forgotten invalid. Just like her.

  Except that Matt had never drowned himself in self-pity, as she’d done. Matt had risen above it.

  The stairs were creaking now as he came upstairs. Eveleen’s heart began to race, and her stomach filled with butterflies in anticipation. Soon Abigail would be sending a servant up with a breakfast tray, and Eveleen, as she did every morning, would be there to take it from the girl and bring it in to Matt herself. Lately he’d been asking her to stay and talk to him while he ate, listening with rapt attention while she’d relayed developments about the Expedition and the war itself.

  Tiptoeing across the room, she went to the door and put her ear to the paneling. Matt had reached the top of the stairs; she could hear him murmuring to Luff, and the happy thump, thump, thump of the dog’s tail.

  Eveleen closed her eyes and smiled. She could just picture Matt scratching the dog’s ears, perhaps offering him something he’d filched from the kitchen earlier. Then the floor creaked, and the door across from her banged shut.

  She stood there, chewing her lip and leaning against the wall, her heart thumping madly in her chest. Blind or not, in her eyes he was perfect. Wonderful. But while he’d probably ask her to stay and talk to him again, did he truly enjoy her company as much as it appeared he did?

  No one, aside from Brendan, had ever really cared about her—but as she and Matt had gotten to know each other during his convalescence, he’d begun to ask her questions, encouraging her to talk about herself. He’d asked her what her life had been like in England, and later, Ireland. Last night he’d wanted to know what sort of pictures she used to paint, and why she no longer painted. And when she’d told him, the unseen tears slipping down her cheeks, that it was because of her crippled hand, he’d merely taken a bite out of his cornbread and casually asked why she just didn’t paint with the other one.

  How easy he made it all seem. And how much he cared, sensing her tears when he couldn’t see them. She could still hear his quiet voice, soft with compassion and understanding as she’d stood by the window last night and hugged that awful, ugly thing that used to be her hand to her breast.

  “Tears, little Evvie?”

  “Oh, Matthew, don’t pretend you’ve never noticed my hand. You were just too polite to ever call attention to it. I’m a cripple.”

  “So am I. We make a good pair, huh?”

  “But my hand’s no longer good for anything,” she whispered, shoving it as far down into her pocket as it would go when he’d moved to stand behind her.

  “Give it to me, Evvie.”

  She’d panicked. “No, Matthew . . . I—I can’t. It’s hideous! It’s awful—”
/>   “It’s part of you. Give it to me, Evvie.”

  His arms had gone around her, and she’d felt the lanky, hard length of him pressing against her shoulders, her spine, her bottom. Fearful tears had slid down her cheeks, tears that, upon such close scrutiny, he’d find her disfigurement so repellent, he’d turn away. Shivering, she’d bitten her lip to contain the tears as he’d gently touched her shoulder and followed the length of her arm, roving lower and lower until he’d found the scarred, shattered hand at the end of her wrist and, ignoring her struggles to pull away, brought it up to his lips.

  He’d gently turned her around to face him then, holding her gaze with a sightless one of his own. Then, tenderly, lovingly, he’d kissed her hand again and told her how beautiful she was. How brave she was for standing up to Crichton. And then he’d brought her hand up to his cheek and closed his eyes, and Eveleen had cried for all she was worth.

  Matthew had not found it hideous. Matthew did not find her hideous.

  And Matthew, despite the brave front he presented to his family, his friends, and the town itself, needed her as much as she needed him.

  Oh, if only she were as bold and brassy as Mira; she’d go into his room and tell him that she loved him, had always loved him. But no. Although she had Matt’s friendship, she dared not ruin even that precious bit of him that she could claim. What if he, like every man since that awful day upon Halcyon’s decks, rejected her? Matthew Ashton, Newburyport’s favorite son, had been the hotheaded rake who could have had—and probably had had—any woman he chose. Friends were one thing; lovers, another. Why would he want her, fat old Eveleen Merrick who only had one good hand and a closet full of pink dresses? What would he see in her?

  She walked past that hated cheval mirror and stuck out her tongue.

  And then she stopped short, stared, and took a hesitant step closer.

  “What?” she said aloud.

  The image reflected there seemed to belong to someone else. Swallowing hard, Eveleen stepped closer to it. There were bone-points in her elbows and knees, cheekbones had surfaced from out of the roundness of her face, and the figure beneath the now-sagging pink dress had begun to gain a few inward curves instead of outward ones. Her breasts had shrunk, no longer able to hold up the pearl-encrusted bodice of her pink gown, and one of her chins had melted away to nothing.

  Transfixed, she stared at the mirror, seeing the changes in her body for the very first time. Slowly, as though the image might fade, she ran her hands down over her belly, her waist, her hips, where she could just feel bones coming up through the flesh.

  She swallowed the thick lump of emotion in her throat. What had happened to her? How had she lost weight? Had it been her involvement with the horses while Mira had been away on Kestrel? Mucking stalls and grooming their hides until they shone?

  No. The horses had started the process—but they weren’t the real reason she was thinner.

  Suddenly she knew what was.

  She’d been so intent upon helping Matt that she’d barely thought about the food growing cold on her own plate. Indeed, she’d been so concerned about someone else’s welfare instead of her own that she’d not even thought about filling her own stomach and satisfying the emptiness in her heart, for with Matt around, there was no emptiness in her heart. There was no reason to eat until she was stuffed, and then go back for more and more. . . .

  There was no emptiness.

  The woman who looked out of that mirror was really she, Eveleen Merrick. Not a stranger, not a fairy image that was going to vanish in the blink of an eye. It was the girl she’d been before Crichton’s shot, and the woman that girl had become. It was a woman who had learned how to stop feeling sorry for herself, thanks to a hoyden who talked like a sailor and dressed in breeches. It was a woman who, in caring for someone else, had thrown off the protective cloak of obesity to become someone capable of giving, and receiving, love. A woman who was capable—and deserving—of the very best.

  Matthew Ashton.

  Slowly Eveleen ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head until it spilled down her back in a glorious display that shone with the beauty of the morning sun. She stared at that cloud of gold floating around her shoulders and framing her shrinking waist, until it was all she could do not to run to the window and shout out her joy for all the world to hear.

  “I’m here!” she wanted to sing. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!”

  Hugging her arms to her breasts, she glanced at the mirror once more. Oh, she still had a ways to go, but the woman who looked back at her was no longer fat.

  She was no longer bitter.

  And she was no longer angry.

  That summer morning was the last time Eveleen Merrick ever wore a pink gown. She pulled every one from her closet and packed them all away. Then she slipped into the simple homespun dress that Mira had made for her last winter, a dress that was too big for her now but was far more flattering than pink silk would ever be. She tore off her jewelry and tossed it to the bed, shook out her curls a final time. There were no pockets to tuck her hand in, but suddenly she didn’t care if anyone saw it or not. There was nothing left to hide.

  Grinning triumphantly at the mirror as she passed it, Eveleen swept from her room.

  The reflection in the mirror grinned back.

  And so did the red-haired man across the hall when his door opened and she slipped inside.

  ###

  Brendan groaned and threw his arm over his forehead.

  Traffic moved smartly on the street below: handsome coaches belonging to wealthy merchants, farm carts pulled by plodding horses, an older couple out taking the air. It was that time of day when the shadows were long, the sunlight rusty and orange, the heat, left over from the hot summer day, oppressive.

  That heat seemed to have concentrated on the second floor of the Ashton house, although every window was open in an attempt to relieve it. Brendan lay propped up in a stack of fluffy pillows, the sheets no longer crisp but now wilted against his damp skin. A glass of water freshened with a slice of lemon stood in a circle of condensation on the table beside the bed; a supper tray was balanced across his legs. He had no appetite, though the fare itself was not to blame: lobster chowder, accompanied by chunks of crusty bread still piping hot from the bake oven, a dish of peas and carrots, and a golden square of gingerbread smothered in fresh cream. For lunch, Abigail—whom he suspected was trying to make amends for the way she’d behaved toward him that awful day he’d brought news of Proud Mistress’s demise back to Newburyport—had sent up codfish cakes, clam fritters, and sour milk biscuits generously spread with wild strawberry jam. He hadn’t touched that, either.

  He’d been awake—if one could call his state of dizzy weakness that—for a week now. His memory of the time was hazy at best; he had dim recollections of Mira spooning clear broth into his mouth those first few days after he’d woken from the coma, her arm beneath his back and head to support him. By the third day he’d been eating oatmeal, and more broth, thickened with finely chopped meat and vegetables. He’d struggled to sit up in bed and had fallen back in a faint; but that hadn’t stopped him from trying again, and again.

  Now he could sit up in bed, swing his legs out, and, if he took several deep breaths and clutched the bedpost, he could actually stand for a few short moments without feeling as if he might pass out.

  That accomplishment, however, did little to lift his spirits.

  He stared dejectedly out the window, his heart heavy and his soul sad. No, he didn’t remember much of this past week, and even less of those few moments just before he’d fallen from Kestrel’s rigging, though Dr. Plummer assured him that his short-term memory would be a while in returning. Now, however, he was beginning to wish he’d never woken up, if only to have spared Mira this latest distress.

  Last night he’d made the decision to take Kestrel to Maine to join the Penobscot Expedition.

  “Penobscot?!” She’d nearly deafened him with her reaction.
“What the hell is wrong with you?! You’ve just come out of a bleedin’ coma; you can’t go traipsing up to Maine—”

  “Moyrrra—”

  “I won’t have it, Brendan, you hear me? I just won’t have it!” she’d cried, bursting into uncharacteristic tears. “I’ve come so close to losing you, and now you want to go and endanger your life all over again! Damn Father for putting this idea into your head!”

  “Lassie, you have to understand—”

  “You can’t go; you’re not well enough!”

  He’d pulled her down on the bed, hugging her and stroking her hair while she’d soaked his nightshirt with her tears. “Massachusetts needs every privateer it can get, stóirín,” he’d explained as gently as he could. “I built Kestrel for a reason. It would be shameful to have her laid up in harbor when she could be of use to America in the most ambitious naval effort we’ve ever undertaken.”

  Mira had cried even harder, the sobs wracking her little body until he’d thought his own heart would break.

  “Moyrrra, lassie, I didn’t build her just to look good.”

  She’d raised her head, flung the hair out of her eyes, and yelled, “You and your bleedin’ honor! Sometimes you’re so damned noble, I want to choke you! I don’t care about Kestrel, I care about you! If you go up to Penobscot in your condition, you’re going to end up getting yourself killed!”

  She’d fled the room then, and all day he’d waited for her to return so that they could talk the matter over—but she was obviously too upset to want to see or speak to him, and he was too weak to get up and seek her out.

  His spirits had been on a downward slide ever since. He shut his eyes. Maybe she’d been right—perhaps he was too honorable for his own good. But how could he live with himself if he just lay here in bed, when his new country needed both him and Kestrel?