Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  “I didn’t have a mirror,” Charlie said, her tone sounding less defensive and more like an apology.

  “If there is one thing a gentleman must take seriously, it is his presentation.” He took a comb from the washstand and pulled it through her hair, noticing where the shears—or whatever blunt instrument she’d used—had hacked away the hair unevenly. Some patches were so short they were shorn nearly to the scalp. Others hung in longer strings. The overall effect reminded him of a stray cat who’d been in fight after fight. Pity made his eyes itch.

  He imagined the young woman hiding away in a barn or deep in the woods, cutting off her long braids and then, by feel alone, trimming the remainder. A lump pressed in his throat. Young ladies took particular pride in their hairstyles and pretty clothing, and her lack of either was just another reminder of what must have been taken from Charlie.

  Using his own scissors, he carefully trimmed away the longer strands, trying to blend away evidence of the harsh cuts. But in the end he decided to make all of it evenly short. It would grow, eventually, and would look much nicer if it were all the same length.

  Charlie sat disconcertingly still as he worked. A few times he caught her gaze in the mirror, but he wasn’t sure if she actually saw him or not. Her expression was serious as she stared into the mirror, and he wondered what she saw there. How had her time in captivity changed her?

  “I don’t think monkeys can cut hair,” she said after a long a moment. A small smirk tugged at her mouth.

  Alden shrugged. “That was my assumption as well, until I saw . . .” He moved the scissors in a circling motion, indicating her hair.

  Her smirk faded. “I frightened you, today, didn’t I, Captain?”

  He paused in his cutting, surprised she’d so quickly come to the conclusion it had taken him an hour to reach. “You did.”

  Charlie’s shoulders dropped. “I didn’t mean to. I had hoped to do the opposite.”

  “I know.”

  She looked at him in the mirror, chewing on her lip as if uncertain whether to continue. Then she looked down at her hands. “You lost someone, didn’t you? I . . . I can tell. Your eyes are sad and sometimes haunted.” She glanced up then looked back down. “Nearly losing your shipmates today reminded you.”

  Alden stared at the young woman in the mirror. He would never have thought Charlie to be so perceptive. He pulled away his gaze and continued to cut.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” She asked the question with such a tone of understanding that Alden was surprised to find that he did. It may have been relief from the safe rescue or the aftereffect of his worry, or perhaps cutting a person’s hair made a man wish to confide in her. “Her name was Marguerite LaFontaine.” Alden hadn’t spoken the name aloud in more than a year, and the sound startled him.

  “You loved her,” Charlie said softly.

  He nodded.

  “And she lived in New Orleans,” Charlie guessed.

  He nodded again. “Marguerite was elegant, more beautiful than any woman I’d ever met.” He was looking at Charlie’s hair, but in his mind he was in a dance hall in the hot city. He’d been walking toward the entrance, hoping to step outside for some fresh air. The door had opened, and the smell of magnolias floated inside along with a dark-haired beauty. He blinked and kept cutting.

  “She belonged to an old Creole family. Her parents didn’t even speak English. They were traditional—very French and very religious. They wanted their daughter to find a man in their social circles, but for a reason I will never understand, she found me.”

  “And you planned to marry?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes, but I wanted to wait before declaring my intentions. I didn’t feel . . . worthy . . . of her. Not until I had enough money to provide the lifestyle her father had given her. She assured me we’d be happy no matter my financial situation, but . . . my pride wouldn’t allow it.”

  He stepped to the other side, combing over Charlie’s hair, and glanced at her in the mirror. She watched him, listening to his story attentively. “Marguerite begged me to stay with her in New Orleans, but I was determined to take another voyage—a short one. Through the Lafitte brothers I learned of a silk shipment stashed away in a cave on Hispaniola. Acquiring it involved great risk, but the payoff was a fortune grand enough that I could propose. So I left.”

  He blew out a heavy breath. “When I returned, she was gone. A fire had destroyed an entire section of the city. Marguerite’s house had suffered some of the worst damage. And she . . .”

  “She died,” Charlie said.

  He nodded.

  “Captain, I’m so sorry. But you mustn’t blame yourself. The fire wasn’t your fault.”

  “Not being with her when she needed me—that was my fault.” He had never spoken to her father, never made his intentions public. Marguerite had died not knowing he would have married her.

  Charlie spun around in the seat to face him. She touched his arm. “You forgave Mr. Yancey so readily, but you cannot forgive yourself.” A tear leaked from her eye.

  He took her shoulders, turning her back to face the mirror. “How is forgiving myself any different than justifying my actions?”

  Charlie did not answer, though he could sense she did not agree with him.

  The room was silent, save for the sound of scissors. And Alden contemplated whether he’d been right in telling her something so personal. He pushed away the memories and their pain, focusing on the job he was doing, and considered the young woman sitting in his chair.

  Since he’d met Charlie, Alden had reminded himself constantly not to think of her as a young woman. She was a member of his crew, nothing more. But seeing her, studying her face, he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d been like before. Had she been a quiet, thoughtful girl, or had she flirted and giggled? As hard as he tried, he couldn’t imagine her in a dress, her hair long. But even wearing his shirt, with her hair shorn, he found it impossible not to see her as a young lady, and a pleasant-looking one at that. Wide eyes, a teasing dimple, rounded cheeks and freckles—while not a devastating beauty, Charlie’s look was fresh and pretty. Especially when she smiled.

  Once he finished, Alden stepped back, turning her by the shoulders to face him, and he studied the result. Charlie’s hair was longer on the top, brushing over her forehead and in front of her ears, but he’d not been able to salvage the back and sides. They were very short. But the style wasn’t unattractive, making her neck look long and slender, and somehow her eyes looked even larger.

  She watched him, and he saw nervous anticipation in her gaze as she waited for the verdict. A very ladylike reaction.

  He nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he had earlier. “Much better.”

  Charlie’s cheeks turned pink, and she smiled self-consciously. The compliment—though it was a meager one—had pleased her. “Thank you.”

  Alden smirked, raising a brow. “Now, back to the matter of your punishment.”

  Charlie blinked and drew back.

  At the sight Alden laughed. “I am only teasing, Swabbie.”

  Chapter 9

  Charlotte awoke the next day, wincing at her sore muscles. Swimming had made her legs and shoulders ache. She stretched, wished she hadn’t, and then blinked herself fully awake. Only then did she notice the sun shining through the hole in the deck was full in her face. She jolted, realizing she’d overslept—something she hadn’t believed possible aboard the ship—and scrambled out of the berth, landing on her feet, and grabbing on to Captain Thatcher’s trousers as they slipped down off her hips. Why hadn’t anyone woken her? She glanced around and saw all of the other berths were empty.

  She started to roll down the waist of the captain’s trousers in an effort to keep them from falling but stopped when she saw her clothes had been folded into a tidy pile at the foot of her berth. When she put them on, she found patches
had been sewn over the holes in the knees and elbows. She ran her fingers over the thicker material and the stitching. The color wasn’t exactly the same, but it was close, and the stitches were small and even. She glanced around, feeling nervous prickles on her skin. She wondered at the act and the reasoning behind it. Was she being manipulated? What would be expected of her in return?

  The smell of mush reached her nose as she hurried to the galley. She should have been awake hours ago to help prepare the morning meal and set the peas soaking for luncheon. She winced as she approached the cook, bracing herself for a stream of criticism. “Mr. Turley, I am so sorry. I overslept this morning.”

  He was scrubbing out the large cooking pot, and Charlotte’s stomach sank when she realized she’d not only missed preparing the meal but the meal itself as well.

  Mr. Turley looked up then motioned with his bearded chin toward a wooden bowl covered with a cloth on the preparation table. “Not to worry, lad. Figured you needed your sleep after yesterday.”

  Charlotte stared at the man. Mr. Turley’s voice was almost . . . kind. When she lifted the cloth, she discovered he’d saved breakfast for her. She glanced back at him, suspicious and wondering what his intentions could possibly be, but he simply continued scraping.

  Taking the mush, she stepped out into the common area and saw the tables had already been cleared and the lower deck swabbed. The fact that someone had done her duty confused her, and she could come up with no reason behind it other than worry that she’d slept too deeply and the others had been unable to wake her. Whom did she owe? And how was she expected to repay? She sat on a barrel, eating quickly, then cleaned her bowl and measured peas into the large pot for the midday meal.

  She searched for her mop and bucket, and unable to locate either, finally ascended the companionway. After only a few moments of searching the upper deck, she discovered the mop. It was in Marchand’s hands as he swabbed the boards near the stern.

  Charlotte hurried toward him. She grabbed on to the mop’s handle, pulling on it. “Marchand, you don’t need to do this.”

  “It is almost finished, Charlie.” He spoke in his quiet voice, holding firm to the mop.

  “But it is my duty. You have other work to do.”

  He pulled the mop away and then dipped it into the bucket, spreading the water over the boards. “I think you have earned a day free from swabbing.” He motioned toward the companionway with his chin. “You should rest.”

  Charlotte’s suspicions lessened, and her heart felt warm at the unexpected kindness. Could the shipmates possibly have done her work without expecting anything in return? She grinned, wanting to throw her arms around her messmate. But the action was decidedly unmanly, so she patted his shoulder as she’d seen other men do when they wished to express a deep, heartfelt emotion. “I believe I have a story even stranger than your ghost ship, Marchand.”

  He stopped mopping and raised a questioning brow, perhaps wondering if she’d seen something strange when she was overboard the day before.

  Charlotte pointed to the wet boards at his feet. “It is about a man who voluntarily swabs decks.”

  He chuckled. “Go rest, Charlie.”

  As she passed the others on the deck, Charlotte was met with nods and greetings. Her actions the day before had apparently earned respect, and she began to accept that the services performed for her were done in gratitude for saving a fellow shipmate.

  Charlotte was grateful for the day of respite, and knowing her shipmates took on extra duties to ensure she recovered touched her. Truth be told, she hurt everywhere, and her limbs felt incredibly weak. Moving to the starboard side of the deck, she leaned against the gunwale, watching a flock of gulls high overhead.

  A gust of wind moved over her, stirring her hair. She ran her fingers up the back of her neck and over the spiky bristles. The feel of it was so strange but also rather liberating. She’d worn the knitted cap for so long, hiding away the embarrassment of her shorn hairstyle. But now that it was gone, she didn’t miss the old thing. Over the weeks of the voyage, it had stretched out, fitting poorly, and it had also taken on a strange smell.

  Charlotte shivered, pulling the coat tighter around her. Mr. Ivory had mentioned that this winter was even colder than usual for the Caribbean. She ran fingers through the hair above her ears, still not used to the new style, and she thought of Captain Thatcher’s fingers doing the same. A blush moved over her.

  She remembered his story, his pain making her heart ache. She knew the same crushing sorrow of losing loved ones. The pain of losing her family had been nearly more than she could bear, and she wished he didn’t have to feel it as well.

  She considered what the captain had told her about the woman from New Orleans. The story was so wonderfully romantic: a beautiful heiress who’d defied her parents to love a handsome merchant captain. Marguerite LaFontaine no doubt had thick glistening curls and a porcelain, freckle-free complexion. She must have spoken with an enchanting accent and worn beautiful gowns. No wonder Captain Thatcher adored her.

  A sour taste came into Charlotte’s mouth and, with it, an emotion that made her hot with embarrassment.

  She was jealous, and though she didn’t want to delve deeper into the reason behind the emotion, she did it anyway. Was she jealous of the luxurious curls? Or the romantic story? Of course. What eighteen-year-old girl wouldn’t be?

  But as she considered, the full truth was much worse, and the realization made her ashamed. She was jealous of the woman Captain Thatcher loved.

  Charlotte didn’t like the feeling at all. It felt like a betrayal of Captain Thatcher’s confidence.

  “Charlie?”

  She whipped around, her cheeks burning at the notion that someone might read her humiliating thoughts.

  Mr. Strafford was walking toward her.

  Seeing him upright, looking strong and healthy, was such a change from his bluish complexion and lifeless limbs of the day before that Charlotte gasped. She put her hands to her heart, feeling a wave of relief. “I’m so glad to see you well.”

  The large man joined her at the rail, his gaze moving over the water. He took something from his pocket and held it out toward her.

  Charlotte glanced at his expression and then accepted the object, leaning close to study it. The item appeared to be a large tooth of some kind—a shark’s? Or maybe it was from a whale—with a picture carved into the flat side. A hole was drilled through the wide part of the tooth, and it was strung with a leather cord. She supposed it was to be worn like a necklace. She examined the carved image—a bird with enormous feet and an oversized beak. Though the carving wasn’t colored, she could tell the bird’s body was white and its wings black. It looked as if it were wearing a gentleman’s formal coat, complete with a collar. “I can see it’s a bird,” she said. “But I don’t recognize it.”

  “A puffin,” Mr. Stafford said. “They live in the north.”

  “Puffin,” Charlotte repeated, looking at the bird’s face. Its cheeks were round, and its eyes looked comically sad. The picture made her smile. “I didn’t know you were interested in birds.”

  He shrugged, and she thought he looked a bit embarrassed. “Just make a record of those I see.”

  “And you travel the world, so I imagine you’ve seen quite a variety.”

  He shrugged again. “I keep a notebook of drawings if you ever want to look at it.”

  His cheeks were red, and he shuffled his feet. He was definitely embarrassed by the admission. Charlotte wondered why. Was the man just shy? Or did he think drawing birds a pastime unbefitting a sailor? “I would be very pleased to look at your book.” She handed back the carving. “Thank you for showing this to me. It is beautiful.”

  He jerked away his hands, as if she were offering him something hot. “It is for you.”

  Charlotte looked back down at the necklace. “Thank you. But I can�
��t accept such a—”

  He shook his head, the red on his cheeks spreading down his neck. “I’m not by nature a . . . friendly person, Charlie. I fear my . . . disposition could be considered . . . ah . . . unpleasant. For that, I apologize.” He cleared his throat and folded and then unfolded his arms.

  Charlie could see how uncomfortable the admission made him. “An apology is unnecessary . . .”

  He shook his head. “Let me finish.” His voice was a growl. He clasped his hands behind his back, looking down at the deck as if unable to meet her eye. “What you did yesterday . . . I can’t begin to thank you. And after how I treated you . . .”

  Charlie felt the man’s discomfort coming off him in waves. What she’d taken as rudeness she could see now was shyness and an awkwardness when talking to people. The enormous man looked anything but threatening as he struggled to find his words, and she loved him for it.

  “Mr. Stafford—”

  “Tom.”

  “Oh.” She smiled and patted his arm. “We are shipmates, Tom. Please do not be uneasy for a moment longer.”

  He nodded, looking relieved to have gotten the uncomfortable conversation over with.

  Charlotte tied the leather behind her neck—using a reef knot, of course—and touched the pendant where it hung below her collarbone. She was reminded of how touched she’d been when her parents had presented her with the turquoise ring. Both pieces of jewelry, each so different, were more valuable to her than any chest of pirate treasure. Happiness spread down to her toes, a feeling she’d not experienced since before the attack on Fort Mims and one she’d definitely not expected when she boarded the Belladonna.

  The two turned to watch the sea. Charlotte wondered if Tom was remembering his nearly fatal accident, and she looked around for something to take his mind off it. Flying overhead was a sleek white bird with a long beak. She pointed. “Is it a crane?”

  Tom squinted and shook his head. “A heron. Cranes fly with outstretched necks and herons with their necks tucked.”