She smiled to see that he nodded jerkily. “Yes ... yes, indeed ... that wouldn’t be good at all.” And he withdrew a kerchief from his pocket, dabbing his brow.
Sophie nodded portentously. “As you know, Father is quite protective.” And he was, indeed, fiercely protective of their name.
“Of course,” Jonathon replied as Sophie opened the door. “As it should be... as it should be.” His brows drew together, and he hesitated, clearly uncertain over the fruit of his labors. She knew it had not gone quite as he’d hoped. She ought to let him be there when her father read Harlan’s letter. It would serve him well to witness Maxwell Vanderwahl’s wrath... except that Sophie wasn’t about to show her father the letter... not yet.
She lifted Jonathon’s hat from the rack by the door and set it atop his head, smiling up at him. She patted it firmly. “Goodbye, dear Jon!” she declared.
Her mother would have been quite proud to see how well she kept her calm.
She opened the door wider, barely restraining herself from shoving him out into the street and rushing up the stairs. She was suddenly eager to begin preparations.
Her parents would be in Paris until the end of the month. By the time they returned, it would be too late to stop her. She was no longer a child and she certainly had every right to deal with her fiancé any way she felt appropriate—even if it wasn’t quite appropriate.
Jonathon took a step out the door, then stepped back over the threshold, barring her from closing the door. “B-But if your father isn’t here, Sophia, then perhaps I should stay! To be certain you don’t become too disheartened.”
Sophie pushed him gently out the door. “No, but thank you!”
Harold, bless him, made himself known in that instant, standing like a sentinel at the end of the hall. He said nothing but cleared his throat discreetly, and Jonathon remembered himself at once.
“Goodbye!” she said firmly when he opened his mouth to protest.
“Yes... very well, then... goodbye,” he stammered, and left at last.
Sophie slammed the door behind him. She turned to lean against it and in an instant of weakness, tears pricked at her eyes as she clutched the letter. She felt ill-used and trampled, but she refused to feel this way for long.
Harold stood looking at her with his hands behind his back.
“If I may be so bold to say so, Miss Sophia, I have never liked that young man!”
She smiled gently at him. “I know. That will be all, Harold,” she said, dismissing him. When he was gone, she hurried up the stairwell.
The one thing she had determined long ago was that one could lose anything at all—anything, except one’s pride—and come back relatively unscathed. She wasn’t about to carry this scar throughout her lifetime, only to end up bitter and alone at fifty and stealing brandy from her father’s cabinets.
No, that wouldn’t do.
She went to her room, closing the door behind her. It was meticulous, except for the drawings posted everywhere—on the dresser mirror, on the walls. They were her drawings, and much to her mother’s dismay, she hung them everywhere. It was Sophie’s one small rebellion, but she was proud of every sketch and couldn’t bring herself to bury them in a closet or in a drawer.
Sophie never drew things as they actually appeared. She never truly saw anything the way others did. Everyone—every thing—had a soul, and she felt it her mission to capture its essence in her sketches.
She made her way to her dresser, and touched a finger to a sketch of her mother she had posted there. Unfortunately, sometimes her portraits weren’t particularly flattering. She smiled to herself at the memory of her mother’s expression when she’d first gazed upon her portrait. Poor dear, she’d practically fainted at the sight of it. Sophie had sketched her mother’s eyes abnormally large, because she was ever vigilant, and often affronted. And her mouth was big as well, and her ears... and her nose. Sophie just hadn’t been able to help herself. Her mother seemed to hear everything, smell everything, know everything—or at least she made it a point to try.
Sophie’s sketches would never hang in an art gallery, but she loved them all—from her re-interpretation of the Mona Lisa, with her teeth bared in laughter, to the tiny sketch of her cherished shark’s tooth that hung over her bed like a halo-crowned portrait of the Virgin Mary. Sophie turned to consider the sketch. It was all she had left of the shark’s tooth. Her mother found the tooth one morning and discarded it long before Sophie had awakened—because it wasn’t seemly to play with the dirty teeth of dead animals, she’d been reprimanded.
Sophie still missed her little talisman. In some strange way, the little tooth had embodied all her hopes and dreams—not the ones she had been schooled to, but those she’d tucked away in the farthest reaches of her soul, deep down inside where not a single ray of light could expose their imperfections ... or hers. The truth was that she wasn’t perfect—never would be—and she knew it.
Just once, she wanted someone to look beneath the facade and see all the imperfections ... and cherish her anyway.
She lifted up the portrait from her desk – the one she had sketched of Harlan, touching the chin with a finger. She had drawn him perfectly.
This portrait, along with the only drawing of hers that her mother had hung in the hall, were the only two paintings Sophie had rendered to absolute perfection. Simply titled The Wedding Day, the one in the hall was a storybook picture—her wedding day as Sophie had often envisioned it. Since childhood, her mother had woven every precise detail for her, until the vision had reached an almost sanctified perfection. The pristine white gazebo, decorated with pure snow-white ribbons. The golden rays of sunshine penetrating a vibrant, rich green canopy of trees… shining down on the faceless couple within the gazebo. The rays had been so brilliant as they’d shone on the wedded pair that it had washed away every detail in their faces, rendering them completely without identity.
She sighed. Maybe she’d always known that destiny was not hers.
Glancing first at the letter in her hand, she frowned at the picture she held and then set it back down upon the dresser. Turning it over, she removed the wooden back, and set it, too, down on the dresser. She folded Harlan’s letter neatly and lay it against his portrait, then replaced the back once more. Like everything else in her life, his imperfection was hidden behind an unblemished facade.
She would take the picture with her... to bolster her when she wavered.
But now, it was time to pack! It would behoove her to pack only the most necessary items because she was certain space aboard the Miss Deed would be limited. For money she would sell the necklace Harlan had given her as an engagement present. She might have felt a trifle guilty were it some precious heirloom, but it was merely an expensive token he had purchased, gaudy and ugly. Sophie had never liked it. She could admit that now.
It wasn’t as though she didn’t have funds at her disposal, but she refused to allow her father to bear the burden of this, when it was Harlan who deserved the responsibility. He had taken quite enough from her father—and from her already. Although Sophie couldn’t do anything about the grants or the money, she certainly could recover something of her own!
Pride.
But first things first... she had to find this Jack MacAuley... he held the key to her plan, and she wasn’t about to let him leave harbor without her—even if it meant she had to stow away on his ship! But he wouldn’t turn her down, of that she was certain because Sophie fully intended to give him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
She removed from her drawer a few sheets of paper and a pencil, then sat on the bed. But this time, instead of drawing, she wrote a letter to Harold, explaining to her faithful old servant what she was compelled to do. She’d place it somewhere where he was sure to find it later, after she was gone. Next she wrote a letter to her parents, hoping her sarcasm wouldn’t cause them too much concern, and she felt considerably better when she was through.
It read simply:
; Dearest Father and Mother,
Please don’t fret; I’m off to the Yucatan to murder Harlan. Will tell you everything when I return! My love to you both!
And she signed it.
Love and kisses, your devoted daughter Sophia.
Chapter 2
Did you find out who was nosing about the university?”
Jack MacAuley tossed a neatly bound bundle of newly repaired sailcloth from the pier onto the ship’s deck, eyeing his friend irritably. Kell was his best friend and an exceptionally good sailor, but he was worse than an old woman with his gossip.
“No, and I couldn’t care less who or why!” He lifted up another bundle and hurled it after the first. “I quit caring a long time ago about that elitist institution. It would seem to me you would’ve, too!”
“So you don’t care who’s sniffing about asking questions about you?”
“No.”
Jack had, by stubborn will, earned his degree, while Kell had been forced to withdraw during his second year. He hadn’t been university material, so they’d claimed, though Jack hadn’t met many men more qualified than Kell Davenport. A few barroom brawls weren’t enough cause to deprive a man of an education. Kell had earned his way into the university through scholarships and hard work, but his background was as ordinary as could be, and when pressure came to throw scholarship money elsewhere, elsewhere it went.
It was that simple.
Despite that fact, Kell’s mathematical genius was off the charts, and that, more than his sailing ability, made him indispensable to Jack in this particular venture. It worked in his favor that Kell had been forced to resign his studies so early, and that he’d taken up odd fishing jobs on old schooners to make his living, but it was a crying shame he’d been reduced to using good brainpower on idle gossip. Jack fully intended to put the boy’s noggin to good use again.
“Think maybe it was one of Penn’s lackeys nosing about again, eh?”
Ignoring the question, Jack tossed another bundle aboard the ship’s deck. Sweat ran in rivulets down his temple and face, and he swiped the beads away with the back of his arm. “You’ll need to check the sails,” he instructed Kell. “I have no idea what to look for myself and we’re behind schedule.”
“Very well.” Reluctantly, Kell gave up his gossip, dragging one of the folded bundles aside to begin inspecting it. In the meantime, Jack hauled the remaining bundles aboard, hoping the cloth and rigging were all in order. He’d have to trust Kell’s judgment in that because he didn’t know the first thing about sailing. That he was captain of this mass of tar and lumber didn’t account for a thing. He’d merely bought the old ship; the title fell to him by default.
The Miss Deed had once been christened The Adventurer. It had been decommissioned at least fifty years earlier, and sat rotting in the shallows off the New England coast until Jack happened upon it. It had taken some coaxing on his part for the owner to agree to part with it, because the vessel apparently held some sort of quasi-historic value. But the rotting ship was barely worth what he’d paid for it. It had even escaped the Civil War draft, and Jack could, on closer inspection, see why. He’d had to reach deep into his pockets to complete the repairs necessary just to get the bugger seaworthy, and it was on the verge of becoming a very expensive dinosaur.
Kell cast him a sober glance. Giving up on a knot on the binding around the sails, he pulled out his pocket-knife and severed the twine with a single slice.
Jack winced and had to restrain himself from cautioning him to take care with the knife. There wasn’t money enough to replace the sails. They were skidding by as it was.
Kell returned the knife to his pocket and met Jack’s gaze. “You realize... it doesn’t matter what you find down there, they won’t go for it, no matter how you present it.”
They were the powers-that-be—those who decided which anthropological discoveries were worthy of academic mention and which were simply hogwash. Jack had already had one go-round with them, and had been raked over the coals, rejected, and dismissed, all in the blink of an eye. His findings just hadn’t fit in with the blueprint they were busy creating.
“I’m not going down there with an agenda,” he assured Kell. “I could care less if what I come across proves or disproves my original findings. I wouldn’t be any better than the rest of ’em if I did, would I?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going down there to do my job, because it means something to me. Period.”
Kell began counting bundles. “Well, you’re a better man than I am, Jack, because I am going down there with a blasted agenda.” He stopped and turned to face Jack, hands at his hips. “Personally I’d like nothing better than to find something to rub their elitist noses into. Even if they don’t come about to our way of thought, I’d like to see them squirm just a wee bit. Wouldn’t you? Admit it,” he demanded and stood there grinning, egging Jack on.
If the matter weren’t so close to his heart, Jack might have laughed.
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
Jack declined to answer. He couldn’t afford to make this a personal vendetta, not for his own sake, not for the sake of his studies.
“They should have at least given you an ear,” Kell persisted.
“It doesn’t matter.”
But the truth was that Jack didn’t like it any better than Kell did that they had dismissed him so easily. He’d worked hard, and it grated on his nerves that they would disperse grants so easily to a man like Harlan H. Penn III, who liked his image far better than he did his work—only because of who he chose to marry.
In fact, Jack would be surprised to even find dirt under Penn’s nails—the pantywaist! He had no idea what the man was doing down in South America all this time—drinking mint juleps probably, and sitting on his duff!
“They should’ve given you the grant,” Kell said harshly, and returned to counting bundles. Jack wondered how transparent his thoughts were that Kell had guessed at them so easily. But he let the topic wane. It wasn’t going to get him anywhere but in a sore mood.
“I think we’re missing a sail,” Kell announced, scratching his head in frustration. “But who knows until we get them up.”
Jack sighed. “Figures.”
“It’ll be a miracle if we get these up by tomorrow. That rigging is a deuced nightmare—straight from the Middle Ages, if you ask me.”
Unfortunately, he wasn’t kidding.
Looking up at the miles of rigging, Jack wondered just how seaworthy the rickety ship really was. With his luck, she’d break up just out of harbor and they’d end up swimming back to shore. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. He walked to where he’d tossed his shirt over the ship’s railing and picked it up, shrugging into it.
“I’ll go see if we left one.”
“Send Shorty,” Kell suggested. “He knows where to go.”
“No, he’s saying g’bye to his gal, and everyone else has his own job to take care of. I’ll go.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
Jack tried not to sound impatient, considering Kell’s loyal defense of him. “Shouldn’t, oughtn’t—they’ll drive you nuts if you’ll let them, Kell.” He didn’t bother buttoning his shirt. Half the men on the docks worked shirtless on a day like today. The sun was so hot a bald man could fry an egg on his head. All that was missing was Satan and his pitchfork. Hell couldn’t possibly be hotter.
“There are a lot of things that shouldn’t be that just are,” he added. “You just do what you have to, and forget the shouldn’t be’s.”
Kell shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll get these inspected while you’re gone,” he said. “But I’ll need some help to set the rigging and hoist them.”
“I’ll be back,” Jack promised him. “Don’t go off saving the world while I’m gone.”
Kell was that sort of man. He bore the weight of the world on his shoulders—always pulling for the underdog. There wasn’t a finer man Jack could have at his side.
Kell shook
his head. “No chance of that. It’s gone to pot already.” He peered up at the sun, shielding his eyes. “Blasted heat’s gonna kill us!”
Jack took one last look at the rigging, and his blood began to simmer with excitement.
Almost there.
As soon as the sails were hoisted and they made one final inspection of the ship and supplies, they would raise the anchor and be on their way. He couldn’t wait to see those sails billowing and rippling in the wind—his proud lady of the sea with her chest puffed in pride. He could almost feel the wind in his hair and the undulation of the waves beneath her. Once the sails were up, the little imperfections and repairs would be all but invisible. Old as she was, rickety as she was, she was all his, and the pride he felt in that moment as he gazed up at her choked him. Penn could keep his sugar daddy-in-law.
This tremendous feeling of accomplishment was worth the struggle. In fact, he felt near invincible right now, and it showed in his stride as he left the ship to retrieve the last of the sails.
They had precious little to say about Jack MacAuley at the university, but from what Sophie had gleaned from sources close to her father was that he was a pretender of sorts.
An Irish immigrant, his father had belonged to Boston’s growing fraternity of new money. Mr. MacAuley had apparently received his inheritance this past year, on his father’s death, and had already squandered most of it on this venture, deemed politely, by his peers, as reckless.
Sophie didn’t give a fig whether his comrades respected him or not. Nor did she care if his theories were poppycock, or if he was taken seriously by respectable academia. None of that was any of her concern.
She only wanted passage aboard his ship.
Jack MacAuley himself was of no consequence to her—nor was any other man for that matter. She’d had quite enough of them all. They could go to the devil!
The Miss Deed, they’d informed her, was scheduled to depart sometime today or tomorrow, and Sophie fretted she would miss it.
Sophie's Heart: Sweet Historical Romances Page 3