Threads of Faith

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Daniel wasn’t surprised. “I think it’s fair to say he’s rogue.”

  His men murmured their agreements.

  “Cap’n,” Dinsmore added, “I hope you plan to keep Griswald in the brig the entire voyage for what he’s done to poor Miss Wayland.”

  “I hadn’t quite thought that far ahead.” Daniel had planned to go below and speak with Griswald in a day or two before making further decisions.

  “He shouldn’t ’ave ever been hired aboard.” Dinsmore’s gaze slid in Bent’s direction.

  The first mate squared his shoulders. “There, now, I interviewed all the men just like the cap’n said. How’s I s’posed to know that Griswald is a reviler and abuser of women?”

  “He’s got a poor reputation on the docks, Mr. Bentley.” The purser raised his chin in challenge.

  “Mistakes happen.” Daniel tapered his gaze at Bent, thinking. Perhaps next time he’d reclaim the job of hiring a crew. Bent didn’t seem to have the knack. “What’s done is done.”

  And then Daniel remembered this would likely be his last voyage. He’d inform his crew once the Allegiance dropped anchor in New York. Certainly he’d miss mastering a ship, but becoming George’s executive appealed to him so much more.

  Standing from where he’d been seated on the padded bench, Daniel nodded to his men. “I have work in my office to complete, but I’ll take the helm at dawn unless you need me beforehand.”

  They gave him respectful nods.

  Leaving the saloon, Daniel made his way to his cabin and its adjoining office. He knocked hard at the door, so as not to catch Miss Wayland in a state of undress. He heard a murmured reply.

  He opened the door slowly. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Pushing the door wider, he entered his office and lit the wall sconces. A golden glow filled his paneled quarters. He glanced toward the jail and noticed Miss Wayland had repaired her gown and apron. She stood behind the iron bars looking every bit the parlor maid—well, except for no cap on her head and her battered face. But that too appeared cleaned up, and her nut-brown hair had been repinned.

  “I trust you’ve eaten your supper.”

  “Yes, thank you, Captain.” She hesitated. “And I’ve repaired my dress and pinafore, so I can return your shirt. Nary a drop of blood on it either.”

  “Good news.” He strode to the jail, and she handed it back to him between the iron bars. He caught a faint whiff of the floral-scented soap Dinsmore had given to her. She’d obviously used it.

  He gave her a speculative glance. Most of her face was hidden in the shadows, which for some odd reason fueled his suspicions.

  Crossing the room, Daniel hung up his shirt and then sat down in one of the two leather armchairs that were bolted to the floor. “Miss Wayland, when did you first meet Mr. Griswald?” He figured he might as well come right out and question her.

  “Meet him?” Fingers of her right hand curled around the iron bars. “It was in the storage room, Captain. Just today.”

  “And you were never acquainted with him in any way up until that time?”

  “No, sir.”

  Daniel gauged her response.

  “Why do you ask?”

  He pushed out his bottom lip in a moment’s pensiveness. “I want to be sure I have all the facts for my logbook.” And part of him— most of him, in fact—wanted to believe the young woman. But he had priceless paintings to look after. “I turn the logbook into my superiors after our voyage.” That was a bit of an exaggeration, yet truthful.

  “Ah . . . makes sense.” She leaned her slender frame against the cell bars.

  “I seem to recall that you mentioned coming across Griswald’s ilk in the pub where your sister works.”

  “Yes, unfortunately, I have. Barbaric is what they are.”

  Was that apprehension in her voice?

  “As you’re aware, I agree with you, Miss Wayland, and won’t tolerate that sort of barbarianism on my ship.”

  “And lucky for me that you do, Captain.” She shifted. “You’re not what I expected in a sailor, sea captain or otherwise.”

  Daniel arched a brow. “Is that a compliment?”

  “Yes. You see, the only sailors I’ve met are drunken louts.”

  “Hmm, well . . . I don’t imbibe. As for being a ‘lout,’ you may want to reserve your opinion for after our voyage.”

  “I’ve already determined that you’re no lout, Captain.” Her voice softened, and for some odd reason it touched Daniel like a caress.

  But what had he expected from a streetwise scamp? She’d no doubt honed her wiles.

  “You’re a smart man to refrain from strong drink.”

  “Hmm, well, I must confess that I went through a time where I enjoyed a brandy or two too many. Found out it’s no way to live— especially if one hopes to be successful.” He thought he sounded a bit like his benefactor. Then, again, George had ground that concept into Daniel’s brain.

  And what would George have to say about Daniel returning to his family’s farm in Wisconsin? After that last disastrous visit there, George discouraged him from ever setting foot on his parents’ acreage again. George cited the fact that Mor and Poppa refused to accept Daniel’s educational and career choices.

  But that had been seven years ago. At the time he’d hated college and didn’t know what the future held for him. Now he did. Daniel wondered if his parents would see him differently. They hadn’t thought he’d amount to much, but George and Eliza always believed in him.

  Would his parents—especially Mor—finally admit how wrong they’d been? Would they finally be proud of him and all his accomplishments?

  Pushing to his feet, he crossed his office and unlocked the door to his adjoining cabin. Without a word he stepped inside and shrugged out of his dark blue captain’s jacket with its brass buttons and gold bars. He’d worked hard for each one of them, worked his way up from a mere deckhand and then an apprentice— And it was thanks to George Ramsey that he’d gotten those opportunities.

  Thoughts of the man filled his mind. George had been like a second father. He and his wife, Eliza, took Daniel in, although once they discovered he was a runaway, they wired his parents in Wisconsin to let them know he was unharmed. Daniel had fumed for days afterward. Finally George coaxed the truth out of him— Daniel didn’t want to return to Wisconsin and take over his family’s farm. He wanted adventure, and that’s why he’d run away from home at age fifteen to try to join the Union Army. Daniel had wound up in New York City, and that’s where George found him, exhausted, bedraggled, and hungry.

  “Captain?”

  Miss Wayland’s voice jarred him from his thoughts. “Yes, what is it?” The reply came out sharper than he intended.

  “I hate to trouble you again, sir, but I wondered if I could have a cup of water.”

  He strode to the pitcher on the stand in his office and filled a tin cup. “Hands out in front of you, where I can see them.” Daniel wasn’t about to be bushwhacked by this female.

  He made his way to the cell. Miss Wayland did as he bid her, and he unlocked the door.

  Accepting the tin cup, she drank down its contents in two blinks of his eyes.

  “I’ve been parched all day.”

  “Would you like another?”

  “No, sir. I’m happy to report that my thirst has been satisfied.”

  “Good.” Daniel reclaimed the cup, and his fingers collided with hers. He felt how cold they were. He glanced around. “Didn’t my purser, Mr. Dinsmore, give you a blanket?”

  “Oh, yes, Captain. It’s in me bunk.”

  “You may want to use it. It’s cold and damp on the high seas.” Daniel stepped back and closed the jail cell door. The iron clanged together. The lock clicked tight. He noticed Miss Wayland didn’t move, and her gray eyes seemed to beckon to him from amidst their swelling and bruising. “Is there something else?”

  “No, sir. It’s just . . . well, I’m glad you’re not a drun
kard.” Her hands gripped the cell bars. “I thought all sailors were. To tell you the truth, I’ve been worrying since suppertime because . . . well, fighting off that devil, Griswald, this afternoon took everything out of me. I don’t have much strength left.” She clung to the iron bars as if for support.

  Daniel felt rooted in place. Had she been assuming that he’d return to his office, drink his fill of liquor, and then take advantage of her?

  A noble sense ignited deep within his core. He’d been reared to be a gentleman from birth—one thing his parents had done correctly. The Ramseys further instilled that quality in him.

  He squared his shoulders and straightened to his full height. “Miss Wayland, you have my word, as the captain of the Allegiance, that no harm will come to you while you’re in my custody.”

  The tip of her pink tongue ran over her fattened lips. “I’ve never known a man to keep his word before.”

  Daniel grinned. “Then I’d say it’s your good fortune to meet one now.”

  Julianna’s knees weakened, and not from fright or the rolling of the ship. But this man. As handsome as he was commanding. And she’d been correct about the twin dimples. She wondered if Captain Sundberg had this effect on every woman. A perfect charmer, that’s what he was. Julianna had met his kind before. However, his blue eyes sparked with a light of sincerity that made her believe he meant what he said.

  She was safe.

  Safe. Had she ever really experienced the true meaning of the word?

  “May I suggest you get some rest now, Miss Wayland?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She curtsied, and every muscle in her body screamed from her beating this afternoon.

  She noticed the captain watched her. “You’re quite mannered for a young woman who has resided on London’s streets.” He raised a brow, appearing suspicious. And why wouldn’t he be? He didn’t know her.

  Julianna hurried to explain. “In addition to Mr. Tolbert’s training, I have Molly Stanton, the upstairs maid, to thank for me manners.” She smiled, remembering the meek young woman. “Molly had grown up with wealth until her father got himself thrown into debtor’s prison. Poor Molly ended up employed by Mr. Tolbert, which worked to my advantage. She taught me how to be a lady. Worked on me every time the housekeeper turned her head. Then I practiced in the evenings on me own.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Wayland. I’d been hoping for a . . . bedtime story.”

  Cynicism flashed in his blue eyes, and Julianna guessed the reason. “I’ve been told that I chatter like a magpie. But it only happens when I’m under duress. I’ll do my best to hold my tongue in the future, Captain.” She didn’t want this man to be angry with her. She’d fare better on this voyage if he liked her, even a little.

  Pausing, Captain Sundberg glanced at her from over one broad shoulder. “Under duress?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With deliberate steps he turned and walked toward her again. “Yes, I suppose you have suffered a goodly amount of hardship today. Would you like me to ask Kidwell to make you a tonic? It’ll mute your pain and help you sleep.”

  His offer touched Julianna. “Yes, sir, I’d like that very much.”

  “Fine. I’ll return shortly.”

  After the captain left, Julianna moved toward her bunk, realizing her head was beginning to throb. Dried blood had clotted in her nasal cavity, and it, combined with the swelling, made breathing through her nose nearly impossible. When she lay down, the pressure in the middle of her forehead became a pulsating ache.

  She carefully sat on the narrow bed and waited. Mr. Kidwell entered just minutes later.

  “The captain said you requested a tonic, Miss Wayland.” She heard the eagerness in his voice, and it made her wary. Would he demand some sort of repayment for this service? He’d already brought up her dinner, unappealing as it was.

  But the captain had said she was safe.

  Deciding she had no choice but to trust Captain Sundberg and his discernment, Julianna stood. “The captain thought a tonic might help me feel better.”

  “I’ve got it right here.” The man slid off his cap and strode forward. Setting the cup he held onto a nearby tabletop, he fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. Next he proceeded to unlock Julianna’s cell. Opening the door, he lifted the cup of gurgling brew and handed it to her. “I’m famous for my medicinal tonics. You’ll see.”

  She tried to give it a whiff but couldn’t make out a single ingredient.

  “Is your nose working, Miss Wayland?”

  “I should say it’s not!”

  “Probably best you can’t smell it then. Just drink up.”

  “Well, all right.” Julianna stared at the tin cup in her hand. “Down the ’atch, as me sister would say.”

  Daniel turned his ring of keys in his palm as he strode to his quarters. He’d been detained by Bent, who had a bit of a situation over a card game in the galley after supper. But the disagreement wasn’t serious and the matter quickly solved. Opening the door, he stepped into his office and found Kidwell sputtering and hopping from side to side as he bent over Miss Wayland’s sleeping form.

  Daniel stopped short. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “It’s Miss Wayland, sir.”

  “She’s resting peacefully. Let her be.”

  “She’s having trouble breathing, Captain. I think she needs to be upright. Could you give me a hand?”

  Daniel unfastened a wall sconce and made quick strides into the cell. “How much tonic did you give her?”

  “Same as always.” Kidwell’s voice echoed in a mix of pride and innocence.

  “Your usual dose could fell a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man.”

  “I gave her too much, then?”

  “I’d say so.” Hanging the sconce on a nail above the bunk, Daniel knelt and carefully pulled Miss Wayland into a sitting position. A throaty, gurgling groan escaped her, and her eyes rolled back inside her head. But her facial injuries appeared worse than Daniel had realized.

  How could a man do this to a woman?

  Daniel turned his gaze to Kidwell. “Definitely too much tonic. And you’d best go fetch Dr. Morrison. The swelling around her nose has increased.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Kidwell jogged from the cell, and Daniel worked to fix the blanket behind Miss Wayland’s head. Just above her ear his fingers found a swollen bump, and he chided himself for being so cavalier about her injuries. He was accustomed to men pummeling each other, and he often turned an indifferent shoulder as they usually got what they deserved. But in this case he’d been altogether neglectful. Of course, he’d reasoned, she’d stood in the shadows of her cell this evening and he hadn’t gotten a good look at her face. Still . . .

  As he moved Miss Wayland’s shoulders, her head dropped into the crook of his elbow. He gave up trying to position her and gathered her into his arms. She felt lighter than he’d anticipated. He thought she’d be strong and sturdy from her work as a maid.

  Strands of silky hair fell across the back of his hand, and a hint of lilac reached his nose. The lamp above them rained a glow that illuminated Miss Wayland’s features, and he was reminded of the way she’d looked at the dinner party. Lovely—in a pure and simple way. Dark-winged brows and feathery lashes framed almond-shaped eyelids. A pert little turn to the end of her nose hinted at a similar personality, and wide, pink lips looked fat and bruised. He had a hunch that when they weren’t so swollen, they’d look ripe for kissing. Daniel could well imagine why Captain Tolbert desired to make this woman his own—which made Daniel wonder over her virtues. How could a woman with Miss Wayland’s beauty survive on the streets of London untarnished? Perhaps in her early teens she was less comely and men ignored her.

  Of course, Mor would say God’s hand of protection was that far-reaching, and all at once Daniel recalled a passage of Scripture he’d learned as a boy. He couldn’t recall the psalm verbatim, but King David had penned something about being
in hell and God being right there with him.

  A wave of surprise caught him up. How amazing that he’d remembered anything about his parents’ religion. He never used to pay attention in church or when Poppa read the Bible. Instead Daniel’s thoughts were consumed by wild adventures on the high seas or heroics on the battlefield. After his uncle Jack fell at Gettysburg, Daniel decided to join the Union Army and take on the Rebs single-handedly. To his disappointment, by the time he calculated his plans, collected some funds, and actually worked up the nerve to leave home, the war came to an end. At fifteen Daniel found himself in New York City alone, hungry, and with his dreams dashed at his feet.

  That’s when George Ramsey entered his life. He owed George everything; his family in Wisconsin, nothing. Poppa had given into Mor and set aside his political career in order to farm, a fact that disappointed Daniel greatly. Then his mother tried to convince Daniel to follow in his father’s footsteps. Daniel rebelled. There was no way he’d farm.

  The woman in his arms convulsed as if struggling for air. Daniel pulled her upright even more and turned her slightly so her head rested against his chest. She choked, coughed. “That’s right. Breathe, Miss Wayland.” Reaching around, he cupped her small chin. “In and out.” Why did the thought of her dying seem overwhelming?

  And here he’d been so concerned about the souls in his cabin when the Teat Fire went off—all his men’s souls and not this petite maid who’d survived Griswald’s beating. God forgive me. Well, he wouldn’t let it happen! He held her body so that she was nearly leaning forward. Her congestion eased, and she sucked in a clearer-sounding breath. “That’s right, little one. In and out.”

  Dr. Morrison marched into the office, followed by Kidwell.

  “I understand there’s an injured woman on board?” The spindly physician adjusted his spectacles before bending over Miss Wayland. “Good heavens! How’d this happen?”